The damp, the humidity, was intolerable, thought Detective David Friedman, and it permeated everything it touched. He reached to unbutton the top three buttons of his grey dress shirt, burgundy tie already a crumpled heap tucked into his trouser pocket, suit jacket long abandoned in the backseat floor of his beat-up car. 

He yawned, exhaustion eating, nibbling away at his rapidly draining focus. He might be off-duty, but the task he was preparing to perform was no less arduous, no less intense. The heel of his black dress shoes clicked and clacked along the old cobblestone street as he crossed at the corner, foot traffic now at a slow, yet steady, rhythm as the bright sun in the western sky entered the late stages of its daily journey. 

Flinching, he looked up at the bell above the threshold signalling his entrance into the dilapidated shop. The damp heat attacked him with a new vigor, a small box fan sitting atop the counter, next to the register, doing absolutely nothing to abate the pervasive warmth. With a frown, he examined rows and rows of bouquets housed in humming coolers, fresh heat rolling off the machines in waves. He’d been told by a coworker, one of the boys in research, that this was the best place to purchase flowers in all of New Orleans. Apparently, it was also the only florist shop without air conditioning.

The roses were lovely, yet perhaps too plain to present to his date—the petals redder than red, stems a green more vibrant than the greenest grass. White roses whiter than the fluffiest of fluffy clouds perched next to the left of the basket of red, a basket of pink pinker than a virgin’s unkissed lips sat next to the right. A mix of all three, he decided, hand already fumbling in his trouser pocket for his wallet. 

“I’d like an arrangement of all three of the roses, please,” he called over to the old white-haired woman behind the counter, a black cat’s pointed ears peaking out from under her chocolate brown sweater.

Stumbling over to the line of coolers, the woman carefully selected the best of the roses, tying the stems together with a rubber band at the end. She wrapped the bouquet in white parchment paper, a red ribbon looping into a magnificent bowtie, neatly finishing the entire ensemble. “Thanks, love,” he tossed a twenty next to the register, knowing damn well it was far more than the total price of the flowers. The old woman protested, nearly resorting to throwing his change right back at him, but he was quick to exit the ringing door. 

Outside, pink and red painted the dusky sky, his dress shoes clicking against the stone sidewalk. Only a few people were walking along the street, he noticed out of the corner of his eye, his hazel gaze lowering, focused on reviewing his recent purchase. He could imagine you delicately smiling as you sniffed the roses across the restaurant table. With a subtle glance at his watch, he quickened his pace. It would not do to be late.

David strolled across the cobblestone crosswalk, eyes still centered below toward his bouquet, counting the number of white roses in the mix. He was two feet from the curb when the unmistakable sound of a cocked gun met his ears, hazel eyes scanning the dark shadow beside the wall of a closed pastry shop. Slowly, he raised his palms up in surrender, right thumb clutching the bouquet stems to his hand. Grey smoke erupted from the darkness before he registered the resounding crack of a fired pistol. 

Pain. Pain piercing through his middle was what alerted David to the raw reality that he had been shot. His knees buckled, lanky legs transforming into jelly as he fell forward, face smashing against the curb, a crunch half-imagined reverberating within his skull. His large fingers were swimming across his chest, his stomach met with more sticky liquid than normal sweat might produce.  The bouquet of roses was long forgotten, dropping into the foul-smelling gutter, white petals dyed a vibrant pink.

 Metal filled his nostrils, his vision swirling, grey and black the only blurry colors he could perceive. Someone screamed closeby, a throat-shattering wail of a scream. His fingers finally found purchase, plunging into a hole in his abdomen that hadn’t been there less than two minutes prior. Weakly, he realized he should probably remove himself from the street. Wriggling what he could only loosely identify as his back and lower half, he attempted to roll up onto the side of the curb. He could scarcely move, let alone roll his body, at all. 

Red and blue entered his fuzzy vision. Had his world always been so unfocused, so scattered, so unclear? The ground vibrated; he silently prayed he was not about to be crushed by an incoming car. The standard Louisiana humidity seemed to have suddenly vanished; his body, his spine, quivering of its own accord from an uncommon frigidity. He wasn’t aware of another presence until he felt his hands pulled away from the gaping wound in his side, a frail protestation closer to a whimper he vaguely caught falling from his own chapped lips. Two people were surrounding him now, their identities, hell, even their general shape, unknown to him. Hazel eyes couldn’t remain open any longer, the black abyss of unconsciousness overtaking his personhood. The last thing he remembered was worrying what you would say when he never arrived at the fancy restaurant that night, as the hushed, incomprehensible murmurs of the people above faded to nothingness. 

David did not know when awareness returned to his senses, to his being. He just suddenly was. 

His mind raced, he almost thought he could hear it hum like a machine before he dashed the childish idea, mentally crumpling it up into a paper ball and tossing it into a wastebasket. The detective could certainly empathize with the crumpled paper ball, for that is what he felt like. Or possibly run over by one of the city’s numerous tour buses.

Pain radiated across his body, stemming from his left side, near his stomach. He felt as if he had been stabbed with a kitchen knife, or beaten with a wooden baseball bat. Or, struck with a golf club, he thought wryly. His limbs felt weighed down, as if someone had tied a load of bricks to each of his arms and legs. 

His head ached, mind and mouth both feeling as if they were filled with dry bits of cotton. Sound slowly reached his plugged ears, the noises muffled, as if they were coming from several rooms away or from the surface while he remained submerged underwater. Either way, he could not comprehend what was being said, could not comprehend who was speaking. The detective buried within uneasily shifted. 

Scent was next to return, although he wished the sense had not almost immediately. The smell of sterility, of disinfectant, filled his nostrils. It was familiar to him, but he could not place it, could not link within his addled mind where he had experienced the sensation before. His right hand twitched, as if remembering, urging him to write something important down in the notepad he kept in his jacket pocket, right next to his police badge. He tried to reach for the blasted book—his hand would not obey his command, instead, remaining resolutely at his side.

The overly hygienic scent, mixed with a lingering smell of cold metal, was getting to him. He didn’t like it, didn’t like the anxiety it brought to him. Didn’t like the way it made his heart stutter in his chest. 

David nearly bolted off the bed when he felt a presence embrace the pale flesh of his hand. Someone else’s soft fingers stroked his long, narrow ones, a feeling he was largely unaccustomed to, though not emphatically opposed. Fear and ill-ease evaporated from his hammering heart, the pulsating pain of his body quieted for a blessed moment. 

Warmth cupped his cheek, another hand permitting him the solace of physical comfort. A thumb stroked across his face, the feeling slightly scratchy. He must have some stubble coming in that he’d need to trim. The warm touch was still soothing; if he were a cat, he would have been contentedly purring. Hell, if he were awake, he might even have been purring.

Screeeccchh. The loud noise of metal scraping against uncompromising tiling startled him awake, his head turning to and fro attempting to identify the sound, hazel eyes still blinking the crust of sleep away. Isabella stared wide-eyed at him, matching hazel orbs suspended between terror and wonder, the back of a metal fold-up chair clutched within her small fingers. Her mouth had fallen open in shock, a gap exposed where she recently lost a tooth in her bottom row of teeth.

“Close your mouth, Tinkerbell, or you’ll swallow a fly,” he choked past the cotton still filling the cavern of his mouth, tongue uncomfortably heavy. His deep voice was unusually hoarse, the silk of his timber turned to grated gravel.

“Daddy, you’re finally awake!!,” his daughter screamed, toothy grin spreading across her chubby cheeks, his own weak grin joining hers in joy. She raced over to the bed he was apparently lying upon, small legs struggling to climb up to his side. Isabella curled up beside him, a new warmth spreading through his aching limbs, heart melting as she cuddled his left arm. 

“Careful, sweetheart, that’s your Daddy’s bad side.” He hadn’t realized you were there, your form hiding behind the tall railing of the hospital bed, hand still gently grasping his own. It must have been you touching his face, you granting him a small taste of relief. With his eyes, he attempted to relay his gratitude toward your kindness, for he knew he hardly deserved it. “I need to go find the doctor,” you murmured, giving his hand one last squeeze before exiting the room. He tried not to look so forlorn at your absence.

Isabella played with her father’s large hand, face suddenly serious, thoughtful. He glanced down at her, worry entering his chest. “Daddy,” she asked, voice sounding smaller than it had in a long time. 

“Yes, Tinkerbell,” he answered in his mangled voice with a frown. Her hand stilled, mouth drawn in a thin line.

“I was really scared,” she paused, bottom lip trembling the awful way it did before the tears fell, the sobs echoed off walls that seemed to tighten all around them. David’s stomach dropped, butterflies mixing with the pain continuing to linger around his middle. “I thought you weren’t going to wake up ever again.” She trailed off in that same unsure voice that he was increasingly growing to despise. Her much smaller fingers fidgeted against his hand, hazel eyes meeting his matching, far more tired ones.

“I’m sorry, sweetie. I didn’t mean for this to—” A woman rushed in dressed head to toe in blue scrubs, you following only a few paces behind. Isabella darted off the bed and went back to stand beside her metal collapsible chair. The doctor began taking his vitals, meticulously adjusting the needle attached to his IV. He’d been unconscious for nearly five days since he had been shot in the stomach by an unidentified attacker. 

By the time the doctor had left, David’s eyes had begun to deeply droop, a yawn forcing its way past chapped lips every few minutes. The medication the doctor had administered to him was taking effect, pain radiating throughout his limbs finally beginning to ebb. You had joined him at his left side again, hand finding his right palm to clutch, Isabella climbing up onto the mattress to return to her former perch. Her hands wrapped around her father’s, occasionally playing with a thread attached to his white-bleached bedclothes. 

“Don’t ever leave me, Daddy,” she murmured quietly into the still, sterile air, barely loud enough for him to hear. You stroked across David’s right knuckles, the soothing motion grounding him as he attempted to mentally will air to reach his parched lungs. 

“I won’t, Tinkerbell. I promise,” he whispered into the top of her head, strawberry shampoo a welcome balm to his racing nerves. Your hand moved to David’s face, petting his disheveled, greying hair somewhat back into order. He closed his eyes in bliss.

“I worried when you never showed up for our date,” you softly spoke, tucking a tuft of grey hair behind David’s ear. “It’s not like you to be late.”

“I’m sorry,” he croaked, the sound froggish. “I was buying you flowers.” The night seemed like ages ago, yet also, simultaneously like yesterday. He felt foolish for going to the shop, foolish for nearly dying all for one measly bouquet of flowers. The corners of your eyes crinkled, a sad smile falling over your beautiful face. He loathed being the source of your distress, ached to sit up and kiss the sadness away into nothing but happiness. 

There was so much irony to it all as he watched the forensic team photograph the bodies of three gentlemen slumped over in their chairs as if they were resting from having a merry time of drinking and smoking their Cuban cigars that they so publicly denounced, yet, privately partook in.

"Looks like they had helluva party, detective," a young man in uniform said as he stopped in front of David to catch his attention. There was a sly but well-meaning smirk on his lips as he continued, "see they still got you on case work huh? Chief not over that Hornbeck and Matty thing ain't he?"

David's nostrils flared at the mention of that whole debacle, which garnered a sympathetic look and shrug from the uniformed officer in front of him. 

"Man can hold a goddamn grudge for the rest of his life about it," he grumbled as he looked past the officer and at the scene unfolding behind him briefly before returning his attention to the officer. "Not my fault half these politicians here are career crooks."

"Yeah, and by the looks of it, we got a couple more of 'em," the officer replied as he pulled out the notepad hooked to his belt and began to page through it before landing on what he was looking for. "Apparently, two of these cats got caught up in some child trafficking type thing a year or so ago, but somehow got acquitted."

"And let me guess number three right there is somehow?" David asked, nodding his head to the now deceased District Attorney, who was also slumped over in his chair. 

"Ding ding ding,  you would be right, someone's been paying attention to the headlines," the officer responded as he turned around to face the crime scene that had thinned out some as the investigators went in and out of the room with evidence bagged up. 

"Nobody saw anything suspicious? Nobody slipping in and out of the place? Someone that didn't belong?"

"Nothing. Everyone we talked to said they hadn't even noticed the three of them had scurried off somewhere till one of they wives was wondering and went off looking for 'em and found 'em all here."

A faint 'hrmph'  left his lips as David approached the bodies, his eyes busy analyzing every single thing that came into view that might help tell the story of how the three men ended up like this. The stains on their shirts were red, not with blood but with wine, which tracked with the strewn wine glasses on the ground. 

However, there didn't seem to be any obvious signs of struggle or of the suspect moving them onto the sofas after they were done. Which only meant that they had died where they sat. That only brought up another set of questions that were silently being answered as he observed all that was in front of him.

"What'd you say they get charged with again officer-," David paused and glanced at the young man's badge that was engraved with 'Landry' before looking up at him and finishing, "Landry."

"Few counts of child exploitation material and some other trafficking stuff," Officer Landry replied, his voice laced with disgust as he watched David kneel next to one of the bodies sitting in an armchair. "Heard there's been an uptick of stuff like this and wonder if any of 'em might be connected."

"What? Like some vigilante out there killin' folks because they think the law ain't putting people behind bars fast enough?" David asked as his eyes searched for answers that the dead could give him to figure out what had happened. 

"Well I ain't saying they should be doing it, but I ain't also saying that they didn't have it coming. Hard to get justice when you can just pay a jury and a DA off."

He did have a point as much as David hated to admit. It had always been the thing that would sour his already bitter attitude towards life and work in general. What was the point of doing all this? Of finding the evidence, the perp, and going through the system, yet some of them got to walk scot free without even so much as a slap on the wrist because they knew someone or they were someone. The whole thing made him sick.

Yet it didn't stop him from unearthing the secrets the resting gentleman had, or more accurately wore, as he pushed the gold Rolex the man had been wearing up just above his wrist to reveal a purplish bruise that had been hidden by the piece of jewelry.

It was fresh, and by the looks of it, done with a pair of handcuffs. And if he were a betting man, he was sure that the other three were sporting matching ones like their friend.

"Looks like whoever did this got 'em comfortable enough to cuff' em where they were at," David said as he let the man's hand drop before standing and looking at Landry, who took some notes. "Either that or they put something in them drinks of theirs and knocked 'em out. But something tells me that ain't the case."

"So a lady?"

"And a young one too if we go by their preferences. Who else can keep a pack of men like them entertained and guessing long enough before they figure out what's happened?"

"Fair… makes sense too because they all left a confession on some recording that the crime scene folks took."

That was news to David, who paused and turned to look at Landry .

"What it say?"

"Shit all sorts of stuff," the officer grimaced. "Had a whole confession from each of 'em about the stuff they got acquitted on and where they could find evidence stashed in the house. Pretty sure a warrant's getting written right now."

"Sounds like whoever did this wanted a confession before they helped 'em shed the mortal coil since it's not like they can get charged again with it."

"And I guess poor Fred here got the short end of the stick since they couldn't leave a witness," Landry said nodding to the DA. "Got him to confess to about getting paid off by these clowns as well. Smart lady."

With a raised eyebrow, David shot Landry a silent look that practically said 'not the right time or place' that had the younger man letting out a nervous cough before jotting some stuff down on his notepad.

"Alright, so possible female suspect, no older than late 20s, and maybe with a history of being a victim of some sort of violence?" 

"Yeah, use that and cross-reference it with the guests here," David ordered as he shoved his hands into his pockets while he began to rock on his heels while giving directions. "Branch out to people's guests as well. Someone who may have stepped away for too long or left in a hurry as I doubt whoever did this would stay and wait for us to show up."

Finishing jotting the information that he was given, Landry thanked David for his help and let him know he would round some folks up and come and get him when they had a few people of interest to talk to. In the meantime, he was free for a smoke break, which he took without hesitation. 

The haunting tune of the room began to fade away as he made his way down the hall, nodding and acknowledging some colleagues who were there to take statements or collect evidence. When he finally found himself outside the house on the sidewalk, he took a deep breath, inhaling the cool December air that was rare for the city. Humidity was already settling in, and he could feel his skin begin to take on that sticky quality that was common for that time of year at night. 

It was still better than being in that cramped room with all those people, though he mused as he reached into his pocket for the carton of cigarettes and his lighter that was stored away. Tapping the rectangular box and slipping one of the nicotine sticks between his lips, he flicked the top of the lighter open and was about to light the cigarette when a familiar tune stopped him cold. 

He had just heard it inside, but this time the tune was faint, more upbeat than the haunting version that played inside. And most of all, the voice humming it was familiar, and it had his heart racing as it came closer. 

Soft clicks of heeled shoes grew louder and louder in his ears as the person he knew all too well yet knew nothing about approached. His back was still turned to them as the sound of their humming grew, and it wasn't until they were right beside him did he cut his eyes to them. 

She surprisingly didn't stop though as she passed him, a noticeable sway to her hips and pep in her step like a woman who had somewhere to be after having a very successful night.  He at first wondered if she had even realized it was him standing there as it was in her nature to mess with him every chance she got. So maybe it wasn't her. 

Maybe he was hallucinating a bit. God had she done a number on him if he was thinking about her when she wasn't there. But it wasn't until she had walked a few steps ahead of him did she freeze. Her little tune freezing as well before she turned to look at him.

A sweet, saccharine smile decorated her painted lips that matched the velvet color of the dress that was wrapped around her. It was a dress most definitely worn to impress with the way it showed off her best assets, especially with the plunging neckline and the golden necklace that dangled around her neck.  

To say she matched the decorations was an understatement. She damn near blended in. And had he been someone else, he would have stopped her right there. But all he could do was stare at her as she winked.

"Sorry Dave! Girls got a plan tonight so can't stick around too long. Don't worry though," she said with a wink.  "I'll be back around to make sure you're a very merry gentleman soon."

He didn't have a chance to even reply to her, still in shock as she continued on, this time singing the tune as she continued on her merry way to wherever she had to go. And something told him it was probably to cause more trouble. 

There he stood on the sidewalk and watched as she practically skipped away to the tune of the night, yet all he could muster was a muffled,

David Friedman stood outside his girlfriend’s apartment complex in front of his battered maroon car, where his daughter, Isabella, sat, curled up in the backseat. He felt incredibly out of place. The complex was very nice. A glass chandelier could be seen through the locked glass entrance door, hovering above a lobby filled with leather couches and polished mahogany furniture.  

David scanned the panel of buttons to his left, trying to find your apartment’s number, #22. He pressed the button, only to realize he had accidentally rang #122. An angry, snooty woman’s voice crackled across the panel's speakers. Holding the speaking button, David mumbled a quick apology. Wincing, he punched the correct button, letting out a deep breath of relief when you cheerfully answered. “I’ll be right down!”

As the right bell sounded across your apartment, signaling a visitor requesting entry into your building’s complex, you let out a high-pitched squeal of delight. Since recovering from his concussion and various other injuries acquired from that fateful day of ice skating, David had asked you out on a date. Well, it was a date in the sense that it would be the first time the two of you would be going somewhere public together. David had apologized, explaining he would have to bring his daughter, Isabella. She was too young to be left home alone. You had reassured the poor, anxious man, saying you were happy to spend time with both him and his little girl. 

Standing before your bathroom mirror, you gave yourself a once-over. You brushed the dark, messy curls that had slipped out of your ponytail back behind your ears and your black baseball cap. You gave yourself a cheeky smile and thumbs-up, then checked your analog watch. Cringing at how much time had already passed, you rushed out of the room, grabbing your winter coat and scarf off their hook, and ran out the door. Several well-dressed tenants popped their heads out of their doors, wondering what all the noisy racket was about. 

David bounced up and down on his heels, fretfully glancing at his watch, a long crack marring its glass face. You were late, and he worried there wouldn’t be enough parking spaces when you arrived at your destination. He might end up having to pay twenty bucks for a spot, he grimaced at the stray thought. His worries were abated when you slipped out of the complex’s entrance, coat draped over your forearm, and swiping a hand to brush the small strands of stubborn hair that covered your vision. You weren’t wearing anything fancy, but you still took David’s breath away.

“Ready?” David nodded, still too shocked to say anything. He opened the passenger car door for you, like the true gentleman he was, before sliding into the driver’s seat. 

“Hi, Y/N,” Isabella greeted from the backseat. “You look very pretty,” she giggled, hiding her small laugh behind her hand. You smiled.

“Why, thank you, Isabella,” you said with a slight blush painting your face, looking at her in the mirror above your head. “I just love your hair clip, did you make it yourself? It’s very chic.” Isabella laughed. The clip was clearly handmade, with pink and white ribbon forming a small bow. A generous amount of glitter had been applied to the clip.

“Daddy helped me make it!” Isabella announced, a happy smile spread wide across her face.

“Did he? Well then, the two of you did a very nice job.” Isabella beamed, David’s neck turned scarlet at the loving look you gave him. He swallowed thickly, reaching for the styrofoam cup of cold, day-old coffee sitting in the cupholder beside him. 

They reached their destination. David was pleased he found an open spot at the back of the lot, for free, no less. Isabella zipped out of the car, leaving the two adults to share a small moment alone. “You look beautiful, sweetheart,” David huskily whispered into your ear. You pecked his lips with a kiss, and the two of you exited the car, more than a little disappointed you could not continue to make out. 

The walk to the large building seemed to take forever. The snow that had fallen the previous week may have melted, but the howling wind still possessed an icy chill. All three companions shivered under their layers of clothing.

The woman at the door scanned the slips of paper David held up, allowing the group to enter with no trouble. Isabella pointed at a long bag of pink and blue cotton candy, begging her father to buy the sugary snack. He couldn’t resist a request from his only daughter, and the group waited in line behind a bald man with a beer belly. David purchased cotton candy for Isabella, a fresh coffee for himself, a soda for you, and a small bucket of popcorn for all three of you to share. 

Isabella led the way to a concrete tower of stairs, searching for the right section. A loud siren blared, and hundreds of people roared with applause. As lights began flashing throughout the stadium, Isabella, David, and you sat down. Your seats, the best in the house, lie next to the glass, in front of the center line of the ice. Feeling a little warm, you unzipped your jacket, revealing your green and silver trimmed Toledo Titans jersey, a large number 17 stitched on its back. 

The ice hockey teams’ centers skated into position on the center line. The black-and-white striped referee dropped the puck, initiating the game. Number 17, the centerman for the Titans, won the draw, passing the puck back to number 55, a defenseman. 

One of the other team’s players, dressed in a gold and purple colored sweater, nailed 55 into the side of the boards, right in front of Isabella’s face. The small girl stood up and gasped, trying to see where the Titans’ defenseman had landed. A different forward from the other team, number 88, swiped the puck, dashing to the Toledo net. He deked, but the goalie read the play, catching the black disc in his outstretched glove. 

A fight between 55 and the player who hit him into the boards broke out after the stoppage in play. To David’s surprise, he heard little Isabella shout, “Fight! Fight! Fight!” You laughed at David’s face, frozen in a state of shock. The crowd roared when the Titans’ defenseman knocked the rival player down with a right-handed uppercut. The two players were sent to their respective penalty boxes, the play continuing after a brief face-off.