Jeffrey Stevens: The Shadow Pursuer

By Keshav Tadimeti

Keeping a secret is nothing to be proud of. It burdens you. It eats away at you. Those who are lucky forget what it is that they are hiding. But, those who aren’t must watch as they eventually lose themselves.” Jeffrey Stevens has always been eccentric. He works as a private eye for the New York City Police Department, renowned as on

• Language: English
• Publisher: ReadersMagnet LLC
• Release date: Mar 15, 2019
• ISBN: 9781949981346

Book preview

Chapter 1

It was a dark night. The cold air made the rain that much more piercing as it bounced off the ground. The trees swayed violently in perfect sync with the wind. The lights in the neighborhood were off and the street vacant, as if all life was gone.

A pair of headlights illuminated the dark road. A black Rolls Royce scintillated in the rain. The car pulled over and parked on the driveway in front of an expensive, three-story mansion. The man, Richard Steinbeck, locked the car and walked up to the porch, slowing only to adjust his dark raincoat. His silver Rolex watch glistened on his left wrist. His porch light was on—as usual. He pulled out a key from his pocket and cursed when he fumbled and it fell from his hands. He picked it up, turned the latch, and entered, locking the front door behind him.

He threw off his jacket onto a lavish chair facing the window. He placed his key on the counter and filled a glass cup with an aging red wine Dolcetto. He downed half of it in one sip, placing the glass down hard on the granite counter. He walked over and turned on a light in the living room.

Suddenly, he heard the sound of shuffling boots. He whipped his head around and peered suspiciously. Convinced no one was there, he turned back around, only to see a tall, pale, bald man sitting in the chair opposite to him. A dark coat covered the man’s body.

Where is it? the man asked calmly.

His eyes narrowed as he spoke.

What? I, I don’t know what you are asking— Steinbeck began, frightened.

Oh, you know very well. Now, tell me, the man asserted, as he rose. Where is it?

His looming figure composed a menacing shadow on the living room carpet.

I don’t know! Steinbeck exclaimed.

The man pulled out a gun.

Will you tell me, or will I have to get it out of you the hard way? he asked.

Steinbeck retreated, shaking his head and holding his hands up. He tripped over a small stool beneath him and crawled back as the man approached. The man aimed the gun at Steinbeck’s knee and fired, the silencer lowering the sound to a faint disturbance. Steinbeck howled in pain and grasped his knee, facing the man with renewed fear and anger.

The man swapped the gun for a knife.

Let’s hope you remember, he said. Before you lose too much of yourself.

Chapter 2

Ablack Bentley pulled onto the driveway of a two-story home. A man with a black coat walked onto the porch, briefcase in hand. He found the brown, wooden door slightly ajar and entered suspiciously. He managed five steps before being confronted by two policemen.

Put your hands up and— one policeman began, pointing his pistol.

Relax, fellas, the man said, as he pulled out an identity badge. I’m on your side.

His badge identified him as a detective.

So tell me: What are we looking for? he asked, resting his briefcase on the ground and stuffing his badge back into his coat.

We got a call from the owner—a lady—that she was being robbed. Before she could say anymore, the call was cut, the policeman briefed. We heard a male voice before the line went cold.

Hmm… the detective began, placing his briefcase on the ground.

He crouched, examining the carpet. He looked around for a moment before murmuring something inaudible to himself. The officers stared in confusion, dumbfounded.

Did you notice the ruffles on the carpet, officers? the detective asked.

Or the boot prints on that part of the floor? he continued, pointing at a section of the wooden floor.

The officers shook their heads, confused.

How will the ruffles on the carpet help us find the woman? the other officer asked.

Well, for starters, if you hadn’t trampled all over the floor, you would have seen the faint boot prints that lead to the door right in front of you, the detective retorted.

The officers looked at each other and back at the detective in surprise.

Now, don’t just stand there like idiots. Open the door and greet him with the gun! the detective exclaimed, clearly amused by the officers’ clueless expressions.

The police cautiously approached the door and opened it. They proceeded forward pointing their guns, only to find an empty room. One officer turned to the detective to object when the other yelled and fired at a figure who had jumped out to attack them. The bullet missed and the figure tried attacking again, only to be knocked to the floor by the other officer. The two police quickly handcuffed the man.

The detective walked into the room and glanced at the man in a grey hoodie—the burglar. The man’s knife lay on the floor.

You didn’t need to make that much of a commotion, boys, the detective said as he walked to the room’s closet and opened it, revealing a bound and gagged lady.

He relieved the woman of her bonds and helped her up.

I expect you two won’t hurt yourselves, right? he asked the two officers.

They nodded in unison, dumbfounded.

This is New York City, fellas, he continued, as he left the room and picked up his briefcase. You can’t afford to be too stupid around here.

Chapter 3

The detective got into his Bentley and placed his briefcase in the seat next to him. Just as he turned on the ignition, his radio buzzed and a voice crackled.

Attention, we’ve got a call about a murder on 129th Street and need some backup. Some officers have already secured the area, but we need a search team to report there and check it out. The folks might get a little jumpy if we don’t show up.

The transmission sputtered before ending.

I think we may have something interesting, the detective joked to himself.

He floored the accelerator and nearly hit a Toyota Camry that was turning onto the street. The driver gave him an angry look, but was only met with a puff of exhaust.

After about four minutes, the Bentley pulled onto 129th Street and raced forward. The detective slammed the brakes as he reached a house surrounded with caution tape. He jumped out of the car, leaving it between the street and driveway. He briskly walked into the house, briefcase in hand.

He noticed the house was a mansion.

Five policemen were present in the room. Three of them looked toward him, their eyes widening, before allowing him to pass through. He saw them straighten up, as if they were caught off-guard. He passed by and saw a young police officer with dark brown hair look at him. The young man interrogated him with his expression, but received no reply.

The detective, ignoring the questioning eyes, squatted down next to the body of a middle-aged man. He noted it had multiple cuts on the limbs. The right leg was stained with dried blood from a bullet wound, and the left arm was covered in slashes, staining the floor beside it. The carpet next to the cadaver’s right hand was crumpled, as if the man had tried to crawl away.

Who are you and what are you doing here? the young officer asked.

Lieutenant David Edwards, the detective began, as he glanced at the young officer’s badge. I am a shadow and nothing more. Don’t mind me.

He continued to scrutinize the body with a meticulous interest. Edwards gave yet another questioning look at the man in front of him. The detective eventually looked up and glanced at the officer.

You did not ask what my name is. You only asked who I am, he said. I am Jeffrey Stevens.

He pulled out his badge and showed it to Edwards. The officer quickly examined it and nodded, signaling he had read it. Stevens slid a pair of leather gloves onto his hands, and patted down the dead body.

He heard a crumpling sound.

He continued patting down along the coat of the cadaver, and pulled out a sheet of paper from a pocket. It was neatly folded, as if intentionally placed there. He opened it up and began reading. The officers around the room jolted in surprise and waited for Stevens to finish.

The detective suddenly dropped the paper and rushed over to a chair in the living room. Its cushion had an imprint, as if someone had sat there.

Edwards picked up the letter and read it.

Four murders like this will happen. Find the gem which lies under the throne of the queen, and give it to me. Your time is ticking. 1029

Officer Stevens— began Edwards.

Detective, Lieutenant. I’m a detective. And yes, he was referring to the couch. Stevens said as he walked over to the body. I saw a faint trail of blood leading from there. It must have been cleaned. That means the body was brought here to make us forget about the evidence over there.

He pulled off his gloves, slipping them into his coat pocket. He got up and faced Edwards.

I will need to analyze this note more, he said, holding the letter up up to him. If I were you, I would thoroughly look for fingerprints and any other evidence—although I doubt any was left behind.

He smiled, a fake one, and quickly walked out of the mansion. As he left, another officer entered.

David, it’s good to see you’ve finally got a case to yourself! Too bad you’re going to need backup… It looks like this one might be way over our heads, the officer said as he came in.

Who was that? He doesn’t seem like a normal officer, Edwards asked.

I didn’t catch him. What’s his name?

He’s a detective. Stevens was his name—Detective Stevens.

Stevens, you say? the officer asked. Very peculiar.

He paused for a moment before looking back at Edwards.

Well, we’re going to have to save that for another time. Tell me what you’ve got so far.

The remaining policemen in the room shifted uncomfortably. Even an officer as senior as Michael Brandt had been called to work on the case. And to add to that, the famed Jeffrey Stevens had been called to aid in the investigation. Something big was going on that they were not being told.10

Chapter 4

Detective Jeffrey Stevens stepped out of his Bentley into the parking lot flanking a building labeled ‘William’s Car Insurance Company.’ It had been three days since he was assigned to the murder case regarding Richard Steinbeck, the retired CEO of the multi-billion dollar software company, Electro-Lite. The slashes and injuries on Steinbeck’s body were most likely due to the perpetrator’s attempt to obtain some sort of information.

The criminal’s intentions were clear: get Steinbeck to hand over an heirloom or prized possession of some sort. Whether he succeeded was unclear. Finding, let alone identifying, the criminal was proving hopeless. No witnesses were present to provide any assistance.

One thing was certain, however: The killer did not think twice about murder.

Stevens entered the building and turned left into a long hallway. He reached an oak door, unlocked it, and walked in. His office was the way it had been the last time he came in. A rug with string frills covered much of the floor. A bookshelf piled to the top was directly left of the entrance. Another shelf stood behind a wooden office desk adorned with a telephone, a cup full of pens, and a stack of files. Behind the desk lay a large window, revealing the small park and pond beside the parking lot. A swivel chair with a tall backrest stood behind the desk. Two stationary chairs sat in front for visitors.

Stevens placed his briefcase beside his desk, peeled off his long coat, and sat down. He pulled the note out from the briefcase. He reread it, stared for a several moments, and slammed it onto the table.

Throne of the queen? Riddles from a criminal? Nonsense! he muttered in frustration. Richard Steinbeck has no queen. His wife died fifteen years ago.

He picked up the note, crinkling the bottom right corner, and reread the message. He already had it memorized, though. When he placed it down, he noticed a fold in the corner and flattened it out, only to find a thin sheet flap out, as if like a carbon copy. Intrigued, he carefully separated the portion, revealing an entirely new sheet that had been attached by a weak adhesive. The concealed sheet was so perfectly placed on the original note, yet the glue was not present on the bottom right corner—as if someone had wanted the second sheet to be found.

Stevens closely analyzed the second sheet, finding a message in smaller print in the corner of the page. He pulled out a magnifying glass from his desk drawer and peered through the lens before grabbing a sheet of paper from his stack of files. He jotted down notes as he read.

Your presence in this case does not go unnoticed, Detective. This note was planned for you and only you to read. Two men and two women will have died unless you deliver the gem to me. The Steinbeck’s have toiled with me for too long. This is your warning. You will not succeed in finding me. However, best of luck. 1029

Again, the numbers showed up. Ten twenty-nine? Stevens thought to himself. Unless, he thought.

That’s it! he exclaimed out loud in excitement after several moments. The due date is October 29.

He reread the note and chuckled.

You haven’t met Jeffrey Stevens, my friend, he muttered with amusement. I’m afraid it’s best of luck to you.

Uncle, are you sure about this? Edwards asked nervously. You know, he did seem like an awkward guy—

But, still a successful detective, Brandt chimed.

The two were walking out of Brandt’s Lexus toward Stevens’ office. They entered into the building and turned left into a long hallway.

But, Uncle, listen to me. It’s not practical, a police officer working with a private eye, Edwards argued.

It may not be practical, but he can show you a lot about evidence-finding in general. He can greatly aid you on the case, Brandt replied. But, if you don’t want to, I won’t force you to work with him. But, I insist you still talk to him.

They stopped in front of an oak door.

Now, you might want to be prepared, he said, facing Edwards. You were right that he is a strange one.

Brandt opened the door and walked in, with Edwards apprehensively trailing behind.

Great to see you, Mike, and greetings to you, my young friend, David Edwards, Stevens said, without looking up from his work.

Brandt and Edwards looked at each other with puzzled expressions.

Oh please, Mike, you have to be kidding me! Stevens laughed as he finally looked up. You think I would let you catch me by surprise? And you, my dear friend, Mr. Edwards, I know I’m different from others, but I didn’t think you’d openly insult me.

Brandt and Edwards looked at each other again, befuddled.

Come, please have a seat, Stevens said, directing them to the two empty seats in front of him.

Brandt and Edwards hesitantly sat down.

So you didn’t notice the video camera to the right of the entrance? Stevens asked.

Brandt and Edwards shook their heads.

They shook their heads again.

If that’s the case, I assume you probably didn’t notice the voice recorder right in front of my door.

They nodded in unison.

See, David—can I call you David? Stevens asked Edwards.

Edwards nodded, still dazed.

David, this is part of human psychology. You only notice the big things: the hallway, the long corridor, and the door. Maybe, if we’re lucky, the fact that the door’s black. However, you don’t notice the details at all, Stevens commented. But, that’s not what you came here for, I suppose.

Yes… yes, Mr.— Edwards began.

Stevens. Just call me Stevens.

Yes Mr.… um… Stevens. We came to ask whether… he turned and faced Brandt and whispered. What are we here for again?

Stevens chuckled.

My, my, Mike. You brought him here to me? So he could learn from me?

I thought you could teach him the trade, Brandt defended. He needs it and it would help a lot with the case. I hoped you would be willing to teach him, but it looks like he doesn’t seem to open to it.

What do you expect from me, Mike? I’m nothing. Just a shadow of what I used to be.

Not really, Brandt countered. You have the best reputation of all the city’s detectives, solving each case with close to no external help. You compile enough evidence to send the criminals straight to jail without the judge having to think twice. Your methods are… different… but most definitely successful.

He looked at Edwards.

You have a lot to learn from working alongside him. Please, just give it a shot.

Edwards sighed softly. Brandt had masterfully put him on the spot.

Okay, Uncle, I got it. I’ll try it, he acquiesced. But if I find his methods too crazy, I’ll quit.

Finally, an answer we all like! Stevens exclaimed. However, we have some formalities to go through first. I have no contracts, but a… ritual of sorts that I have everyone complete before beginning as my apprentice.

Ritual? Edwards asked, his eyebrows raised.

No need to fear. It’s rather simple, really, Stevens said as he pulled out a box from his desk.

He opened it, revealing an ink stamp and a small knife. He also took out a wrinkled, yellowed sheet of paper.

Like I said, David, I have no contracts, but I need your thumb print, he continued. You have two options: You can make the thumb print out of blood or ink. Just keep in mind, one runs thicker than the other.

Edwards looked at Brandt, clearly surprised.

Jeff, what is this? Brandt began.

My question too, Edwards asked suspiciously. A blood pact wasn’t what I signed up for.

Stevens smiled wryly.

You’re right. I’m a complete stranger who has just asked you to give me a thumb print, either in ink or in your own blood, he said. But I take my mentorship very seriously: This won’t work if I don’t have your absolute trust.

Stevens, you can’t be serious, he’s—

Hang on, Uncle, Edwards cut in.

The lieutenant looked into Stevens’ eyes.

You’re asking me to give you my absolute trust, even though I don’t know you? he clarified.

Lieutenant, I’m asking for your thumb print. That’s all, Stevens replied.

Edwards glared at him. Seconds, then minutes, ticked away as he contemplated what was happening. Right when Brandt was about to comment, he reached for the knife, slipped the blade across his right thumb, and slammed his finger against the old, wrinkled paper, staining it with a red thumbprint.

As if on cue, Stevens took out a Band-Aid and a disinfectant from his desk. He stood up, took Edwards’ hand, rubbed the disinfectant on the cut, and placed the Band-Aid. Edwards looked up at Stevens’ eyes, seeing a mixture of surprise and pride.

You’re different, David. Different. he said.

Then again, I like different. You are now my apprentice.

Chapter 5

Edwards smiled, wondering how to respond.

How am I supposed to respond to that? ‘Glad to be your apprentice?’ Or maybe, ‘looking forward to inspecting dead bodies your way?’ he thought to himself.

Before he could say anything, Brandt pushed his chair back, chuckling.

That was quite the spectacle, Jeff, but looks like my job here is done, he said. I’d better get going. Cases to solve.

He looked at Edwards.

I hope you can manage yourself, he remarked before leaving the room.

I hadn’t expected him to be your uncle, Stevens said once Brandt left. But, it’s apparently a really small world. Anyway, let’s get down to business: You are not only my apprentice, but also a contact between me and the Twenty-Third Precinct.

The precinct? Aren’t you part of it though? Edwards

asked.

Yes, but I am a private detective, merely hired to work on select cases. I’m left out of the police investigations and all the fun action. Considering the complexity of this case, I need someone to convey our evidence and point of view, and you fit the job, Stevens replied.

He took out a pager, a white swipe card, and a magnifying glass from his desk.

I’ve been keeping spares of these, he said as he gave Edwards the pager, who received it questioningly. You’re probably wondering why I’m so old-school. Obviously there’s a good reason I still drive an old Bentley and use a pager: they’re efficient.

But, a pager? They’re old, basically out of commission—

But, they’re fast, Stevens rebutted. I can send you a message and it takes more effort to tap than a smartphone. Also, when someone has all his data on one phone, he runs the risk of losing valuable information if the phone is gone. But, this pager: no. It is very easy to replace because only one number exists: mine. If you lose yours, I have spares. Also, they have another use… but I’ll get back to you on that later.

Edwards motioned to the swipe card.

I already have an identity card from the police force, though, he said complainingly.

Oh, don’t worry, this isn’t an identity card. It’s different, Stevens answered. With this, you can enter multiple buildings. It is a master keycard that few carry with them for investigative purposes. It may look like an identity card, but it is actually a keycard that can work for almost all doors with swipe locks. You may want to be a little secretive about that.

Edwards put the card and pager into his coat pocket and looked at the magnifying glass.

I suppose I need that for investigations, to look for evidence, right? he asked sarcastically.

Well, there’s more to that. It’s not so much the evidence, as it is the details. Like I was saying earlier, we tend to overlook details that are very important. It never hurts to have a closer look, you know, Stevens joked.

Closer look? We might have missed some details today, but not during the investigation. We’re actually pretty scrutinizing, Edwards said.

Actually, sorry to make you feel bad, but you are quite wrong, my friend. You police look at the big picture, not the little details. And those little details are what solve cases, Stevens countered.

Edwards attempted to argue, but Stevens cut him off, waving his hand.

Let me finish, David, he began. For example, in the Richard Steinbeck murder case, your precinct concluded that he was a multi-billionaire CEO whose wife died fifteen years ago. The precinct also concluded that he was killed because the murderer wanted an heirloom. I know this because I read the precinct case report.

He reclined in his chair.

However, you overlooked the detail about the future victims. Four people are going to be killed, which implies that each of them must be related to Steinbeck, be it as an uncle, cousin, lawyer, banker, and so on. You also overlooked the fact that Mr. Steinbeck’s face was bruised, a little bit below his right eye. Considering the fact that most homicides related to personal matters involve facial damaging, perhaps that implies that the murder was personal in some way. Maybe the killer knew Steinbeck well. Either way, it also implies that the murderer is most likely right-handed.

He crossed his arms.

Finally, the cuts on Mr. Steinbeck were all precise and there were no jagged lines. Yes he was stabbed, but by a regular knife? No. He was stabbed by a sharp knife that could pierce a relatively thick boot—I assume you overlooked the stabbed right foot as well. Thus, the murderer’s knife is probably diamond-tipped or crafted to be an attacking knife, because the boot had two layers of leather, and the knife went in one direction, without any staggering.

Edwards stared at Stevens with his mouth gaping.

H-how… How did you keep track of all of that? That was brilliant! he managed.

Oh, that’s only a tad bit deeper than the bird’s eye view. There’s a lot more that I didn’t mention, Stevens qualified.

Really? You’ve got to be kidding me, Edwards muttered.

Don’t worry, that’s what I need to help you do. And in order to do that, there is an daily exercise I have an idea in mind: Every day, you will report to my office at 8 a.m. sharp. When you enter, you will tell me the details of this room—the things I have changed from the previous day. This will help you keep track of details and observe your surroundings. Soon, if you’re diligent, you’ll internalize the process start to do it naturally, Stevens reassured.

Edwards nodded slowly and began looking around the room, trying to take in the details.

David, Stevens began, getting his attention. Let’s give it a shot: something to work off of. Now... hmm… Tell me anything peculiar that you’ve noticed about the room.

Edwards thought for a moment.

The desk is made of oak and is darker than most office desks I’ve seen. The window is about halfway open and is facing the pond with ducks. The carpet is dark brown and has strings on the ends and—

Oh, please, not that—not the general stuff, Stevens interrupted. "I want details, not general descriptions. For example, the swivel chair backrest reaches almost halfway up the bookshelf; the pens form a circle in the cup, alternating black, red, blue, and green in sequence; and finally, the files on my desk are stacked in an irregular pile, with the most recent cases on top, and the finished cases on bottom, marked with a date and check box for completion… These are just a few examples."

He saw Edwards’ eye flash with worry.

But, no need to worry because you’ll become better at it, he reassured.

Edwards nodded and looked at his watch, which had just beeped 9 a.m.

I guess you better get going David, Stevens said with a smile. Your next meeting is in fifteen minutes.

How did you know? Edwards asked.

Your phone vibrated just now and you shifted slightly in your seat, trying to ignore it. That too, smart phones, like the one you have, by default alert fifteen minutes before an event, Stevens answered.

Edwards stood up, surprised an amazed by the detective in front of him. Stevens stood up and shook hands with him. Edwards made his way out of the office when he heard Stevens called out something.

The window is actually only one-third the way open.

Chapter 6

He had been waiting for fifteen minutes. His target finally showed up, stepping out of a black Mercedes Benz. He watched as his target walked quickly into Chung Noodles, a Chinese restaurant. He followed silently into the restaurant after an exact seven minutes and sat at the table furthest away from his victim.

The target’s name was Wayne Goodman. However, that name was obsolete. The name with more meaning was the Delivery Man. Under this moniker, Goodman was wanted in five states and listed as a flight risk. He was a member of a notorious drug-trafficking gang of New York known as the Tricksters. The gang began as a minor group of teenagers who secretly, yet incautiously, sold drugs. Yet rumor had it that as the years passed and each of the gang’s members were convicted multiple times, a new member joined and rose to a position of leadership. The member was said to be a middle-aged man who masterfully organized the Tricksters, covering up its operations and commercializing its crimes. Eighteen years later, the Tricksters was virtually impenetrable, an underground company that employed a corporate-style hierarchy to obscure its movements. The public was only privy to two things: the gang’s penchant for violence and the name of its leader: the Riddler.

A waitress came up to Goodman’s table and asked for his order. After she jotted down some notes and left, another man joined him and sat down. The two immediately began to converse, as if like friends. The newcomer’s gang name was the Intervener. As far as the New York Police knew, he had a higher position than the Delivery Man, but his original name and who he reported to were unknown.

To any of the other customers in the restaurant, it seemed as if the men were old friends meeting after a long time. However, under their table, a deal was being made: Goodman was trading his briefcase for the Intervener’s. A waitress came with two exotic Chinese meals and placed them on the table in front of the two men. The meals let out a trail of steam, adding to the various aromas of the restaurant.

The man in the corner drank up the last bit of his soup, the steam heating his face as he watched his victim intently. He made no noise as he drank, drawing no attention to himself. He was a shadow. He cleaned his face with a napkin and placed it beside the soup, crumpling it. He left the money at the table and departed without a word. He walked outside and the cool breeze chilled him. He stared up at the darkening sky. After several moments, he looked back down and walked straight along the road of the restaurant. He turned into an alley and found an empty bench waiting for him. He sat down, dusting the leaves from the old, wooden frame.

He looked back up at the sky. The sun sunk into the depths of the horizon, awakening the coming horrors of the night.

The Delivery Man walked out of Chung Noodles in a good mood. Generally, his assignments were very stressful, involving many problems in delivering the packages on time without getting caught. He was in charge of the network of teenage boys who delivered the drugs. He needed more to work for him, but with more police scrutiny as of late, he was suffocated of any chance of new recruits.

He smiled. This agreement had gone quite well. His boss, the Intervener had given him a challenging mission. But, if he could execute it, he would get a big portion of the pay. He could possibly be promoted, his skills better utilized. Goodman shivered in excitement, almost tasting of victory. He inhaled the city air and started to walk forward. He stared at the pompous cars parked in the valet parking.

Soon, he thought, One of those could be mine.

He had struggled since childhood. Everything he had earned and achieved were a result of hours of labor. He had worked everywhere in the city to help feed his family. One day, at the age of seventeen, after having lost his job at the grocery store, he stumbled upon a deserted alley when he heard something approach him. He remembered: a man had stood in front of him and smiled. Goodman had smiled then, not knowing what to expect. Before he could do anything he was in the drug trade, delivering goods in such an efficient manner that he earned a reputation as the best delivery boy—the Delivery Man. Now, twenty years later, he trained the recruits so they too could harness that hunger to be better than anyone else and stand alone at the top.

Goodman laughed silently and continued walking, preparing himself for the mission ahead. His customer was to meet him today to initiate the deal. Later, the delivery boys were to deliver the packages over a span of two weeks, each to the same address. The challenge was to alter the timings of each delivery so the police could not expect any pattern. Goodman began thinking of ways to fool the police when suddenly a man in a black suit approached him. He man had a black top hat and the coat collars covered much of his face, only revealing his eyes and a portion of his nose.

Mr. Handle, I suppose, right? the man asked.

Yes? Goodman answered suspiciously.

How does he know my false name?

Mr. Galahen told me to meet you tonight for our... arrangement, the man answered, pulling his coat closer as the wind grew stronger.

Yes, I know, Mr. Sawyer. Where do you want to sit down and discuss our agreement? Goodman asked, understanding the situation.

The Intervener’s boss, Bach had crafted the identity of ‘Mr. Galahen,’ the man who was to conduct the deal with the customer, John Sawyer.

Right here, in this building, the man said as he pointed to the building to the right of them. I reserved this so it would be convenient for us, as we both have later plans.

Of course, Mr. Sawyer. Anything is fine, as long as we have a little bit of privacy, Goodman answered.

The man opened the door to a dark room with an abandoned office desk and a hallway. The two men made their way down the hallway and into a door on the left, revealing a room lit by a bright light, with one desk and two chairs. The man directed Goodman to a stationary chair with a comfortable armrest as he locked the door, as to not let intruders in. He sat down in an the old, creaky swivel chair on the other side of the table.

As Mr. Galahen has probably told you, we need to be able to deliver the packages without any suspicion from the police. Any ideas—

How do I know who you are, Mr. Goodman? Where is the proof that you are the man I am to be working with? the man interrupted.

How do you know my name? Mr. Galahen only told you my description, not my name! Goodman exclaimed.

I know it from your restaurant bill. As you know, I am very careful about my business. I have to be careful about who I am dealing with, the man answered.

Goodman was shocked, but did not show his emotions.

Alright, Sir, he agreed. Please ask any questions that you may have, so we can conduct this deal with both sides satisfied.

In that case, the man began. Why were you walking out of the hotel when you could have gotten into the car that you came here with? Who else is here besides you?

Goodman hesitated.

How does this man known so much about me? Who is he to ask Wayne Goodman himself?

He ran through a list of all events that had happened once he had exited the restaurant. Suddenly, he gasped in shock. This whole time, the man had his hands under the desk, as if to record the conversation. He locked the do so intruders could get in, but to keep the both of them from escaping.

This man’s part of a plan from the police or another gang! Goodman thought as he reached into his pocket.

He grasped the handle of his switchblade and leaped out of his chair, jumping across the table as he swung the now-activated blade. The man pushed backward with his legs, and slid behind to safety with the swivel chair. Goodman missed and caught himself from falling off the table, landing in front of it so as if to corner the man.

So you had this set up all along, huh? he growled.

Yes and no. I did have the location set up, the meeting area planned, and the attack formulated. However, I didn’t suspect you would readily assume that I was your customer. That was a foolish move on your part, the man answered condescendingly.

I’ll wipe that smirk off your face. The police you work for will barely recognize you when I’m through with you! Goodman threatened as he prepared to attack again.

The man had already read through Goodman’s movement, though. The Deliver Man was clearly only associated with street fighting, but not with any form of martial arts. Before Goodman could strike, the man arched left, dodging the attack. He grabbed Goodman’s attacking hand, pulled it upward, then drove the ridge of his hand into Goodman’s solar plexus, striking him below his sternum in a vital pressure point. Before Goodman could cry out in pain, the man secured his attacking hand and twisted it left until Goodman began to shout in pain, his wrist overextending beyond its limit.

The knife dropped out of Goodman’s hand, clattering across the floor away from the two men. The man noticed Goodman’s shoulder move, indicating another strike from the left hand, and ducked, letting his opponent only hit air. He released Goodman’s right hand, and spun, ramming his fist into Goodman’s left temple. He rapidly jabbed Goodman’s solar plexus and front-kicked him, sending him into the wall. Goodman slammed into the wall and clutched his stomach. He looked at the man, his eyes filled with anger and fear.

How can this man read so many of my movements? How could I let myself get caught in this mess?

He then charged at the man, his rage blinding him, yet filling him with renewed energy. He yelled as he threw a punch at the man, but was unsuccessful. The man blocked the punch and counter-attacked with a punch to the stomach. Goodman threw a series of attacks, slowly fatiguing himself. His attack missed every time, blocked by the man’s fast reflexes. Finally, when Goodman’s fatigue weakened his punch, the man charged forward and elbowed him, taking out his breath. He then struck Goodman’s chin with the base of his palm. Before he could fall backwards, the man side-kicked him, knocking him into the wall once again. The Delivery Man crumpled and sat on the floor, nearly unconscious.

Who are you? he managed. Are you a policeman?

No. I plan to take out my vendetta. You can save yourself by giving me what I want, the man answered.

Why should I? You wouldn’t kill me! Goodman mocked.

The man reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a gun. He pointed it at Goodman and cocked it, loading a bullet from the magazine.

I’ll shoot. I have no use for you. I’ll just go and interrogate someone else. Do you still wish to keep silent? he taunted.

Goodman gulped as sweat trickled down his face.

Okay, okay, I’ll tell you, he finally agreed.

"Where is Bach?" the man asked.

"Bach? How do you know about—"

Answer me! the man yelled as he threatened to shoot.

"I don’t know! I only have contact with him through the Intervener. I haven’t ever seen him! It’s a security policy for our gang!" Goodman exclaimed.

The man, unconvinced, pulled his finger closer to the trigger. Goodman gasped and began to panic, bracing himself for the bullet.

In that case, give me your phone! the man ordered.

Goodman hesitated, then reached into his pocket and slid his phone across the floor. The man picked it up and began looking through it. Once he decided his victim was not lying, he took out a device from his coat, which attached to the phone’s charging point. While keeping the gun pointed, the man attached the device to the phone and placed a USB flash drive on the other end of the device to copy its memory. After two minutes, he detached the device, placed it into his coat, and tossed the phone back at Goodman, who fumbled and dropped it. He looked up at the man, worry on his face.

If you are not the police, who are you? he asked.

The man aimed his gun again and Goodman screamed.

I was just asking! Please don’t shoot me! I-I won’t tell anyone about you… But, if you’re not a policeman… who are you?

The man laughed.

Wayne Goodman, I am the Shadow Pursuer.

Then he fired.

Chapter 7

Edwards walked toward William’s Car Insurance Company, trying to prepare himself. He was running late. He was supposed to leave from his house at 7:45 a.m., but woke up late and left at 7:52 a.m. Now, he had mere seconds to get into Stevens’ building before he was late. He groaned as his watch beeped 8:00 a.m. and grudgingly walked inside. He turned left and walked into the newly familiar hallway. He tried to elongate his steps and decrease the pressure at which he put each foot down. He kept an eye on the camera that used motion sensors to follow him, and finally came to the black door, which was already open.

A cup of coffee I suppose? Stevens asked jokingly as Edwards walked into the room.

Edwards had tried to appear awake before leaving, but apparently Stevens had seen through it, as usual.

And I don’t believe you are forgetting something, am I David? he asked amusingly.

Oh right, Edwards said as he tried to recollect the details he had observed yesterday.

He thought for a minute then looked around the room. He saw the window, bookshelf, carpet, desk, chairs, and office layout. He processed what he saw and took a deep breath. Stevens leaned back in his chair, his pen up in his right hand and his face lit with an amused smile.

Okay, so the window was opened about another half inch; the pens are now in the shape of an octagon in the cup; the carpet has been angled about… say fifteen degrees to the right; and the… uhh… right! The door was left open.

Stevens nodded as he heard the descriptions. When Edwards had finished, he gave a questioning look.

"Details, David, details. You are on the right track, but you were looking for moderate descriptions. I don’t want a moderately filtered description, I want a finely filtered one."

He got up from his chair and pointed to the bookshelf behind him. You forgot to mention the arrangement of the books. One is out of order and is backwards, showing the pages instead of the cover. Also, the books are all moved to the right about five inches, he continued.

He walked around his desk to the entrance of his room and pointed at a pen lying on the stool there.

You forgot about this. You had the right idea, but not the correct mindset.

He sat in his chair and signaled for Edwards to do so.

"You are just listing details, in some string as if it is an assignment. What I want is for you to tell the details in a manner that you can describe what I did the day before. When a crime happens and details—evidence—is left behind, you have to compile all of that to make a story out of what happened, not a list of details showing me the room layout."

Edwards looked at him confusedly. Stevens continued.

For example, in the Richard Steinbeck case, there was little evidence left, but a lot of details to take in about the house and the room. It was clear the killer was already waiting there because he was sitting in a chair. Also, it is clear that there was a sort of violent interrogation because Steinbeck was shot in the knee and had knife cuts all over his body. These sorts of things are clear, but what needed a little bit more observation to realize was the fact that the man had a gun. He didn’t intend to just torture Steinbeck: he was going to kill him.

Stevens reclined in his seat.

And, if you look at the pictures in Steinbeck’s mansion, you can get an idea of his family: His wife is dead, he is dead, but his daughter is still alive. The killer gave a note to the police department, but knew I was on the case. He gave me this note, Stevens said as he held up the secret note the killer had given. Either he doesn’t know who Steinbeck’s daughter is, or he still has some more of his vendetta to take care of.

He sighed softly.

Regardless, he intends to kill four other people to find this heirloom, probably to sell it in the black market. He doesn’t know where to look, but he intends for us to be on his tail, chasing him. From what we’re given, the only way to identify him is to look into the knife industry and start searching through some sort of customer index, if possible.

Edwards nodded in agreement, still trying to stop his head from spinning from all the information thrown at him. He took Stevens’ note and read it twice before looking up.

How does this killer know you’re on the case? he asked.

From what I know, he’s infiltrated the police department. Someone must have told him that I’m going to be on this case, Stevens answered.

"But, how does he know you? I’d only heard rumors about you until a week ago, and I’m in the police department. If he’s an outsider, how does he know who you are?" Edwards pressed.

From what I know, it’s irrelevant. I’m not his target, and our priority is to find him. Once we do that, we can ask him how he knows me.

"I still don’t see how. What are you holding back? For all we know, this criminal could be an international murderer. But, how can he know who you are? Edwards demanded. Are you hiding something? If you have even a slightest suspicion about who the killer is, it is a starting point for this case."

I don’t know who he is. How he knows me escapes me, Stevens said, quieter than before.

He got up from his chair and looked out the window. Before he could turn his face away, Edwards caught his eyes and saw a glimpse of what he thought looked like melancholy. He stared out of the window, Edwards watching in silence, until his phone rang. He turned around and picked it up.

Yes? he answered.

He nodded at Edwards to excuse the interruption.

I’m already on a case, he answered.

The person on the other end said something and Stevens scowled.

If you say so, he hissed and slammed the phone onto the operator.

Looks like I’ll be coming with you to the station. I have an appointment with Captain Landers, he said to Edwards.

Whose car? Edwards asked.

Mine, Stevens said as a wry smile grew across his face.

They left the building and as they got close to the car.

You know that you left the window open, right? Edwards commented.

Stevens stopped and looked at Edwards.

Come on! he complained as he ran back inside and walked into his room.

He unlocked the door and stepped in to find the window closed. He groaned, grudgingly locked his door, and walked out the building.

You know, you could have just walked around the building and checked, Edwards laughed as Stevens returned.

Lieutenant Edwards, you made a grave mistake pulling a prank on me, Stevens taunted as they both got into his Bentley.

Stevens and Edwards walked into the Twenty-Third New York Police Department Precinct and the first thing they noticed was the enormous rush of the policemen and policewomen who were all on the Steinbeck case. Two sergeants walked up to Edwards and saluted him.

So what are we working on today, Sir? one of them asked.

You guys take the forensics team and do another search of the home. I want the search on the body redone, closer details to the angle and types of cuts, and I want some information on his family. We can go in and do some more research after that, Edwards ordered.

The two sergeants saluted and left, glancing back at Stevens in bewilderment. As he and Stevens walked through the station, many officers gave questioning glances at Stevens.

I think I scare them, he chuckled as he walked by.

You wouldn’t know, Edwards muttered jokingly to himself.

As they walked down the lobby, they saw the bustling workforce move around them. Most of them were from the other precincts, likely additional personnel asked to help with the ever-escalating Steinbeck case. The stakes were high: Steinbeck was a billionaire with considerable assets, after all. When the pair reached the end of the hallway, they saw a young woman trying to interpret a map. She scratched her head and kept looking out the door, as if someone were going to come.

The nearest Starbucks is five minutes away, but the traffic for that is terrible, and it’s easy to get lost, Stevens said to the lady. You should instead look for the shop ‘Joe the Art of Coffee’ which is on 141 Waverly Place.

She looked at him, surprised.

How did you know what I was looking for?

It’s obvious. You look tired, you’re looking at map, and you’re in a police station on a case. And, correct me if I’m wrong, but you’re new here, Stevens answered teasingly.

The young lady and Edwards looked at each other and back at Stevens. They both thought the same thing: How the heck does he do that?

The name is Jeffrey Stevens, private detective. I can assure you that you’ve probably not heard of me before, Stevens said as he held his hand out.

Elizabeth Spencer. I’m a member of the analysis and forensics team here, she said as she shook his hand. Are you guys also working on the Steinbeck case?

Yes. I’m one of the lieutenants on the case. My name is David Edwards, Edwards said as he shook her hand as well.

Why are you working with a detective? Or are you related by some means? she asked.

He’s my associate. I’m working with him to get the best out of all the evidence that is there, Stevens answered.

He looked at his watch, which read 8:55 a.m.

I better get going. I have an appointment at nine and can’t afford to be late. The captain will get angry—but don’t tell him I said that.

Elizabeth nodded and Stevens began to walk away. Suddenly he stopped, smiled at Edwards and called out to Elizabeth.

Ms. Spencer, my friend here could show you around town, since you are new. He’s got a meeting right now, but after that, he’s all free. He looks reluctant, but he loves giving orientations of New York City, he said as he turned around and walked away.

Edwards gave an angry look at Stevens and groaned silently.

Lieutenant Edwards, you have made a grave mistake pulling a prank on me.

I don’t know about you, but if I were stuck with that guy, I’d go insane, Elizabeth commented after Stevens passed the length of the hallway.

Tell me about it, Edwards joked.

So, do you actually give orientations of New York City? she asked.

No. He was just getting me back for a prank I pulled on him, Edwards answered.

In that case, I’ll see you after your meeting. I’ll just be waiting in the lobby.

She left down the hallway to meet with the evidence analysis team. Edwards groaned, out loud this time, and raced to his meeting.

Stevens walked into Captain Jackson Landers’ office and sat down in the visitor chair. The room was darkened and a projector sat on the captain’s desk showed. It projected the interrogation a middle-aged man on the left wall.

Detective, I want you on this case, as I said on the phone, Landers said as he turned around from his chair to face Stevens.

And as I said on the phone, I am already on a case, Stevens rebutted.

My order is what you follow detective—don’t forget that. Now, I want you on the case. Landers ordered.

I am a private detective. I was contacted about the Steinbeck case because I was needed. Now, you claim I work for you? Have you ever done two cases at the same time, Captain? Stevens retorted. Two different cases at the same time will give you bad results and a constant lack of progress. The case will go slower and may not even be done by the time we need it.

"Then abandon the Steinbeck case! This takes

precedence."

Stevens sighed. It seemed like every conversation he had with Landers ended in the two of them butting heads.

I can’t abandon that case. There’s evidence the killer will kill four more people. What could take precedence over that?

Landers sat quietly for a minute before speaking.

Would it interest you that this case also has a criminal that wants to take out a vendetta?

Stevens looked at Landers, his eyes narrowing.

What is it about?

"A man in a black suit attacked that criminal, who’s known as the Delivery Man, Landers said, pointing to the projection on the wall. That criminal is part of the New York drug-dealing gang called the Tricksters. The man who attacked him said he wanted to exact his revenge and that he would torture others in order to get what he wanted."

"The Delivery Man was attacked and injured, even shot by a bullet, Landers continued. He was found unconscious and severely wounded by someone who heard the gunshot."

He gave Stevens a stack of files and a flash drive.

"Here are the reports on the evidence and a copy of the interrogation of the Delivery Man," he said.

Stevens nodded and got out of his chair. He began to walk toward the door, but stopped and turned around.

Did the attacker say anything else about his intentions?

From what we know, he only said one other thing, Landers began. "He called himself the Shadow Pursuer."

Stevens nodded in acknowledgement and left the room. He walked into the hallway and sat down in a lobby chair, waiting for Edwards’ meeting to finish.

"The Shadow Pursuer, huh? Oh boy, not these maniac villains again," he said to himself, clearly entertained.

Chapter 8

Stevens read through the files in the case folder. He took out a pen from his coat and began to underline things that caught his eye. He read the scenario report from the crime scene investigation team, which explained, to the best of its abilities, what had happened.

An interrogation of some sort had occurred, but the Delivery Man was apparently only asked one question: ‘Where is Bach?’ After failing to answer, the victim was forced to give his cellular device to the Shadow Pursuer, who apparently connected it to some sort of memory unit. Then, the Shadow Pursuer introduced himself and fired a bullet into the victim’s mid-chest, perfectly aimed so as to miss the outer portion of the rib cage yet tear the external and internal oblique muscles that surrounded the right side of the upper body. This caused immediate blood loss, but did not deflate any of the lungs. Hence, the victim was alive, but unconscious due to the pain and loss of oxygen. The police found the victim after a witness, who had entered the compound after hearing the gunshot, had called. The Delivery Man was hospitalized for three days before he could sit up and speak.

The site of the encounter had barely any evidence: There were no fingerprints on the doors, as the attacker wore gloves; the description of the man was vague; and the building owner had no idea his property was being used. The attacker was hunting down somebody, but who he was looking for was questionable. While the man was apparently searching for Bach—someone police knew little about, save for the fact that he was a member the Tricksters—it was unclear who he was bent on attacking.

Perhaps what bothered Stevens the most, however, was the fact that both criminals in the Steinbeck and Shadow Pursuer cases had vendettas. Whether the perpetrators were the same people was currently unknown.

Surprisingly, the range of identities for the Shadow Pursuer was quite limited. Either he was a policeman in secret, which would raise a lot of concern, or he was a member of a gang rivaling the Tricksters. Database searches were already being made on those two assumptions, but a man fitting the limited description was hard to find. The building of the crime scene was thoroughly investigated. But the teams had failed to find any bullet fragments or forgotten items, making it harder to narrow down the possibilities.

Stevens closed the file and checked his pager. No reply.

How long can a police meeting go on with very little evidence? he thought.

He looked through the pictures from the crime scene. After daydreaming and waiting for about fifteen minutes, the meeting doors opened and Edwards walked out, a solemn look on his face.

What’s the matter David? Stevens asked.

"No success. Not even close to finding the identities of either the Shadow Pursuer or Steinbeck’s murderer," he said as he shook his head.

No need to worry, my friend. We’ll meet tomorrow and discuss the evidence that I will gather today, Stevens reassured as he patted Edwards on the back.

Tomorrow? Why not today? Edwards asked.

Now now, we don’t want to forget the deals we make here, do we David? Stevens joked as he pointed to Elizabeth, who was walking into the lobby.

Remind me to get you back for this Stevens, Edwards grumbled as he walked over to Elizabeth.

Stevens watched as the two of them left the building. He then turned around and took the side exit, walking directly to his parked car. He got in and pulled out of the parking lot. He slammed on the accelerator and drove toward Chung Noodles.

Stevens got out of his car and walked onto the sidewalk. He began toward Chung Noodles and veered right into an office building. The rugged room was analyzed by four forensic team members, who looked for fingerprints or blood. Stevens walked past them into the conference room, which had a plastic cover over the knob so as to not contaminate it with fingerprints. He looked around the room. A swivel chair stood next to the left wall, twisted at an angle, as if someone had jumped out of it. He looked around and saw the table and a stationary chair behind it.

It happened here.

He walked around the room and took out his magnifying glass. He inspected the area, looking at the table and chairs for any kind of evidence. After ten minutes of thorough searching, he leaned against the wall opposite the door and sighed. Nothing was left behind that could be used to further the case. Suddenly, Stevens’ eyes caught the bloodstain on the adjacent wall. He crouched and inspected the blood, which was about two feet from the floor. He moved his hand across the wall and felt an indent. He inspected it and found a narrow gap in the wall, one-third of an inch wide.

The bullet hole, he thought to himself as he took out a notebook and wrote down his observations.

He took out a small, hand-held camera and took a picture. He then looked inside the gap, but found no bullet. He squatted down around the floor, looking for a bullet shell that might have ricocheted off the wall. He finally found the shell in the corner of the room, hidden well within the shadows, and picked it up. He looked around the bullet and analyzed the engravings. He wrote down the serial number on the bullet and left the conference room.

You guys might want to take a look at this, Stevens said as he held up the shell to the forensics team. The men gasped in surprise and immediately inserted it into a