Is it possible to get sick of the words ‘Happy Birthday’? Because I’m sure as hell starting to get tired listening to them. I hadn’t even gotten out of the door of Blake’s apartment without being pounced on. Blake woke me up by pulling the blanket off me and thrusting a musical card in my face, he even cooked me bacon and eggs and stuck one candle into the over-done yolk.
I applauded his efforts and I devoured the meal, but it didn’t feel like my birthday, I didn’t feel a year older. I had no extra privileges to look forward to, like drinking―so I could have an excuse to get smashed and forget how much I fucked up, but I can’t.
Throughout the morning it continued with the ‘Happy Birthday’s’ or ‘Have a good nineteenth’ and I just give a simply nod in acknowledgment. People that I didn’t know wished me well on my day of birth and I thanked them. Faces that I didn’t recognised smiled at me and grinned, congratulating me for surviving another year and I tried to remain confident.
I shake my head; birthdays were always a disaster for me. I guess it all started when I was a kid, when I asked to have a chalk-outline cake which scared half of the neighbourhood back when I lived in Sheffield or the time when I wanted to play ‘Slasher’ instead of pass-the-parcel when I was, say, seven?
Dad and Mum thought they should distance their work from me, seeing that I was influenced too much by their profession. That didn’t stop me throwing a tantrum when I didn’t get a forensics kit at the age of nine, or not speaking to my parents for two weeks when I couldn’t see Dad’s registered firearm in the top left-hand kitchen cupboard.
I don’t feel a year older, nor do I look it, but apparently to the rest of the world, I’m nineteen and should be enjoying myself.
I yawn and stretch out on the table in the Loft, I’m not going to let Sam’s abrupt termination of our partnership phase me. It’s my birthday and I’m going to chase up some leads on my day off―that way, I won’t allow the pain to fracture my insides.
I hear the elevator ding.
I sit up to see Banks, Dad and Snag exiting the elevator to come up to the Loft. They’re all dressed moderately festive, not birthday attire but I don’t make a fuss over it. Snag’s dressed in his white lab coat over a plaid shirt, slacks and leather shoes, oh and he’s wearing a sombrero. Dad’s lost his formal attire and is in a simple black suit, toting a blueberry Freon―my favourite. Banks, on the other hand, is in jeans and a sleeveless shirt with boots, bearing the gift of coffee.
I suppose it’s an obscure picture of the three wise men giving the messiah gold, frankincense and myrrh. Instead, it’s the three personnel of the law giving the Detective coffee, a snack and Hispanic hats. It works for me.
“Now before you overwhelm me with birthday wishes, I’m busy,” I say.
I slide off the table and approach Banks, taking the steaming coffee from her hands and take a gulp. I grimace because American coffee tastes like piss; I push the Styrofoam cup back into Banks’ hands and continue my way down the line. I pluck the Freon from Dad and eye him cautiously; he must’ve had a change of heart since dumping Helena at the foot of the precinct. I stop at Snag and look up into his whitewash eyes, which seem to be shadowed by his frown; I flick the brim of the sombrero and start my descent down the stairs.
“Is this a Diablo thing?” Banks queries.
“No,” Snag adjusts his sombrero, “this is definitely an Akira thing.”
Dad sighs, “Akira it’s your birthday, I’m giving you the day off.”
“Justice never rests,” I say but in my mind I think, it’s about time justice takes a fucking nap. “Thanks for the snack, I’ll be off now.”
• • •
“Ah Detective, good tidings and happy day of birth and so on,” Nikita greets. “I take it that the questioning with Helena went soundly since you haven’t been tempted to give me the location of her cell. No matter, how may I assist you?”
I shiver runs through me, “Do you have a car?”
“No, Detective, I’m a mastermind Diablo that’s smarter than almost a third of the population on this godforsaken planet with no means of transport,” Nikita drawls with heavy sarcasm. “Of course I have a vehicle, do you need a lift somewhere?”
“I need to talk some things over with you at the lab, I presume you already know its location,” I say.
“Indeed I do,” Nikita chuckles, “I shall meet with you in approximately three minutes and twenty-four seconds.”
It occurs to me that I’m conversing with a potential serial killer turned lead witness. I’ve arranged to meet up with Nikita to clear the air with this case since I’m now a solo Detective, surely that’s against protocol. However, protocol never entered into the Angel Blue case―whatever works, goes, with the case. I sigh and begin my walk to the lab, hopefully Snag hasn’t fired Joseph, I need his expertise in technology.
Nikita’s true to his word, he comes to the lab in the form of some gangster looking chap from the eighties. Nikita’s disguise (thanks to his ‘advanced’ Diablo abilities) consists of plaid jeans, heavy black boots, a miscellaneous black shirt and a leather jacket. Not to mention that his hair’s also a hideous shade of tiger-blonde and is spiked into a mow hawk. A devious Diablo mastermind he is not.
“Out of all the people you could’ve disguised as, you go with an outcast child,” I fold my arms, unimpressed. “I should arrest you for idiocy.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Nikita looks down at his tattooed hands and within a matter of seconds, his skin is clear and I’m staring at Sam’s image. “Is this more appeasing to your eyes?” he flashes me a wink.
My stomach involuntarily clenches and I look away, causing Nikita to burst out laughing. The sound must echo Sam’s joyous outburst, for I haven’t heard my ex-partner laugh, only chuckle. Nikita’s nailed Sam’s image down to the bone apart from the eyes, they’re black. Unholy and empty, the irises of Mr Hyde.
Nikita, with his emotions on numb, doesn’t understand the problem I have with his new glamour. I suppose I have no choice in the matter, if I sauntered into the lab requesting to see Helena’s phone records and such with anyone other than ‘Sam’, I would be put under suspicion.
I follow Nikita into the lab and try to push the memory of Sam from my mind, out partnership must’ve meant little, just like those gentle touches―if it didn’t, then Sam gave up our comradery for nothing.
The crime tech floor is the second above the entrance level, seeing that the mortuary is below ground level. Nobody asks questions as to why me and Nikita are here, they just breeze past us doing their duties to the police force.
The entire floor is split by see-through glass windows and rooms. I drag the heels of my NYPD boots across the linoleum floor and see if I can spot a Boston Red Sox cap. Sure enough, Joseph’s bent over a microscope in the Trace department. Before I can call out, I’m interrupted by a stout woman in a suit.
“Can I help you both?” she asks.
“Detective Akira Stevens, NYPD,” I show her my ID.
“Agent Samuel Pingelly, FBI,” Nikita sounds way too happy to be getting under my skin. “We’re here to speak with one of your techs regarding our investigation; they’re processing evidence on our case.”
“Lieutenant Enzel,” the woman outstretches her hand for me to shake but I decline. I’ve never seen Enzel before, nor am I willing to greet people in my current mood. Enzel clears her throat, “I wasn’t expecting FBI.”
I can tell from the spark of attraction in Enzel’s eyes, that she finds Nikita’s glamour hot. At this point, Nikita could say anything and he’d have Enzel grovelling at his feet. I roll my eyes and push the glass door open to the Trace department, I came here to forget, not to remember.
“Akira, hey,” Joseph looks up from the lens and gives a wave. “Happy Birthday by the way.”
“Thanks,” I say.
The Analysts in the Trace Evidence section of the lab typically examine small microscopic items of evidence, sometimes no larger than a grain of sand, I walk over to Joseph’s station and see what he’s examining. There’s a slide of epithelial traces, or flakes that look like dandruff. I originally wanted to work in Trace Evidence, comparing paint found on a victim’s body in a hit and run to a suspect’s vehicle; glass from suspect’s clothes compared to broken fragments at a crime scene and so on―but the lure of Detective was more promising.
“Uh, I suppose you’re here regarding those two FBI women,” Joseph pauses his work at the microscope and waves over one of his colleagues to resume the procedures. “If you’ll follow me, I’ll walk you through the lab.”
Joseph seems to be a young man of many talents. Not only is he an Analyst but is a proficient Toxicologist and Ballistics specialist. The job of a Toxicologist is to analyse samples of blood and other bodily secretions or absence of, and test for alcohol or other drugs. Various procedures are then completed on the given sample to determine the type of intoxicating chemicals present in the corpse. Joseph does both presumptive and confirmatory testing, which he explains to me and Nikita when we enter the Tox Sector of the lab.
“There was anti-depressant medication found in Amanda Jane’s bloodstream. I was able to deduce that the meds were part of the Selective Serotonin Reuptake Inhibitors, and she took a mix of Citalopram, Escitalopram and Vortioxetine a few hours before she died,” Joseph says.
“Sam and I found no prescription medication or scripts for anti-depressants,” but then again, if I was Amanda Jane stalking my ex-bum-chum, I’d be on heavy Prozac too. “The hotel room was bare of anything personal except for clothes.”
“That leads me to the phone records which you appealed for last night,” Joseph continues to the next glass door, adjusting his white lab coat as he does so.
We’re now in the Digital Evidence Sector, some genius created it to aid officials investigating crimes involving computers and the Internet―I’m still waiting to see how the DES is able to catch a killer that only uses prepaid phones or sets up his browser to ping off different cell towers within the Dark Web. Killers adapt to the technology, and I suspect that Q and Helena’s contact are no different.
“Let me guess, Agent Quinn called an unknown number frequently that couldn’t be tracked back to a singular reception source. The emails sent between Agent Quinn and Amanda Jane have been erased not only from memory but the hard-drive itself,” Nikita observes the laptop and phone that are in the middle of being processed. “The notepad and other research is lost and whoever these women kept in contact with eradicated all trace of their presence, DNA included.”
“Y–yeah,” Joseph mumbles, frowning at Nikita. “How did you know that?”
“I know a great many things,” Nikita imitates Sam’s voice perfectly. “Tell me, was there anything out of place near or around the body that your suspected killer hadn’t placed?”
I can’t help but cock my head at Nikita, watching his mind work is a beautiful sight. Joseph’s unaware at the fact that he’s not talking to Sam, but the murderer of Amanda Jane. That being said, in my gut, Nikita is a killer with cause―he’s working for the law, not against it.
“There was one thing,” Joseph murmurs.
He reaches over the tangle of cords to produce a small clip-lock evidence back that contains some sort of game piece. It’s barely thumb-size in height and width and is shaped like a drop of paint. Nikita plucks the evidence bag from my hand and holds it up to the light.
“Colonel Mustard,” Nikita murmurs more to himself that to me and Joseph. “That’s very interesting,” Nikita starts to fiddle with the broadband chords and other selections of technology until he knocks over the laptop. I can tell he’s up to something because he gasps and acts like a primadonna, “Oh damn would you look at that I just broke Amanda Jane’s laptop. I’m so sorry.”
“Jesus Christ you FBI are like demolition workers!”
Joseph is frantic, probably because he doesn’t want to feel Snag’s wrath. The young tech ducks down to pick up the scattered QWERTY keys. While he’s doing this, Nikita slips the Colonel Mustard (whatever that is) into the pocket of his suit jacket and latches onto my arm, pulling me out of the room.
“We must dash! Thank you so much for your cooperation,” Nikita calls as we jog to the elevator.
“Were you able to get answers?” Enzel intercepts us before we can make a break for the elevator.
“Yes, it was a pleasure meeting you Lieutenant,” Nikita shines his brightest smile―still using Sam’s cover, and Enzel lets us off the hook, blushing. Nikita pushes the elevator button and shoves me inside and selects the ground floor option to bring us back to street level.
“What the hell was that all about?” I resist the urge to slam my fist against his chest.
“This,” Nikita fishes the evidence bag from his pocket and shows it to me, “is a USB. It’s also a Cluedo piece; Q left a warning at my crime scene. He wants to know that the game is indeed a foot and wants you to question your ties with everyone, which is why I suspect you called me instead of Pingelly. Now before you bust your buttons, you need to go out and enjoy your birthday―I’ll arrange to meet with you again soon, I’ll make sure that all problems are dealt with.”
“Hen―” I start but he cuts me off.
“Detective, I’m not one to repeat myself,” Nikita narrows his black eyes at me and I watch his appearance change back to the usual, even including his skeletal tattoo on his throat. “Go and enjoy your first moments of being nineteen, I have my own work to do. I will explain everything soon, I promise.”
I’m about to protest, but Nikita aspirates in a cloud of black smoke, leaving me alone as the elevator doors open. I’ve had it with the secrets and lies, I want answers.
• • •
By the end of the day, I’m annoyed and in serious need of caffeine to knock all of my problems out of the ballpark. So when Banks calls me up as soon as I sit down on Blake’s couch to pull me to some sort of ‘surprise’ I have to grin and bear it.
I button up the burgundy sleeveless Chiffon blouse, which Banks gave me after I returned from the lab. It’s part of my ‘extended birthday surprise’. So basically Banks has given me my dream outfit to wear tonight. Blake’s out on some usual date which he could neither avoid nor postpone and left before I got back, I sigh and tie up my laces. When Banks plans surprises, they’re both surprising and uncomfortable―I just hope Four Horsemen isn’t on the menu.
Banks texts me the address of a reserved bar in Midtown. The flashing pink neon sign reads: HALFWAY HOUSE. A symbol that looks like handcuffs twitches above the open double-glass doors at the front, manned by a bouncer. All I have to do is flash my shield that hands on a thick chain around my neck to get clearance, but from his relaxed posture, they’ve been expecting me.
I’m immediately inundated with the pulse of a Rolling Stones song. Sure it’s the cliché I Can’t Get No Satisfaction but at least it’s an effort on Banks’ part. She sits next to a young man at the bar sipping on a Miller Lite. Snag is playing Pool with Dad, talking like old times―the atmosphere is so calm and serene that I feel at peace, as if all of the angst I’d gathered up since this morning has deflated.
“Nineteen years strong, you go Top Cop!” Banks toasts to me.
Halfway House is majoritively empty but there are still a group of the usual crowd. Elderly biker-looking men sit in the far corner with Keno pamphlets and their own Miller Lite’s, they raise their bottles to me too as I snort and hug Banks. Pausing their game of Pool, Dad and Snag toast to me as well and make their way over.
Dad hasn’t been a part of my birthday celebrations since the Stevens clan split and when he pissed off to America. But now, with him free of Helena Quinn, I can see him as my father instead of Chief Stevens. I’m not sure if it’s the overwhelming flood of emotion that people actually care that makes me throw my arms around Dad, but I do. He tenses for a moment before returning the favour.
“I’ve been a sucky father for a while,” that is an understatement but I allow Dad to say his peace, “I want to make it up to you. I would’ve told you about your surprise this morning but you obviously had other plans.”
“Dumping Helena is the best present anyone could give me,” I sniff.
“She’s in custody and I have no intentions to repeat the mistakes which have broken my family apart,” Dad rubs my shoulders. “Look, Akira, I understand that you’re upset about…about everything that’s happened between us, but I promise you that tonight will be the best by far, I want to make everything right between us.”
“As in father and daughter?” I smirk.
“Of course,” I’ve never seen Papa Stevens so enthusiastic. “I know you don’t want to move back into the apartment anytime soon and I don’t want to come off as overbearing, but if you ever need some space―you know where the keys are. You probably think I’m an arsehole for how I’ve treated you, and I’ve realised with the help of Edward and Makita, that I need to clean up my act. I love you Akira.”
I love you Akira.
Those four words made everything all the more special. I do my best to stop the assault of tears that threaten to break their restraints. It’d been so long since Dad said those words to me and they have such a big effect, more than anything in the world. Robert Stevens is my father once again and Angel Blue is a case that I can tackle some other day―tonight is my night and I’m going to stop wasting it on thoughts of FBI and betrayal, I want to enjoy myself.
“Nineteen, God I can remember when you were only this big,” Snag gestures with his hands about regaling my height to be something of an embryo. He reaches to take off his sombrero but I stop Snag.
“No, you need that more than I do,” I say, patting his forearm. “Thank you for coming tonight.”
“There’s no need for you to thank me,” Snag claps Dad’s shoulder, “your father planned this all. I’ve said it a hundred times that he’s been unreasonable, but I was able to prod him in the right direction.”
“Yeah and he also knows that you’re a bitch to buy for so your surprise is waiting on the roof,” Banks adds, smirking in the clothes I saw her in earlier today. “Trust me Top Cop, by the time this night’s over, you’ll want to put Papa Stevens in for Dad Of The Year.”
• • •
There’s a concrete staircase that leads up to industrial doors. The hum of the Stones fades, leaving me and Dad scaling the stairs into the cold night. He stands to the side and pushes the bar on the door, opening it for me. We step out together, breathing in deeply, absorbing the brisk air that has a thick scent of prolonged rain and…Lynx?
“I’ve realised how happy you’ve been lately and I now know why,” Dad motions to the edge of the concrete roofing of Halfway House. “Being Chief of Police has its perks, I have the right to prevent active Agents from leaving an open case behind…not that this precise Agent needed any incentive to stay.”
“Sam?” my tone is filled with doubt.
If you can’t trust me, then this is the end of the road.
“I’ll be downstairs finishing Pool if you need me,” Dad rubs my shoulder before departing, not that his presence is missed by either of us.
Sam stands with the heels of his horrible brown leather shoes to the built ledge on the roof. The cityscape seems to create a silhouette around him, touching the ends of his quiff orange instead of bronze. He’s dressed in baggy jeans and a pastel blue dress shirt; I don’t have the heart to tell Sam that his tie is askew. His left hand is hidden in the pocket of his jeans while the other clutches the copious amount of white string that attaches to nineteen blue balloons.
“Hey,” Sam murmurs after a while.
“I didn’t think you’d show,” I say.
“I didn’t think you’d want me here,” Sam keeps his gaze steady on his scuffed leather shoes. Is there an undermined apology that I can detect in his remark?
“Shouldn’t there be ninety-nine red ones?” I point at the hoard blue balloons.
“Not particularly, these are for you,” Sam says rather nonchalantly.
“Some girls get flowers, others get jewellery and I get balloons,” I deadpan, “how obnoxious.”
“Just like your hair,” Sam mutters, turning around to glare out at the cityscape.
I have to pinch my forearm twice, I’m not dreaming. I’m not going to wake up in a puddle of my own drool on Blake’s couch, Sam is here and it’s because of Dad. Sam is here because he wants to be, he does value our partnership.
Sam takes a seat on the roof, allowing his long legs to dangle over the ledge while he adjusts his grip on the balloons, using his free hand to prop himself up. I’m not sure if I should follow his gesture or not, but I do. My Litas tap against the concrete until I reach the barrier between the ledge and the street below; I sit down next to Sam and look out at the skyscrapers that surround us―it’s like we literally are trapped inside a concrete jungle.
“How was your flight?” I attempt to break the ice that’s frozen us.
“I didn’t have a chance to leave the Washington National terminal before Chief Stevens called me, convincing me to come back to Manhattan. As you can see, I didn’t have a chance to unpack back at my apartment so I grabbed what I didn’t take,” Sam sighs. “For a seventy-minute flight, it sure was far from peaceful.”
“How did Dad persuade you? Last night you seemed dead-set on leaving,” I look in the opposite direction. It isn’t exactly awkward, but I can tell Sam’s finding the conversation uncomfortable.
“Like Chief Stevens said, I didn’t need much convincing. When I booked the next available flight, I wasn’t thinking straight. I was angry, frustrated and tired, but my home isn’t in Washington, it’s in New York,” Sam says.
“Right,” I say.
The sound of NYC floods my ears, the slam of a cab door, the distant beeps of car horns and blare of police sirens in the distance…it’s a dysfunctional place, but there are moments such as this, that make it so beautiful―that make me not want to move back to Sheffield or Townsville. My lips twitch slightly and I shake my head, I don’t know why I’m getting so flustered.
“So, what’s the deal with the balloons?” I frown. “I know I’m nineteen and everything, but I don’t expect people giving me presents.”
“It’s not exactly a present, it’s more of a story that goes with it,” Sam explains cryptically. “Y’know how I said my Mum was heavily religious? Well she had this belief that ran in my family that when it’s someone’s birthday, we get them balloons corresponding to the age they’re turning. Each balloon represents a wish for each year of their lives and will be granted when the balloons are released, God touches the balloons to make them burst―hence granting the wish.”
“I think I missed the Bible verse to go along with this,” I comment.
“Stevens,” Sam drawls with a roll of his eyes, unimpressed that I’m bagging out his Bible Basher of a parental figure.
“Right, sorry,” I clear my throat. “So I’m supposed to let all of these balloons go and when they pop, they’ll all come true?”
“In theory,” Sam hands me the balloons.
I use both hands to grip the balloon strings. The colour isn’t a generic blue, its dark, like the colour of my hair and in the light of the city the blackness of the balloon lights up on the inside to reveal the blue skin. I smirk, as tacky as the gesture is; I can’t help but feel elated―Sam didn’t have to fly back to Manhattan or purchase nineteen balloons.
I decide to formulate my wishes in silence, if I say my wishes out loud then they won’t come true, at least that’s what I’ve been told. I think back to my childhood, when Dad and Mum loved and worked with each other and treated me like an equal, I want the cohesion to melt the Stevens family again, so I release the first balloon. It twists and winds its way through air currents before disappearing in the haze of night.
I want Helena in jail, another balloon. I want Dad to step into the role of ‘father’ permanently without the need for Snag and Banks’ guidance or pestering, there goes the third balloon. I pray that Banks’ family remains safe and out of harm’s way from the force and Q, balloon number four slips from my grasp. I want to find Q, fifth balloon.
I also want to be happy, I clutch the sixth balloon tight, unsure if I should release it or not. I’m being pretty vague with the sixth wish. I bite my lip, I’m granting good-will for other people because that’s what I do best―I enjoy putting others before myself, it gives me a sense of selflessness. I change my sixth wish; I want the pain to go away.
The balloon string leaves my hand and soars across the sky; I watch its tail ripple in the breeze before it becomes too small to track.
My gaze fixes on Sam; he’s hunched over on the ledge with his arms propped up on his knees. His green eyes narrow at the sidewalk beneath us as if he envies the mingling teenagers on the corner who are smoking beneath a street lamp, waiting to hail a cab. However, I don’t think it’s the teenagers that entice him, but the height―the feeling of weightlessness, the temptation of letting go.
I peer down at my dangling feet, “I wonder what it would be like to jump, without the repercussions of dying, of course.”
“Agonizing,” Sam responds breathlessly, as if the mere thought of the plunge makes his head spin. Maybe it’s best to pull back from the roof and go back to the bar and have a round of Pool. Instead, my curiosity gets the better of me.
“Have you thought about it?” my nails dig into the concrete as I tug the balloons closer to the ledge.
“Every night,” he shrugs off the question casually.
I close my eyes for a fraction of a second. Snag told me when I first learnt of the Diablo gene, that Sam and I will get to a breaking point where both of us will need to be pulled away from the bliss of insanity, the brink of death. Countless times I’ve sat up staring down the barrel of a gun, talking to Sam at one in the morning―had he been doing the same thing? Had Sam fantasized standing on the rooftop and simply allowing himself to fall with no regrets? Anything to stop the pain, the voices, the agony.
I stare at Sam, he could’ve past his limits a while ago and I haven’t noticed, “Then what’s holding you back?”
Silence is my answer.
I look away out of embarrassment and uneasiness. I’m about to retract my question and tell him to forget that I asked anything but his voice stops me. The coarseness of it, laced with desperation, a silent plead to be clutched tight like the balloons on my right hand, cuts me off.
Sam’s hand covers my one that’s flat on the concrete, “Blue.”
“Pra―?”
When I turn to face him, I’m greeted by a tender kiss. What are you afraid of? You. It all makes sense, the pieces slowly fall into place, but I can’t comprehend them. Sam is afraid of me, his feelings, yet they’re the only things keeping him anchored to this earth. I don’t object or make any movements of protest, I allow Sam to kiss me, because that’s what I’ve been waiting for―that show of affection that can’t be given by a friend, nor a family member, it just doesn’t have the same meaning.
I lose my grip on the remaining balloons, intentionally of course. Perhaps letting them all go at once will raise the chance of my one true wish, the prayer that I need answered by God.
I want Sam.