and I've been working like a dog
It's been a hard day's night,
I should be sleeping like a log
Hard day’s night’s tune, he realised, may have been a wrong choice for his cell phone. At the moment it had been kind of funny.
It wasn’t anymore.
“Messer.” Danni answered the annoying phone while looking through the empty shelves of his fridge. He should have gone to the store last week, now all that was left for him for a quick midnight snack was water and pizza left overs that were slowly developing it’s own ecosystem.
“It’s Stella," he heard in his co-worker. "What are you doing?”
“Just analising new forms of live.”
“Nothing. What’s wrong?”
“Hawkes got herself a bad case of flu, and Sheldon called earlier, his father’s in the hospital.”
Finnally deciding against water and new small subspecies, Danni closed the fridge and headed for the cupboards on top of the stove, trying to find something remotely edible.
“Are you aware that they have probably gone to the Bahamas together?” the CSI complained with a sigh. He was hungry.
“Sure they are.” Stella agreed in her I don’t really care voice. ”Listen, I know how much you love to spend your hours off watching over sick old ladies and bringing food to poor families, but you’re second on call tonight, so pack your stuff and meet Flack in Brooklyn in twenty minutes.”
Danni cursed, grabbing a pen and writing down the adress. He hated being called when he was second on call. If he was the first option he already knew there was a distinct possibility of someone getting sick or someone’s grandma dying... but when you were second option... well, it wasn’t fair.
Twenty two minutes later he arrived at the old building in Williamsburg. There was a couple of police cars and detective Flack, wich was just fine because he didn’t want to have to deal with some unknown jerk police officer.
“What do we have?” the CSI asked trespassing the yellow tape and heading for the house.
“A guy called the police after finding his boyfriend dead in the bathtub, beated into a pulp. He told the paramedics that he woke up and saw water pouring under the door, so he got up, walked to the bathroom and found him all bloody and dead.”
Danni smiled, Flack was using that voice that said that he wasn’t buying any of it.
“So the guy was beat in the near bathroom and he doesn’t hears shit?”
“Beated into a pulp.”
The police officer shrugged.
“That’s what he says.”
Shacking his head in disbelief, Messer started walking upstairs. Really, people should know better than to try to make up stupid alibies out of nowhere.
The house was quite a shithole, but the kind of shithole artists loved. Just the best thing if you couldn’t go and starve yourself to death in an old one room cockroaches infested attic in Paris. And the guy had been an artist for the look of it. With all the canvas and paints scattered across the place, it was either that or... no, wait... ther wasn’t really a second option.
“Where’s the suspect?” he asked before shaking his head and rephrasing himself. “Where’s the witness?” He was pissed, tired and hungry, but he wasn’t going to fall for the ‘let’s take the first easy answer’ game.
“He’s in the hospital. As it seems, he slipped in the blood while calling the police. When they got here he was in a full panic attack episode, they had to sedate him.
“Is he hurt?”
“Sprained ankle and hyperventilation, nothing too serious but since they had to sedate him he won’t be up for interrogation until tomorrow morning. They’ll bring him to the labs.”
With a last sigh, Danni took a look at the messy single room of the apartment, focusing on the here and now.
It was big and contained both the work space and a double unmade bed. There wasn’t any signs of violence, but he took a general photography before even setting a foot on it because it was his strong belief that you could never be too much obsessive.
“What do we have here...?” he whispered to himself after noticing something through the lens of the camera and it’s zoom that he hadn’t noticed before.
“What’s it?” he heard Flack ask at his back.
“Close the light.” Danni ordered digging up a small torch from his bag. Once the cop did so, he turned on the torch filling the room in a ghostly blue light.
“Son of a bitch...” Flack cursed at his back and Danni had to agree with him. Whoever had done this was one big twisted bastard.
The phone call almost killed Brian. In fact he was sure he felt his heart stop for a second before it started beating againg loud and hard enough to break his ribs.
He’d been driving home after a long never ending day at Kinnetic where he’d managed to get a couple more of clients and fix an add campaign someone in the artist department had fucked up. Oh, the moment he got his hands on that walking-dead-man or woman he was going to have a fit that would be remembered for ages.
But right then he'd just wanted to arrive to the loft and have a shower, maybe go to Babylon for a couple of hours and make it an early night... his eyes had wandered to the digital clock... 2:35 a.m. Ok, too late for that, perhaps he would just have a shower and fall asleep in an empty bed. That had made him think of Justin, which had made him smile and play with the idea of calling him and having phone sex.
And then the phone rang.
And he answered it and his heart stopped.
They told him that Justin was dead.
No, they told him that he’d been killed.
He felt his foot press the brakes of it0s own accord and the car came to a sudden stop.
He asked them to repeat it.
They did and wanted to know if he could go to the police station in New York as soon as possible because someone had to identify the corpse and he was the one listed in Justin’s emergency calls list.
Brian said he had to hang up, he said that he would call back in fifteen minutes but that he had to hang up the phone. And he did.
Booze. The need was so strong it almost had it’s own conscience. He needed to get drunk. Awfully drunk. And he needed to do so in fifteen minutes, because there was no way he would be able to call back if he wasn’t stoned to his roots.
Five years ago he would have already been heading to the nearest pub.
Now he just turned the engine on and headed for the suburbs, for Stepford’s land. There were two options, and since getting drunk wasn’t really one, he would have to settle for the second best.
Ten minutes later Michael woke up to the sound of someone frantically knocking at his door.
And this is all for now, sorry for the cliffie and I hope you liked it.
Facts I learned doing this fic (keep in mind that I'm as far from New York as you can be without leaving the globe and my knowledge of the city relays in movies and series (and from now on, Wikipedia):
New York has 5 burroughs (although I couldn’t remember how to spell it to save my life) and Brooklyn has this place called Williamsburgh that's more or less the artists cool residence.
I also learned about hippers and where the word comes from... although I'm not even sure I'll use it in the fic.
Dying it's spelled: D-Y-I-N-G instead of DIEING or the thousand other options I've used in the past.
I hate trying to conjugate verbs correctly.