Work Text:
A snowflake landed on Blackwell’s nose. Durkin took another draft of his cigarette, watching the woman sneeze.
“Are you that eager to catch a cold?"
"Ah, it’s nothing." Blackwell gave him a cheerful smile. "I’m sure my cab will arrive soon."
Durkin said nothing.
He could comment on the fact that no cabs were driving in this weather or that the Blackwell woman was trembling like a leaf, but Durkin grew weary of hearing bullshit. The woman was an awful liar. The only reason she ever got any information out of people was due to her unfailing persistence and absolute disregard for her own reputation. If standing in front of a police station was her heart’s delight, not even a manned barricade and a restraining order would prevent her from doing so.
Blackwell suppressed a second sneeze and rubbed her hands against the coffee. It didn’t look like she was getting off the street any soon. She probably didn’t remember what a bed looked like either.
Durkin got out his car keys and pressed a button to unlock the car doors. He nodded at Blackwell.
"Get inside. If you are going to wait for a cab, you might as well do it inside."
"Oh, no." Blackwell looked flustered. "I’m fine, really."
Durkin shrugged.
"Enjoy the weather, then," he said. He walked around the car and got into the driver’s seat. Durkin barely had time to turn on the heating, as Blackwell opened the door and joined him inside.
Neither of them said a word.
Durkin switched on the radio and tried finding a station that didn’t talk about the “horrid” weather. Eventually he gave up and turned it off. By that time, Blackwell stopped shaking like a leaf and her fingers attained a colour more fitting to a human rather than an icicle. Unfortunately, she also started talking.
“Won’t anyone mind you smoking in here?”
Durkin flicked the ashes into the small car department.
“They won’t.” Sam inhaled the smoke and added: “Or at least they will do it silently.”
“Well,” said Blackwell after a pause, “whatever works for you.”
Durkin threw a glance at the woman. She was staring at her coffee, lost in thought. The silly blue ear-warmers looked surprisingly good on her. After this winter she also seemed taller for some reason. Didn’t lose any of her awkwardness, though.
Blackwell caught his stare.
“Don’t you hate the cold? Must make police work a lot harder in winter.”
“Not really. Less crime reports than ever during such weather.”
“Usually,” gloomy added Blackwell.
“Usually,” agreed Durkin.
They were silent for some while.
“This really isn’t your type of case, you know that?” said Durkin.
Blackwell raised her shoulders.
“What type of cases are my cases? I’m freelance, remember? Besides, you need every help you can get.” Blackwell saw Sam open his mouth and shook her head. “Please don’t argue. We won’t change each other’s mind.”
“No, we won’t,” grimly said Durkin.
They remained in silence while Durkin finished his cigarette. Blackwell sipped at her coffee, then almost spilled it as she looked out the window.
“I have to go,” Blackwell said. Durkin glanced outside, but saw nothing that would warrant a sudden departure. “Thank you for inviting me in. Inside the car, I mean.”
Sam nodded. Blackwell had almost closed the car door, when Durkin leaned to the right and called out to her.
“Blackwell.”
“Yes?”
“Do you really have nothing else to do? Nowhere else you’d rather be tonight?”
Blackwell seemed to think for a few second before saying:
“Did you ever regret taking this job?”
“Regret? No, why should I?”
Blackwell smiled, wrinkles appearing around her eyes. “Neither do I. Have a nice night, officer.”
Sam sighed, staring after her. He noticed again that Blackwell never walked in the middle of the streetwalk. Sam assumed it came with being a shy mouse person and trying to take up as little space as possible, but this…
Hair riddled with sparkling snowflakes, Rosangela Blackwell disappeared behind the corner. Sam wished her luck and left the car. He, too, had work to do.
***
Springtime is considered to be the best time for cleaning up. Durkin wasn’t made for housework, but there was an old business to take care off.
Cheerful spring morning didn’t seem to invite many people for a graveyard stroll. Only people Durkin met was the man tending the graves and an old Indian lady at the entrance. A handkerchief in one hand and a dog leash in the other, the woman did not seem to be fully able to prevent tears rolling down her face. Still, after she decisively blew her nose, the lady picked herself up and walked out - if not with stride than at least with purpose - out of the graveyard .
No sense getting too hanged up over the dead, Durkin thought. Mourn, weep and then do the job in front of you. There is always a reason to keeping moving forward.
He wandered through the clean rows, looking for the grave. Durkin ordered the memorial plate himself and knew approximately where it was put. Still, that happened a few months ago. A cheap rectangular slab of stone, which was the most he could afford without pissing off the entire police department.
Rosangela’s ashes were scattered, anyway, as it was written in her will, and the memorial merely guarded empty soil. Durkin was goddamn interested in finding out who hijacked the ashes before his nose, posing as an alleged “relative”. Rosangela didn’t have any left, Durkin knew that perfectly well.
Another mystery in the Blackwell debacle. Frankly the “mysteries” had secrets for legs and were leaving conundrums instead of footsteps, and Durkin was not going to chase after them. Four people dead, an impossible break-out from a psycho house and a half an hour time lapse, in which seemingly nobody, including Durkin, remembered what happened. A mess like this was impossible to untangle.
Impossible for everyone but perhaps Rosangela Blackwell. But if she had the answers, then she took them to her grave.
Durkin had seen that suit standing by a grave for quite some time, therefore he scoured the graves around him first. He figured grief demanded respect, and so he kept his distance. Also, couldn’t possibly be Rosangela’s grave. If she had friends, then Durkin could barely imagine them to be male or wearing such snappy outfits.
And yet… there were fewer and fewer options left, with each row Durkin checked. Reluctantly, he approached the lonely figure.
And there it was, Rosangela Blackwell’s empty grave. Two bouquets of flowers lay there. One was huge, an explosion of colour and exotic flowers. The other was plainer, a dozen of red roses with a single white one at its heart. Weird choice for a grave offering.
The man at the grave had his hands buried deep into pockets, murmuring something. He looked up, hearing the crunching gravel under Durkin’s boots. Durkin nodded and stopped next to him, facing the grave.
A bird swooped down on the gravestone and sat down there for a few seconds. It smoothed its feathers, tilted the head to take a look at the two strangers and then it was gone as fast as it appeared. Durkin remembered how Rosangela fixed her hair every time she was nervous. Flighty as a bird.
“Nice weather,” said the suit.
Durkin grunted in response, examining the man from the corner of the eye. He had short black hair and an old-fashioned air around him. Durkin found himself immediately distrusting the stranger. Durkin knew charming liars when he saw one.
“You knew Rosangela?”
Durkin took out a cigarette, lit it and then finally answered, “Yes, we met a few times. Work-related.”
“Huh,” said the man, “I wouldn’t strike Rosangela as the police work type.”
“Police? I didn’t say anything about being a policeman.”
“Oh, I am sorry.” the stranger broke out in a huge smile. “I just looked at the coat, the cigarette and the hardboiled expression and thought ‘Now if this isn’t a police detective straight from the pulp cover!’ ”
“I wasn’t wrong, was I?” asked the man with a spark of humour in his eyes.
“You were not,” dryly confirmed Durkin. The stranger nodded with satisfaction and leaned in to look at the gravestone.
“By the way, my name is Mallone. Joey Mallone.” Mallone straightened himself and stretched out a hand. “Nice to meet you.”
“Sam Durkin.” He accepted the handshake. “You knew Rosangela well?”
“More or less. You know that she used to write for a newspaper? I’ve met her when she was researching for one of her articles.”
Durkin waited for continuation, but none came. Mallone looked wistful.
“She never really got along with dogs. Granted, I’m not much of a dog person myself,” said Mallone as if that explained everything.
In hindsight, thought Durkin, it really makes sense, that such an oddball and Rosangela got along. Such two weirdos could only meet in the streets of New York.
“Do you know whether Rosangela had any other friends?” Durkin added, “She did not seem to have much of a life outside her work.”
“Well, that was Red for you.” Mallone smiled. “Driven and stubborn… and no, there was almost nothing except for work in her life. Few friends… Granted, that could have changed as I did not see her in the last few years. Moved away from New York and now returned to find her dead.”
Mallone shuffled on the spot and said grimly “It’s funny… I always thought that she’s a grandma person. An awkward kid and weird adult, but a perfect fit for a grandma. And now she’s gone. Damn fate, damn the world and anything that allows this bullshit to happen.”
“Bullshit is the right word,” snorted Durkin. “Four people dead and as much as I hate to admit it, no one at the police has an idea what happened. I don’t like this story. I hate to think that the girl died for nothing… that all the other died for even less.”
“Yes. I would hate to think that as well,” said Mallone quietly, “Therefore I won’t. Red died for something and I liked to think that she died without regrets.”
Mallone closed his eyes for a few seconds, then shook his head and sat down on hunches. He caressed the block of stone and then stood up sharply.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me,” said Mallone, taking a glance at his watch. “It is time for me to leave. Need to get ready for my shift. Will be seeing you, Mr. Durkin.”
Durkin nodded and flicked cigarette ash on the road. Mallone fixed his suit and took a few steps before stopping and turning around.
“Durkin, don’t think me weird, but somehow… I know that she passed on, yet part of me still thinks that Red is lonely here. Could you drop by from time to time? Just a… well, forget it. Nevermind.”
Mallone shook his head and strode off. Durkin stared after him. What an odd bird. At least there was really little doubt that he knew Rosangela and cared for her…
Looking at Mallone walk away, something clicked inside Durkin’s head. He remembered the snowy cold night, when Rosangela walked on slippery ice on the left side of the sidewalk. And Mallone? He almost absent-mindedly walked into a puddle just now, stubbornly keeping to the right side of the road.
Durkin shook his head and turned to leave. He threw a last glance at Rosangela Blackwell’s grave and reminded himself to bring flowers next time.