[fic] "CSI: Amestris" (Detective AU)
Title: CSI: Amestris
Genre: AU
Rating: R
Summary: Originally written for this prompt on the FMA Kinkmeme. Detectives Roy Mustang and Maes Hughes are caught up in a web of intrigue and murder as a series of brutal murders rocks Central city to its core. Along with their informant Edward Elric, a brilliant but troubled young man, their investigation will take them into the darkest reaches of Amestris's underground, and uncover a secret so dangerous they may not live to betray...
His life really was cursed, Roy thought sourly as the patrol car rumbled through the rain. The rain had followed him from East City, the same endless days of gray, and now his social luck was turning out the same. The same night he had finally thought it safe to plan a celebration dinner, he had received an urgent call as soon as he'd arrived at the restaurant. Brandi (Or was it -ie?) had been gracious enough, but if there was one thing he had learned throughout his long tenure on the dating circuit, it was that leaving a girl for a body never got you a second date.
The scene was in South Central, one of the sectors closest to the city core. An old district, one of the most historically significant; also one of the most decrepit and dangerous. To say someone had died in South Central on a Friday night was to proclaim that night was dark. Detective Hughes greeted him at the scene, already awash with blues and boundary saw horses, and Roy found it hard to contain his irritation.
"Today was my off-day," Roy growled, ducking under a thick mess of crime-scene tape. "I had Brandi at Novarti's."
Hughes shrugged in his amicable way, a little roll of the shoulders that managed to convey both apology and apathy at the same time.
"Chief wants two D's on this case," he said. "I knew where you were, so I made the call."
His green eyes flicked briefly down over the edge of his glasses.
"He thinks this one's going to be big."
Roy nodded, mollified. Also, a little ashamed. Hughes had worked hard for him to be transferred here after his promotion, had fought tooth and nail to recommend him above several other, more senior candidates. So far, he had yet to get the chance to prove old friend right. The few cases he had undertaken since arriving were textbook crimes of passion, drug or domestic violence taken too far. Half the time the murderer had still been standing there holding the weapon in shock. But his reputation was for handling the rough cases, the cold ones, the unsolvables, and Central had other ambitious young detectives with more connections, more hard-solves. Keeping his overall solve rate good wasn't going to be enough to distinguish himself here.
Roy loosened his tie, rolled up his shirt sleeves.
"Where's the DB?" he asked.
"Alley," Hughes said, inclining his head toward a dank patch of shadow. It was little more than a slit between two decrepit buildings, both equally boarded up and depressing.
"Recent?"
Hughes shook his head.
"We haven't gotten a hold of the coroner yet, but I'd guess at least a day. Definitely not a come-and-cuff-em. Whoever did this is long gone."
Roy nodded. A cursory glance toward the graffiti-covered billboard posted in front of the buildings confirmed that they were in fact condemned. Not likely to be many witnesses then, either. A good place for a murder, insofar as there was such a thing. Roy rolled up the cuffs of his jacket, starting to feel the first real tingles of excitement. In a morbid way, it was good to have a challenge again.
"Well, let's see what they left us already," he said, striding toward the first cheery string of yellow tape.
Uncharacteristic for Hughes, the detective was hanging back. Usually he was the first one to a body, snapping pictures before the morgue's office showed up to mess everything up. As Roy approached the alley though, Hughes actually blanched and stepped over to the side.
"Roy...you might want some menthol first."
"If you don't use anything you'll get acclimated faster," Roy said stodgily. Some officers (particularly rookies) rubbed camphor beneath their noses to try and block out the scent of death, not realizing there was no perfume on earth strong enough to block it out. Instead, it just complicated the adaptation process.
"It's worse than usual," Hughes admitted.
"That's they pay us for," Roy turned and marched into the alley, ready for anything.
He regretted it.
The thing in the alley was a body only in the sense that strands of gristle still tethered its lumps loosely to a skeleton. It might have been human once, before its torso was bashed open; now the clotted pile of bone fragments and gore housed a miasma of flies. Its face was smashed in so hard it was nearly concave, as though a vacuum inside had come on to suck the features into one gaping, continuous maw.
And then, hideously discongruous, its one identifying feature: a circular excision of flesh, laid neatly over the V that might once have been a groin. Instead of genitalia, a smooth patch of its own skin advertised the nature of the beast. Whatever body part the lump had been taken from, it had born a tattoo. Red ink, iconic; the unmistakable logo of a serpent curled round to bite its own tail.
Roy backed away hard to suck at fresh air, eyes watering, fighting the urge to vomit. Normally he would stay close until he acclimated to the sight and smell, but in all his years of service, he had rarely come across a scene as gruesome.
Hughes said nothing, just stood back at a respectful distance and let him breathe. When he thought he had control of his gorge again, Roy risked speaking to him.
"Who found it?"
"Girl walking her poodle. Animal went nuts, wouldn't leave the alley alone. She thought they'd found a drowned rat." The corners of Hughes' lips curled up in a vicious smile. "Dead rodents come pretty big, this part of town."
Gallows humor, as only a homicide detective could employ. There was nothing that compared to the stench of a rotting human body; cadavers carried a particular quality of putrescence that was impossible to define. Equally impossible to forget. Roy had left a girlfriend once because the herbal body soap she was enamored with reminded him of it. Something about the undertone of wet leaves. Every passing whiff brought him right there to long nights in dark alleys, to chill flesh and wet pavement and ooze sliding down storm drains. Patrolman Havoc had thought he was crazy for quitting Monica (Monique?) over a matter of suds, not tugs, but Roy had never been able to slide into bed without imagining her pale skin even paler, her thick curves grown puffy and livid.
"She'll know the difference now."
Roy looked over to the witness in question, a small, unhappy thing clutched around her poodle, standing out like a sore thumb against the backdrop of patrolmen and productivity. East side girl, from the clothes and cluelessness. Her purse was brand name, the double-d of Dublith Design prominent even at a distance; he'd dated enough society types to guess it probably equated to at least two of his paychecks. He shook his head.
"Surprised she's not our DB, walking around dressed like that."
"Yeah. Says she only moved to S.C. recently. 'Boyfriend'." Hughes' smile grew even more knife-like, a slash across his handsome face. "Whom she was strangely resistant to calling, even though she's got no ride. Her own sheet's stark white, but what do you want to bet we know her beau?"
"Uptown girl who likes bad boys?"
"Or bad boys who play nice. Greed likes the high class ladies."
"Greed likes to think he's high class. Our good old knight in tarnished armor."
"This close to the Nest, it's worth checking out."
Roy shook his head.
"Greed wouldn't soil his own turf like this. He's too smooth an operator."
"True. He's more the type to disappear you outright."
Hughes craned his head around the corner of the alley again, pushing his glasses up in that compulsive way that meant he was thinking. Roy followed suit. A few of the braver techs were finally circling in on the flesh pile, though their faces were drawn and pale. Roy recognized Broche, one of their newer ident techs, poking glumly at what remained of the thing's arm with a printing spoon, trying to find a finger intact enough to ink.
"Fingerprints probably not going to happen with this one," Hughes observed sagely. "Even once the rookie remembers he can tent it."
Roy nodded. Draping a DB in plastic and fuming it with chemicals was the next step at a scene where traditional ink and paper failed, but this one's hands had been flayed until there was scarcely any flesh left clinging to the bone. Roy wasn't a forensics expert - he preferred to direct investigations, not dally in their minutiae - but he had seen enough dead hands to know a lost cause when he saw one.
"Dental records, too," he said, pointing to the ruined face. "Whoever did this, they sure didn't want us to name the Doe."
"Somebody's supposed to recognize it, though."
Hughes moved forward with a frown, staring down at the transplanted tattoo grinning gamely up from between the body's legs. The circular snake bore a wicked smile, its one eye gazing cheerfully off into space.
I know something you don't know, its endless grin seemed to say.
"Get a picture, we'll ask around."
"Sure."
An identifying marker, repositioned on purpose. The tattoo had to have significance. Roy waited for Hughes to whip out his needlessly complex SLR set, running through his own mental photobook of gang emblems, mob signs. The Xingian cartels were known to be partial to dragon-and-tiger body art, but those tatts were large and intricate. The more details a thug suffered through, the badder he was; most bad-news brothers wound their serpent up a leg, or across their entire chest. This beastie was little larger than his palm, scarcely any lines to it at all. The shape of it was wrong too. A winged snake, biting its own tail...
"Ouroboros," Roy tasted the word out loud, found that it was right.
Hughes paused.
"You know it?"
"Mythology-wise. The Xerxians wrote about it." Roy rubbed at his temples. "It was the god that wraps around the equator, holds the world together."
"You read Xerxian?"
"No, of course I don't! It's been dead a hundred years," Roy snorted. "I took a semester of Classic Literature back in Academy. Gen Ed."
"And you still remember anything?" Hughes grinned. "Either way, you're a prodigy."
Roy was about to elbow him when an officer in blue approached, waving cheerfully. Havoc was a competent trooper, easy-going and unflappable; a lanky man whose baby blue eyes belied a sharpshooter's skill and much sharper mental processes than most people gave him credit for. Roy trusted Havoc, trusted his judgment - if Havoc thought it was wise to interrupt, it was probably wise to listen.
"Heya, big boss!" Havoc saluted roguishly, nodded to acknowledge Hughes. "Lieut."
"Yes, Patrolman?"
Havoc jacked a thumb back over his shoulder at the girl with the poodle, who was edging further and further away from the bright runners of crime-scene tape. Her expression was decidedly non-plussed.
"The witness is getting antsy. Wants ta know if she can 'get the hell out of here already, pardon her Drachman'. Real piece of work. You want to take over?"
"I thought she needed a ride?" Hughes asked.
"Seems like she's changed her mind," Havoc said. "Not too keen on giving out address or phone number, either. Maybe I should switch colognes?"
Havoc's tone was light, but his neck was tensed hard with irritation. Roy understood. Although it probably wasn't likely in this case that their tip-off was the perp -- contrary to the penny dreadfuls, the murderer did not always return to the scene of the crime -- the girl was still the first one to discover the body. Protocol dictated they needed a contact.
Not to mention that a 'helpful bystander' willing to phone in a body, but not willing to give out her phone number, was highly suspicious.
"Let me talk to her," Roy said. Hughes raised an eyebrow, but Roy ignored it. Havoc was a decent interviewer - by the book, polite - but not very creative. Roy had a better knack for reading people, noticing what buttons to press. And in the case of a pretty lady, when to lay on the charm. If there was one thing he'd learned, in the dating scene or otherwise, flattery would get you anywhere.
"Want me to come?" Hughes said, nonchalantly enough, but Roy caught the gleam behind his friend's glasses.
"Sounds good. I could use a second set of eyes." Hughes was not as good at suave-flirtatious but he was exceedingly observant, good at reading people's tone and gestures and body language. He also knew how to put a perp at ease; subtle licks of humor and empathy, until suddenly those laughing eyes turned cold and his voice twinged sharp as the knives he hid in his boots for self-defense. Together, the two of them were a force that had sussed information out of some of the country's hardest criminals. If this girl had secrets, they didn't stand a chance.
Roy ran a hand through his hair briefly, setting his look for "tousled", and strode back toward the witness with his head and shoulders high. Hughes followed at a distance, amicable and non aggressive. She was pretty enough, if your taste ran to 'high maintenance', Roy mused. Chestnut hair kept short in a tight, well-coiffed bob; slender, polished features accentuated by careful touches of makeup. Like the bag, her clothes also seemed to be designer. Her gray shirt flowed along her curves like butter, the short skirt beneath it sporting the logo of a popular Cretan clothing couture. Definitely out of place in South Central, where the median income was scarcely above the subsistence line. He exchanged glances with Hughes. Either an eastsider slumming it...or a new high-ticket pro for the Vice books.
"Good afternoon, Miss...?" he purred, offering her his very best smile regardless. Especially with the ladies, he had always caught more flies with honey than with vinegar.
"Lyra Eubanks," the girl supplied primly. Her dog, a little white powder puff in her arms, raised its poofy head and huffed.
"Detective Roy Mustang. And my partner, Detective Hughes."
"We met, briefly," she said stiffly, looking over at Hughes. "Can't I leave yet?"
"You have somewhere to be?"
"I'd like to get Peaches home," the girl complained. "We both need a bath."
"Peaches. That the name of your poodle?"
"Yeah."
Roy bent down to look at the frou frou thing. It eyed him disinterestedly, whuffed a long strand of drool down toward the ground.
"He's adorable," Roy attempted.
Lyra stared at him like he'd grown a second head. Roy made a mental note. Some people responded to talk about their animals. This was apparently not one of them.
"Look, I've done my civic duty," she said. "You have no right to keep me here!"
"Of course," Roy purred quickly. "I'd be happy to escort you anywhere you like. I heard you were in need of a ride...?"
Lyra's eyes shifted sharply to one side and her slender throat worked for a moment.
"Forget about it," she said. "I can walk."
"It's getting late," Hughes pointed out. "This part of town isn't safe at night."
Or anytime, Roy resisted the urge to point out. As hostile as she was coming on, harping on her wasn't likely to have a positive effect.
"Where do you live?" he pressed again. "We'd be happy to drop you off. Before it gets dark."
Lyra licked her thick, plum-colored lips, eyes flicking back to their uniforms. Over to the shadowy mouth of the alley.
"I can take care of myself," she said, though her voice was a little less confident. A little more uncertain. "I have Peaches with me..."
Not that the dog looked likely to run off a mugger. On the contrary, it was so docile it seemed ready to fall asleep in her arms. The girl seemed to recognize it too. She stroked over the animal's head a little harder, roughly enough that it deigned to curl up a lip.
"It must have given you a turn, finding what you did," Roy said gently. "We appreciate that you stuck around. Not many people would."
Lyra jerked back to stare at him once more, scrutinizing his face as though she expected the compliment to be a trick. A pro's seasoned bullshit detection? Or just a scared girl, in a scary part of town, not sure who was safe anymore?
"I didn't know what to do," she said finally, as though the admission pained her. "I knew I ought to call, but..."
"But?" Hughes prompted. His voice had the slightest hint of edge to it.
"Hughes," Roy warned. He offered her his most practiced smile again.
"We're not here to make your life difficult," he said, guessing that either way, she could use the reassurance. "We just need to know how to get in touch with you, if something else should come up."
"Something else," Lyra repeated, clutching her dog tighter. "Like what?"
"If the culprit is found, there's a small chance we'll need you to be a witness at the trial." In truth, it was bullshit, both he and Hughes knew it; 'small chance' meant nigh on infinitesimal. Lyra's discovery was so far after the fact there was no chance her testimony would have bearing on a conviction, but he wanted to try to appeal her supposed sense of 'civic duty'. Not that he expected that to be anything but a smokescreen.
The arrow must have hit home though, because the girl inhaled sharply and licked her lips harder. The lipstick was starting to wear off, revealing a much lighter swath of natural color beneath the eggplant purple. Roy rather thought he liked it better.
"He's not going to like it," she muttered.
"Who?"
"My boyfriend."
"He wouldn't like you talking to the police?"
"No!" Lyra said, a little too quickly. "He wouldn't like me getting involved in something dangerous."
"Testifying in a court of law is perfectly safe."
Roy winked.
"You'd have me there to protect you, for one."
The girl snorted, but didn't shy away. The tightness in her shoulders was finally starting to ease, her death grip on the dog also letting up. Roy judged it was time to give it to her straight.
"Where do you live, Lyra?"
"...Four thirty-one Baker."
Hughes' eyebrows lifted.
"That's awfully far for a dog walk."
Now that she was vulnerable, the girl's nerves were clearly done for. When Hughes made for the weak point in her story, she jumped as though he'd raked her up the back with a red hot poker.
"I was visiting my boyfriend at work, okay!?" Lyra yelped. "He works near here, I rode in with him, and I gave you my real address, now can I leave or do I have to call a lawyer!?"
"No, it's okay. You haven't been accused of anything! We'll take you wherever you'd like to go," Roy said quickly. Nothing spelled 'headache' like the L word. He had been much happier before the movies had started including that part of the procedure. Still, he was curious.
"Your boyfriend...his name wouldn't be 'Lawrence', would it?"
Lyra tilted her chin up valiantly and said nothing, but her miserable expression answered loud and clear.
Hughes looked down at her and smiled, not without pity.
"In that case you might as well come with us. We were going to have to visit the Devil's Nest anyway."
--
Despite his fearsome reputation, not much was officially on record for Lawrence "Greed" Evans. Some of that might have been because of his reputation. The definition of an true-blue 'oily bastard', as Officer Breda liked to say, was that no matter how much shit you threw at him, it failed to stick. Various investigative agencies - Central PD Vice, Firearms, Federal Narcotics - had thrown a lot of shit at Lawrence over the years. So far, it had slid off like his skin was made of Teflon. He seemed to be impervious to prosecution, witnesses being exceedingly hard to come by and proof always turning out rather circumstantial.
The end result was a string of shady businesses scattered about the red light areas, a vague stench hanging over everything the man touched, but never any solid evidence that they could convict with. "Greed" owned a massage parlor, a poker/slots house, an off-track betting facility, several trendy nightclubs, a bar or seven, and incongruously, a dry cleaner/tailor shop. Perhaps it was so he could get a discount on outfitting his ladies at the Devil's Nest, Roy thought sourly. The Nest was a hostess club, the crown jewel in Greed's empire of vice; the first business he had ever owned, and the base for all the rest of his sketchy operations.
It was also scarcely more than three blocks from where someone had just been beaten into tartare, which Roy did find highly interesting, even though he didn't think the crime was Greed's style. Hughes was hell-bent on checking it out though, and now their whistle-blower was also one of Greed's currently favored ladies. Keeping their grisly discovery secret when Greed's girl was the one who had found it seemed impossible; they might as well interview him now and give him time to polish his alibis later.
"You on the list?"
A wiry blond in a muscle shirt eyed them suspiciously at the front door, arms folded in a fashion that said she meant business. Roy appraised her silently, aware that Hughes was doing the same. Greed was notoriously indiscriminate when it came to women -- he appreciated them all, thick or thin, tall or short, blue eyed or red eyed -- but the cues this one was sending made it unlikely she was part of his regular working stable. Her spiky, nearly army-short haircut would be right at home with the butch crowd at the Wild Rose, and the ink she sported on her face and shoulder was classic tough-guy material. Huge vertical marks, like an animal had taken a swipe at her. And while it was known that Greed did cater to counterculture -- he had a whole segment of ads devoted to the "Seven Deadly", goth and punk girls inked so heavily they could be scanned at the grocery store -- in general, his management staff were the ones who modified to the extremes. This bouncer, Roy realized incredulously, had her tongue bisected down the middle like a snake's.
"There was trouble, Marta."
Lyra stepped forward and solved two problems at once, how to explain their presence, and how to ask to the lady's name. Somehow, he didn't think "Marta" was going to respond to his usual charm-n-schmarm.
"What kinda trouble?" The bouncer's eyes flicked to Roy and Hughes', casually predatory. You might think you're hot shit now, but this is my territory, the tightness in her shoulders said. You take a step inside this door, and I wouldn't give a bent pin for your chance of survival.
Peaches struggled as Lyra squeezed the dog so hard he yelped.
"I found a body," she said.
That was their opening, and Roy inserted himself immediately.
"Detective Roy Mustang," he announced, flipping his badge open for the bouncer's inspection.
"Detective Maes Hughes."
Marta scrutinized both of their Green Lions closely, a tight pout drawing across her face. She had unusually thick lips for a Central woman. Maybe she hailed from up north, like Commissioner Armstrong in Briggs. Maybe that explained the pain tolerance for the tongue bifurcation.
"You're wanting to talk to the boss then."
"Yes, please," Hughes said.
"But she's not being charged with anything."
The woman drew back, but not aside, the way Roy was hoping, and he resisted the urge to curse.
"Not at the moment, no," Roy said as politely as possible. He hated it when the brawn also had brains. Technically, Greed didn't have to let them in. Without an actual warrant, or probable cause, they had no right to enter the building. He would have to consent to be questioned.
"Mustang..." Marta licked her large lips. "Wait here."
Marta disappeared into the club, letting the heavy black door swing shut behind her. Lyra cried out in protest but if anyone could hear through the soundproofing, they ignored her. Hughes nudged him with an elbow and Roy nodded back over Lyra's head. It would be interesting to know how long Lyra remained one of Greed's girls after bringing two detectives home.
A few long moments passed and then suddenly the door peeked open again.
"He says he'll see you," Marta reported. She seemed intensely disappointed. "But I wouldn't get too comfortable, if I were you. He reminds you this is a gentleman's club. I see anyone not being a gentleman, you're out on your ass faster than you can say 'illegal profiling'."
Hughes caught the door with one hand and pried it the rest of the way open.
"Thanks," Hughes said, pleasantly enough, but the smile didn't quite reach his eyes. "We can't wait to see him again, either."
Marta huffed, slunk back and beckoned them all to come forward. Lyra followed right on her heels, face lit up like holiday, cuddling her dog with renewed vigor. Hughes caught his eye and Roy just shook his head. One thing he could say for Greed, the man inspired fierce loyalty, both among his minions and the many girls that he led around by the nose. If he weren't more principled, Roy would be tempted to ask how exactly the bastard did manage to command so much female interest without sparking internal trench warfare.
Inside, the decor was classy enough. Greed had obviously invested in the property since the last time Vice had raided. The Nest was originally a series of storage areas beneath an elevated city train track, but like much of South Central, that part of the former Red Line had since fallen into blight and disrepair. Greed had taken over the ignoble warehouse space and converted it into a lush and intimate series of chambers, currently decked in mahogany and red velvet. Hostesses could sit with their clients at curtained tables; the extra-discerning customer could request a private room. No two guesses what went on behind those closed doors. Again, the infuriating thing about Greed was how rarely anyone could make a charge stick. Vice had been after him for years, but the lack of anyone -- even the working girls -- willing to testify made their job nearly impossible.
There was a decided lull as they passed through the club, confronted at every turn by hostile, staring hostesses. All of them had their ID cards out, flaunting the green lion seal next to their photos that advertised they were legal adults. Not that he believed it. Several of the girls were staring far too nervously at their own driver's licenses, and if that fresh-faced red-head in the miniskirt was a day over sixteen, he would eat his badge. Still, he wasn't here to harass the working girls. He was here to harass their master, and hopefully glean something useful for his case as a bonus.
Greed was holding court in a room close to the back, perched regally on a leather loveseat with martini glass in hand. He was surrounded by men and women alike, a few hostess beauties as well as a flock of the usual suspects. Roy recognized the hulking form of Law and the smaller, angular silhouette of Dorchette, both small-time thugs now converted to the cult of Greed-worship. They both shifted closer the second Roy and Hughes set foot into the room, hands hovering over bulges at their pockets that more than likely contained nasty surprises Roy would dearly love to have cause to search for.
The big man himself seemed exceedingly unconcerned, though. He was dressed to the nines as usual, clad in an expensive looking pair of shiny leather pants and an open jacket with a ruff of pristine fur that could only be ermine. Appropriate, Roy supposed, for a self-styled king.
Greed nodded his head toward them and took a pointed sip from his glass. Not a man who appreciated being rushed.
"Good evening, gentlemen."
He smiled then, revealing an impressive row of unnaturally sharp, filed teeth.
"My lady."
"Baby!"
Lyra's voice pitched up a full octave as she sprinted for the couch, all semblance of prissy east-side decorum forgotten. Greed extended his free arm toward her and she piled right into him, snuggled up next to him and pulled his arm tight around her shoulders. If she even noticed the other girls hovering about the room, there was no indication.
"Have these men been bothering you?" Greed crooned, rocking her, dog and all, up against his side. The poodle squirmed and yelped, trying to free itself, and Lyra let it go, more interested apparently in nibbling along the curve of Greed's neck.
"Not too badly," she husked against his throat. "But it was dreadful, baby, absolutely dreadful..."
"Miss Eubanks called to report finding a body," Roy said, cutting her off before she could spoil any more potential details. "It's been investigated as a homicide."
"Homicide, is it now?" Greed pushed his glasses up his nose, still grinning that insane pointy-toothed grin. "That's a step up. Last I'd heard, you were still shaking it on the street corners out east."
Roy gritted his teeth.
"I'm no longer part of Vice, if that is what you are implying." Though he knew damn well what Greed was implying. He'd taken a lot of flak for his heritage over the years, both for his Xingian looks and for his rather...unconventional upbringing. Most of the time, his connections to the steamy side gave him an edge over greaseballs like this one. Greed just laughed and threw it in his face.
"So they brought you back, made you full D."
Greed's eyes flicked from Roy to Hughes.
"Double D's in my parlor. Always welcome."
Greed slid a gloved hand up Lyra's arm, inward to squeeze at a breast. The girl squealed and giggled, kicking her booted feet up and down against the sofa. On the floor, Peaches huffed disinterestedly, before resuming his efforts to gnaw the carpet to bits.
"Not the type you usually entertain, we know," Hughes said.
Greed kicked back the rest of his drink, handed the empty to a hovering sycophant.
"So, who's the stiff? Anyone notable?"
"As of yet, unidentified," Roy said. "I don't suppose you'd have seen or heard anything unusual."
Greed shook his head, kicked the heel of his expensive-looking boot against the wooden floor paneling.
"Industrial-grade soundproofing. They didn't want the business owners bitching about the noise from the trains. Not that there are any. Track got rerouted when they widened for high-speed, new stop's six blocks north."
Roy just nodded. He'd figured as much. Even perfectly normal, law-abiding citizens interested in Doing Their Civic Duty tended to view dead bodies as black holes. Even if the murder took place in an amphitheater outside on a sunny Saturday afternoon, no one ever heard anything or saw anything. A person like Greed would be even less likely to pay attention.
Lyra took the opportunity to insinuate herself even further into Greed's lap, practically simpering. Roy resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He'd liked her better when she was playing at being tough.
"I didn't even think it was a person at first," she whimpered, face pressed firmly against his neck. "It looked like...like meat, like chunks of Peaches' wet food."
Even Greed winced at that.
"That bad, huh?" he asked, looking directly at Roy and Hughes.
"That bad. There anybody new in town that we ought to know about?"
A risky line of questioning with criminals. If they said anything at all, it was often a wild goose chase - sending the cops off against someone whom they had a vendetta against, or a "Joe Schmoe" who didn't exist. But infuriating as he could be, Greed was a curious creature: one of the lone, but constant proponents of the philosophy that there was honor among thieves. When he agreed to speak, he spoke frankly. He had no love for cops, but he did not go out of his way to jerk them around.
"Haven't heard anything. Especially not without a description."
"You heard the lady. There's not much of a description to give you."
"There was one detail," Hughes said.
Hughes pulled a pen out of his pocket, looked left and right and then seized on a stray cocktail napkin. Roy waited patiently as his partner sketched a quick facsimile of the tattoo they had just spent so much time taking pictures of. Hughes had a much better photographic memory than he did - not to mention a passable artistic hand. Roy watched in awe as a little semicircle became a full circle, a fanged snake, sprouted wings.
Hughes stepped forward and offered the napkin to Greed.
"This mean anything to you?"
For the briefest of moments, Greed hesitated.
"...no."
A rookie might have missed it. Roy himself only noticed because of the girl. Greed's left hand was still cupped against Lyra's breast, and when his fingers shifted she made a little silvery noise. He wasn't teasing her on purpose, though. Roy watched as Greed ever-so-slightly drew his gloved hand down.
"Is it supposed to?"
"It was found at the scene," Roy said, purposefully ambiguous, all the while watching Greed's reactions closely, his hands, his posture, his face. He didn't think he'd imagined the recognition in Greed's eyes a moment ago.
"We're thinking it might be a new gang tag."
No reaction to that. Greed tossed the napkin aside on a low table, rolled his shoulders into a shrug.
"Could be. You know banger boys. Anything to keep it hard. If they spent as much time doing all the hot shit they talk about, you'd be balls deep in real work, leave my club alone."
"Well, they definitely left it as a calling card. Whoever this was, they were putting someone on notice."
"And you're sure you don't know anything. No old pals in town, no new acquaintances."
"Heeeeey now," Greed drawled. "Let's get something straight."
Out of the corner of his eye, Roy noticed Marta peel away from the wall where she was lurking, a frown pursed across her thick, broad lips. Greed shook his head slightly and stayed her though, then turned back to fix his eyes on him.
"I'm going to own this town one day," Greed said simply. "From her tits to her bits. Every part of this place is gonna be mine, when I make it big. You and your buddy included."
"An ambitious prospect," Roy said tightly. He felt Hughes shift next to him, similarly offended. They weren't fools, they both knew there were cops on the take. Neither of them ever intended to be one of them. "It's good for a man to have a dream."
"Right, and you wouldn't know anything about ambition," Greed said. He grinned toothily. "Mister Bigshot D."
"Is there a point you'd like to make?" Hughes asked.
Dorchette and Law shifted this time, their shadows slinking closer to the sides of the couch. The flock of groupies seemed to be evaporating as well. Apparently the bottle-blonds all felt it was time to refresh their drinks at once.
Lyra was still perched primly on Greed's knee. She glared at them both defiantly, wrapped her arm a little tighter around Greed's shoulders.
"The point is, killing people ain't exactly my style," Greed said.
His right hand dropped down into Lyra's lap, right at the place where her legs met. She gasped as he dragged one long finger up along the inside of her thighs, hiking the edge of her miniskirt up along with it.
"See, the thing about people, I've found, they're a whole lot more useful alive than dead. Whole lotta stuff you can't do with a body once they're dead."
"Make love, not war?" Hughes asked. "Is that how you market these days?"
"Hey," Greed shrugged amicably, leaning back a little more into the sofa. "All I'm saying is, that kinda stiffie ain't interesting to me. I don't keep company with guys who make 'em."
His fingers dragged a little higher, cupped down and in, to shield what certainly would have otherwise been a grand view of the girl's panties.
"I prefer to take good care of my things," he growled hotly against Lyra's cheek. The girl moaned and tilted her head back to meet him, flushed and clearly exhilarated.
An exhibitionist, then. That was the problem with the gated community set. Raise your girls in a complete and utter void of stimulation, and they grew up to crave it so much they didn't care who was around to watch. And Greed still hadn't moved the left hand. Since they'd brought up the tattoo, Greed had kept it firmly hidden against Lyra's side. Coincidence? Or was there something else there Greed was interested in hiding?
Hughes cleared his throat a little, a very slight flush of pink peaked high in his cheeks. Roy allowed himself a small, private smile. For all the ugliness they saw on a day to day basis, the man could be hilariously old-fashioned about some things.
"If that's all you have for us," his partner said stiffly.
"Sorry," Greed said, twisting his hand a little, making the girl squeeze her thighs hard against his fingers. "If I were you, and I wanted to find a real nasty, I'd look where the harder action is."
As Hughes turned to leave, no doubt uncomfortable at seeing a girl writhe when he had his own wife at home, Greed's eyes suddenly turned to fix hard on Roy, twin, polished beads of heat.
"We all know the man with the most stones is the one who runs things, in these parts. Don't matter how ambitious you are, it's the truth. You can't ever get away from it."
"Good afternoon, Greed," Roy hissed. He turned on his heel to follow Hughes out. As they left, Peaches raised its head to let one solitary, asthmatic woof.
Marta flanked closely behind the entire way back through the club, herding them quickly through the twists and turns of the hallowed halls. The second they set foot into the alley outside, she began to close the heavy black door in their faces.
"Hope you enjoyed wasting your time. Don't come back here again, unless you got a warrant," she growled, and with that, the fortress clicked shut.
Hughes pushed his glasses up along the bridge of his nose, cleared his throat a bit.
"Looks like we ruffled some feathers there."
"Indeed," Roy mused. "No big surprise. Greed tends to attract the bottom feeders. You know what they say - losers make for loyalty."
Ousted gang-bangers, ex-cons, runaways; punks with unusual habits, like that Marta and her butch cut. Greed's gang was known for taking in the disenfranchised of the underworld.
"No-lifes with nowhere to go?"
"Just like any good religion."
They both shared a good chuckle for a block, before Hughes' expression grew serious again.
"Any bets on what exactly he's hiding?" Hughes asked. "Aside from the usual."
"He knew the mark. You saw how he reacted, didn't you?"
"Yeah," Hughes licked his lips. "I daresay our dark prince was nervous."
"He kept hiding his hand from us, too. Even though he was wearing gloves."
"Bruised knuckles?"
Roy shook his head.
"No, if it were that obvious he wouldn't have let us in at all. And Hughes, you saw that thing. Whoever took Mr. Doe apart, they used something a hell of a lot harder than bare fists."
"No, I agree. Just considering every angle. It's what we have to do."
Hughes' head tilted down toward him, ever so slightly. The gleam from a nearby streetlight reflected harshly off his square glasses, turning them temporarily into inscrutable patches of light.
"Which reminds me. Any thoughts about that last bit? About the 'stones'?"
Roy drew in a deep breath, rubbed a hand down along his face. Greed had been taunting him there too, and the fact that he knew was always the worst part. Hughes knew, Hughes understood, they'd worked their whole lives to find a way to bury it, but some things...some skeletons just weren't content to rest in piece.
"He was trying to get to you, Roy," Hughes murmured. He stepped just a little closer, close enough to almost touch. Meant to be a comfort. In the dank gloom of the alley, his body heat was almost overpowering. "Don't let him do that."
"...I don't think that was entirely it," Roy admitted. "He was talking about 'hard action'. On the street, that's code for a big deal."
"Mm." Hughes just nodded, neither approving nor disapproving. He never questioned how Roy knew something, just took it as truth. "Think it's a goose chase?"
"It could be a smoke screen. Everyone in the know thinks Greed's girls deal more than just curvy comfort."
"Everyone in the know", a subtle reference to his unusual extended family. Hughes just snorted and kept walking, as always, taking Roy's strange life in stride. Roy wondered if he'd ever be able to thank him enough.
"Drugs would explain why that fancy girl finds him so interesting. He looks like a lizard otherwise. Did you see those teeth!?"
"Yeah, the shark-look's new. I've always wondered about the hair, myself."
"Get 'em addicted," Hughes continued his previous line of speculation, "doesn't matter how crazy you look. They have to come to you to get their latest fix."
"Yeah," Roy said softly. "That would be one way to own people."
They continued walking in silence for a moment, watching the rats skitter aside as they picked their way through the alleys. As they once more neared the world of yellow tape and crime scene, they both paused, staring out at the busy techs.
"So. Where do we go from here?" Hughes asked. "I'm going to visit the coroner, see if we can't get a good toxicology work up. If our buddy Greed was right, and there's a drug connection, maybe the meat here will turn up poisoned."
Roy nodded. "Good idea. You want to start on the door-to-door, too? I'll join up with you in a bit."
"What? Why, where are you going?" Hughes pouted. As if he thought Roy still had a date to go back to.
"Where else?" Roy said. His mouth quirked up at the edges. "To visit a little friend of mine."
--
On to Chapter 1 - Part II
Chapter 1 - Part II
Genre: AU
Rating: R
Summary: Originally written for this prompt on the FMA Kinkmeme. Detectives Roy Mustang and Maes Hughes are caught up in a web of intrigue and murder as a series of brutal murders rocks Central city to its core. Along with their informant Edward Elric, a brilliant but troubled young man, their investigation will take them into the darkest reaches of Amestris's underground, and uncover a secret so dangerous they may not live to betray...
His life really was cursed, Roy thought sourly as the patrol car rumbled through the rain. The rain had followed him from East City, the same endless days of gray, and now his social luck was turning out the same. The same night he had finally thought it safe to plan a celebration dinner, he had received an urgent call as soon as he'd arrived at the restaurant. Brandi (Or was it -ie?) had been gracious enough, but if there was one thing he had learned throughout his long tenure on the dating circuit, it was that leaving a girl for a body never got you a second date.
The scene was in South Central, one of the sectors closest to the city core. An old district, one of the most historically significant; also one of the most decrepit and dangerous. To say someone had died in South Central on a Friday night was to proclaim that night was dark. Detective Hughes greeted him at the scene, already awash with blues and boundary saw horses, and Roy found it hard to contain his irritation.
"Today was my off-day," Roy growled, ducking under a thick mess of crime-scene tape. "I had Brandi at Novarti's."
Hughes shrugged in his amicable way, a little roll of the shoulders that managed to convey both apology and apathy at the same time.
"Chief wants two D's on this case," he said. "I knew where you were, so I made the call."
His green eyes flicked briefly down over the edge of his glasses.
"He thinks this one's going to be big."
Roy nodded, mollified. Also, a little ashamed. Hughes had worked hard for him to be transferred here after his promotion, had fought tooth and nail to recommend him above several other, more senior candidates. So far, he had yet to get the chance to prove old friend right. The few cases he had undertaken since arriving were textbook crimes of passion, drug or domestic violence taken too far. Half the time the murderer had still been standing there holding the weapon in shock. But his reputation was for handling the rough cases, the cold ones, the unsolvables, and Central had other ambitious young detectives with more connections, more hard-solves. Keeping his overall solve rate good wasn't going to be enough to distinguish himself here.
Roy loosened his tie, rolled up his shirt sleeves.
"Where's the DB?" he asked.
"Alley," Hughes said, inclining his head toward a dank patch of shadow. It was little more than a slit between two decrepit buildings, both equally boarded up and depressing.
"Recent?"
Hughes shook his head.
"We haven't gotten a hold of the coroner yet, but I'd guess at least a day. Definitely not a come-and-cuff-em. Whoever did this is long gone."
Roy nodded. A cursory glance toward the graffiti-covered billboard posted in front of the buildings confirmed that they were in fact condemned. Not likely to be many witnesses then, either. A good place for a murder, insofar as there was such a thing. Roy rolled up the cuffs of his jacket, starting to feel the first real tingles of excitement. In a morbid way, it was good to have a challenge again.
"Well, let's see what they left us already," he said, striding toward the first cheery string of yellow tape.
Uncharacteristic for Hughes, the detective was hanging back. Usually he was the first one to a body, snapping pictures before the morgue's office showed up to mess everything up. As Roy approached the alley though, Hughes actually blanched and stepped over to the side.
"Roy...you might want some menthol first."
"If you don't use anything you'll get acclimated faster," Roy said stodgily. Some officers (particularly rookies) rubbed camphor beneath their noses to try and block out the scent of death, not realizing there was no perfume on earth strong enough to block it out. Instead, it just complicated the adaptation process.
"It's worse than usual," Hughes admitted.
"That's they pay us for," Roy turned and marched into the alley, ready for anything.
He regretted it.
The thing in the alley was a body only in the sense that strands of gristle still tethered its lumps loosely to a skeleton. It might have been human once, before its torso was bashed open; now the clotted pile of bone fragments and gore housed a miasma of flies. Its face was smashed in so hard it was nearly concave, as though a vacuum inside had come on to suck the features into one gaping, continuous maw.
And then, hideously discongruous, its one identifying feature: a circular excision of flesh, laid neatly over the V that might once have been a groin. Instead of genitalia, a smooth patch of its own skin advertised the nature of the beast. Whatever body part the lump had been taken from, it had born a tattoo. Red ink, iconic; the unmistakable logo of a serpent curled round to bite its own tail.
Roy backed away hard to suck at fresh air, eyes watering, fighting the urge to vomit. Normally he would stay close until he acclimated to the sight and smell, but in all his years of service, he had rarely come across a scene as gruesome.
Hughes said nothing, just stood back at a respectful distance and let him breathe. When he thought he had control of his gorge again, Roy risked speaking to him.
"Who found it?"
"Girl walking her poodle. Animal went nuts, wouldn't leave the alley alone. She thought they'd found a drowned rat." The corners of Hughes' lips curled up in a vicious smile. "Dead rodents come pretty big, this part of town."
Gallows humor, as only a homicide detective could employ. There was nothing that compared to the stench of a rotting human body; cadavers carried a particular quality of putrescence that was impossible to define. Equally impossible to forget. Roy had left a girlfriend once because the herbal body soap she was enamored with reminded him of it. Something about the undertone of wet leaves. Every passing whiff brought him right there to long nights in dark alleys, to chill flesh and wet pavement and ooze sliding down storm drains. Patrolman Havoc had thought he was crazy for quitting Monica (Monique?) over a matter of suds, not tugs, but Roy had never been able to slide into bed without imagining her pale skin even paler, her thick curves grown puffy and livid.
"She'll know the difference now."
Roy looked over to the witness in question, a small, unhappy thing clutched around her poodle, standing out like a sore thumb against the backdrop of patrolmen and productivity. East side girl, from the clothes and cluelessness. Her purse was brand name, the double-d of Dublith Design prominent even at a distance; he'd dated enough society types to guess it probably equated to at least two of his paychecks. He shook his head.
"Surprised she's not our DB, walking around dressed like that."
"Yeah. Says she only moved to S.C. recently. 'Boyfriend'." Hughes' smile grew even more knife-like, a slash across his handsome face. "Whom she was strangely resistant to calling, even though she's got no ride. Her own sheet's stark white, but what do you want to bet we know her beau?"
"Uptown girl who likes bad boys?"
"Or bad boys who play nice. Greed likes the high class ladies."
"Greed likes to think he's high class. Our good old knight in tarnished armor."
"This close to the Nest, it's worth checking out."
Roy shook his head.
"Greed wouldn't soil his own turf like this. He's too smooth an operator."
"True. He's more the type to disappear you outright."
Hughes craned his head around the corner of the alley again, pushing his glasses up in that compulsive way that meant he was thinking. Roy followed suit. A few of the braver techs were finally circling in on the flesh pile, though their faces were drawn and pale. Roy recognized Broche, one of their newer ident techs, poking glumly at what remained of the thing's arm with a printing spoon, trying to find a finger intact enough to ink.
"Fingerprints probably not going to happen with this one," Hughes observed sagely. "Even once the rookie remembers he can tent it."
Roy nodded. Draping a DB in plastic and fuming it with chemicals was the next step at a scene where traditional ink and paper failed, but this one's hands had been flayed until there was scarcely any flesh left clinging to the bone. Roy wasn't a forensics expert - he preferred to direct investigations, not dally in their minutiae - but he had seen enough dead hands to know a lost cause when he saw one.
"Dental records, too," he said, pointing to the ruined face. "Whoever did this, they sure didn't want us to name the Doe."
"Somebody's supposed to recognize it, though."
Hughes moved forward with a frown, staring down at the transplanted tattoo grinning gamely up from between the body's legs. The circular snake bore a wicked smile, its one eye gazing cheerfully off into space.
I know something you don't know, its endless grin seemed to say.
"Get a picture, we'll ask around."
"Sure."
An identifying marker, repositioned on purpose. The tattoo had to have significance. Roy waited for Hughes to whip out his needlessly complex SLR set, running through his own mental photobook of gang emblems, mob signs. The Xingian cartels were known to be partial to dragon-and-tiger body art, but those tatts were large and intricate. The more details a thug suffered through, the badder he was; most bad-news brothers wound their serpent up a leg, or across their entire chest. This beastie was little larger than his palm, scarcely any lines to it at all. The shape of it was wrong too. A winged snake, biting its own tail...
"Ouroboros," Roy tasted the word out loud, found that it was right.
Hughes paused.
"You know it?"
"Mythology-wise. The Xerxians wrote about it." Roy rubbed at his temples. "It was the god that wraps around the equator, holds the world together."
"You read Xerxian?"
"No, of course I don't! It's been dead a hundred years," Roy snorted. "I took a semester of Classic Literature back in Academy. Gen Ed."
"And you still remember anything?" Hughes grinned. "Either way, you're a prodigy."
Roy was about to elbow him when an officer in blue approached, waving cheerfully. Havoc was a competent trooper, easy-going and unflappable; a lanky man whose baby blue eyes belied a sharpshooter's skill and much sharper mental processes than most people gave him credit for. Roy trusted Havoc, trusted his judgment - if Havoc thought it was wise to interrupt, it was probably wise to listen.
"Heya, big boss!" Havoc saluted roguishly, nodded to acknowledge Hughes. "Lieut."
"Yes, Patrolman?"
Havoc jacked a thumb back over his shoulder at the girl with the poodle, who was edging further and further away from the bright runners of crime-scene tape. Her expression was decidedly non-plussed.
"The witness is getting antsy. Wants ta know if she can 'get the hell out of here already, pardon her Drachman'. Real piece of work. You want to take over?"
"I thought she needed a ride?" Hughes asked.
"Seems like she's changed her mind," Havoc said. "Not too keen on giving out address or phone number, either. Maybe I should switch colognes?"
Havoc's tone was light, but his neck was tensed hard with irritation. Roy understood. Although it probably wasn't likely in this case that their tip-off was the perp -- contrary to the penny dreadfuls, the murderer did not always return to the scene of the crime -- the girl was still the first one to discover the body. Protocol dictated they needed a contact.
Not to mention that a 'helpful bystander' willing to phone in a body, but not willing to give out her phone number, was highly suspicious.
"Let me talk to her," Roy said. Hughes raised an eyebrow, but Roy ignored it. Havoc was a decent interviewer - by the book, polite - but not very creative. Roy had a better knack for reading people, noticing what buttons to press. And in the case of a pretty lady, when to lay on the charm. If there was one thing he'd learned, in the dating scene or otherwise, flattery would get you anywhere.
"Want me to come?" Hughes said, nonchalantly enough, but Roy caught the gleam behind his friend's glasses.
"Sounds good. I could use a second set of eyes." Hughes was not as good at suave-flirtatious but he was exceedingly observant, good at reading people's tone and gestures and body language. He also knew how to put a perp at ease; subtle licks of humor and empathy, until suddenly those laughing eyes turned cold and his voice twinged sharp as the knives he hid in his boots for self-defense. Together, the two of them were a force that had sussed information out of some of the country's hardest criminals. If this girl had secrets, they didn't stand a chance.
Roy ran a hand through his hair briefly, setting his look for "tousled", and strode back toward the witness with his head and shoulders high. Hughes followed at a distance, amicable and non aggressive. She was pretty enough, if your taste ran to 'high maintenance', Roy mused. Chestnut hair kept short in a tight, well-coiffed bob; slender, polished features accentuated by careful touches of makeup. Like the bag, her clothes also seemed to be designer. Her gray shirt flowed along her curves like butter, the short skirt beneath it sporting the logo of a popular Cretan clothing couture. Definitely out of place in South Central, where the median income was scarcely above the subsistence line. He exchanged glances with Hughes. Either an eastsider slumming it...or a new high-ticket pro for the Vice books.
"Good afternoon, Miss...?" he purred, offering her his very best smile regardless. Especially with the ladies, he had always caught more flies with honey than with vinegar.
"Lyra Eubanks," the girl supplied primly. Her dog, a little white powder puff in her arms, raised its poofy head and huffed.
"Detective Roy Mustang. And my partner, Detective Hughes."
"We met, briefly," she said stiffly, looking over at Hughes. "Can't I leave yet?"
"You have somewhere to be?"
"I'd like to get Peaches home," the girl complained. "We both need a bath."
"Peaches. That the name of your poodle?"
"Yeah."
Roy bent down to look at the frou frou thing. It eyed him disinterestedly, whuffed a long strand of drool down toward the ground.
"He's adorable," Roy attempted.
Lyra stared at him like he'd grown a second head. Roy made a mental note. Some people responded to talk about their animals. This was apparently not one of them.
"Look, I've done my civic duty," she said. "You have no right to keep me here!"
"Of course," Roy purred quickly. "I'd be happy to escort you anywhere you like. I heard you were in need of a ride...?"
Lyra's eyes shifted sharply to one side and her slender throat worked for a moment.
"Forget about it," she said. "I can walk."
"It's getting late," Hughes pointed out. "This part of town isn't safe at night."
Or anytime, Roy resisted the urge to point out. As hostile as she was coming on, harping on her wasn't likely to have a positive effect.
"Where do you live?" he pressed again. "We'd be happy to drop you off. Before it gets dark."
Lyra licked her thick, plum-colored lips, eyes flicking back to their uniforms. Over to the shadowy mouth of the alley.
"I can take care of myself," she said, though her voice was a little less confident. A little more uncertain. "I have Peaches with me..."
Not that the dog looked likely to run off a mugger. On the contrary, it was so docile it seemed ready to fall asleep in her arms. The girl seemed to recognize it too. She stroked over the animal's head a little harder, roughly enough that it deigned to curl up a lip.
"It must have given you a turn, finding what you did," Roy said gently. "We appreciate that you stuck around. Not many people would."
Lyra jerked back to stare at him once more, scrutinizing his face as though she expected the compliment to be a trick. A pro's seasoned bullshit detection? Or just a scared girl, in a scary part of town, not sure who was safe anymore?
"I didn't know what to do," she said finally, as though the admission pained her. "I knew I ought to call, but..."
"But?" Hughes prompted. His voice had the slightest hint of edge to it.
"Hughes," Roy warned. He offered her his most practiced smile again.
"We're not here to make your life difficult," he said, guessing that either way, she could use the reassurance. "We just need to know how to get in touch with you, if something else should come up."
"Something else," Lyra repeated, clutching her dog tighter. "Like what?"
"If the culprit is found, there's a small chance we'll need you to be a witness at the trial." In truth, it was bullshit, both he and Hughes knew it; 'small chance' meant nigh on infinitesimal. Lyra's discovery was so far after the fact there was no chance her testimony would have bearing on a conviction, but he wanted to try to appeal her supposed sense of 'civic duty'. Not that he expected that to be anything but a smokescreen.
The arrow must have hit home though, because the girl inhaled sharply and licked her lips harder. The lipstick was starting to wear off, revealing a much lighter swath of natural color beneath the eggplant purple. Roy rather thought he liked it better.
"He's not going to like it," she muttered.
"Who?"
"My boyfriend."
"He wouldn't like you talking to the police?"
"No!" Lyra said, a little too quickly. "He wouldn't like me getting involved in something dangerous."
"Testifying in a court of law is perfectly safe."
Roy winked.
"You'd have me there to protect you, for one."
The girl snorted, but didn't shy away. The tightness in her shoulders was finally starting to ease, her death grip on the dog also letting up. Roy judged it was time to give it to her straight.
"Where do you live, Lyra?"
"...Four thirty-one Baker."
Hughes' eyebrows lifted.
"That's awfully far for a dog walk."
Now that she was vulnerable, the girl's nerves were clearly done for. When Hughes made for the weak point in her story, she jumped as though he'd raked her up the back with a red hot poker.
"I was visiting my boyfriend at work, okay!?" Lyra yelped. "He works near here, I rode in with him, and I gave you my real address, now can I leave or do I have to call a lawyer!?"
"No, it's okay. You haven't been accused of anything! We'll take you wherever you'd like to go," Roy said quickly. Nothing spelled 'headache' like the L word. He had been much happier before the movies had started including that part of the procedure. Still, he was curious.
"Your boyfriend...his name wouldn't be 'Lawrence', would it?"
Lyra tilted her chin up valiantly and said nothing, but her miserable expression answered loud and clear.
Hughes looked down at her and smiled, not without pity.
"In that case you might as well come with us. We were going to have to visit the Devil's Nest anyway."
--
Despite his fearsome reputation, not much was officially on record for Lawrence "Greed" Evans. Some of that might have been because of his reputation. The definition of an true-blue 'oily bastard', as Officer Breda liked to say, was that no matter how much shit you threw at him, it failed to stick. Various investigative agencies - Central PD Vice, Firearms, Federal Narcotics - had thrown a lot of shit at Lawrence over the years. So far, it had slid off like his skin was made of Teflon. He seemed to be impervious to prosecution, witnesses being exceedingly hard to come by and proof always turning out rather circumstantial.
The end result was a string of shady businesses scattered about the red light areas, a vague stench hanging over everything the man touched, but never any solid evidence that they could convict with. "Greed" owned a massage parlor, a poker/slots house, an off-track betting facility, several trendy nightclubs, a bar or seven, and incongruously, a dry cleaner/tailor shop. Perhaps it was so he could get a discount on outfitting his ladies at the Devil's Nest, Roy thought sourly. The Nest was a hostess club, the crown jewel in Greed's empire of vice; the first business he had ever owned, and the base for all the rest of his sketchy operations.
It was also scarcely more than three blocks from where someone had just been beaten into tartare, which Roy did find highly interesting, even though he didn't think the crime was Greed's style. Hughes was hell-bent on checking it out though, and now their whistle-blower was also one of Greed's currently favored ladies. Keeping their grisly discovery secret when Greed's girl was the one who had found it seemed impossible; they might as well interview him now and give him time to polish his alibis later.
"You on the list?"
A wiry blond in a muscle shirt eyed them suspiciously at the front door, arms folded in a fashion that said she meant business. Roy appraised her silently, aware that Hughes was doing the same. Greed was notoriously indiscriminate when it came to women -- he appreciated them all, thick or thin, tall or short, blue eyed or red eyed -- but the cues this one was sending made it unlikely she was part of his regular working stable. Her spiky, nearly army-short haircut would be right at home with the butch crowd at the Wild Rose, and the ink she sported on her face and shoulder was classic tough-guy material. Huge vertical marks, like an animal had taken a swipe at her. And while it was known that Greed did cater to counterculture -- he had a whole segment of ads devoted to the "Seven Deadly", goth and punk girls inked so heavily they could be scanned at the grocery store -- in general, his management staff were the ones who modified to the extremes. This bouncer, Roy realized incredulously, had her tongue bisected down the middle like a snake's.
"There was trouble, Marta."
Lyra stepped forward and solved two problems at once, how to explain their presence, and how to ask to the lady's name. Somehow, he didn't think "Marta" was going to respond to his usual charm-n-schmarm.
"What kinda trouble?" The bouncer's eyes flicked to Roy and Hughes', casually predatory. You might think you're hot shit now, but this is my territory, the tightness in her shoulders said. You take a step inside this door, and I wouldn't give a bent pin for your chance of survival.
Peaches struggled as Lyra squeezed the dog so hard he yelped.
"I found a body," she said.
That was their opening, and Roy inserted himself immediately.
"Detective Roy Mustang," he announced, flipping his badge open for the bouncer's inspection.
"Detective Maes Hughes."
Marta scrutinized both of their Green Lions closely, a tight pout drawing across her face. She had unusually thick lips for a Central woman. Maybe she hailed from up north, like Commissioner Armstrong in Briggs. Maybe that explained the pain tolerance for the tongue bifurcation.
"You're wanting to talk to the boss then."
"Yes, please," Hughes said.
"But she's not being charged with anything."
The woman drew back, but not aside, the way Roy was hoping, and he resisted the urge to curse.
"Not at the moment, no," Roy said as politely as possible. He hated it when the brawn also had brains. Technically, Greed didn't have to let them in. Without an actual warrant, or probable cause, they had no right to enter the building. He would have to consent to be questioned.
"Mustang..." Marta licked her large lips. "Wait here."
Marta disappeared into the club, letting the heavy black door swing shut behind her. Lyra cried out in protest but if anyone could hear through the soundproofing, they ignored her. Hughes nudged him with an elbow and Roy nodded back over Lyra's head. It would be interesting to know how long Lyra remained one of Greed's girls after bringing two detectives home.
A few long moments passed and then suddenly the door peeked open again.
"He says he'll see you," Marta reported. She seemed intensely disappointed. "But I wouldn't get too comfortable, if I were you. He reminds you this is a gentleman's club. I see anyone not being a gentleman, you're out on your ass faster than you can say 'illegal profiling'."
Hughes caught the door with one hand and pried it the rest of the way open.
"Thanks," Hughes said, pleasantly enough, but the smile didn't quite reach his eyes. "We can't wait to see him again, either."
Marta huffed, slunk back and beckoned them all to come forward. Lyra followed right on her heels, face lit up like holiday, cuddling her dog with renewed vigor. Hughes caught his eye and Roy just shook his head. One thing he could say for Greed, the man inspired fierce loyalty, both among his minions and the many girls that he led around by the nose. If he weren't more principled, Roy would be tempted to ask how exactly the bastard did manage to command so much female interest without sparking internal trench warfare.
Inside, the decor was classy enough. Greed had obviously invested in the property since the last time Vice had raided. The Nest was originally a series of storage areas beneath an elevated city train track, but like much of South Central, that part of the former Red Line had since fallen into blight and disrepair. Greed had taken over the ignoble warehouse space and converted it into a lush and intimate series of chambers, currently decked in mahogany and red velvet. Hostesses could sit with their clients at curtained tables; the extra-discerning customer could request a private room. No two guesses what went on behind those closed doors. Again, the infuriating thing about Greed was how rarely anyone could make a charge stick. Vice had been after him for years, but the lack of anyone -- even the working girls -- willing to testify made their job nearly impossible.
There was a decided lull as they passed through the club, confronted at every turn by hostile, staring hostesses. All of them had their ID cards out, flaunting the green lion seal next to their photos that advertised they were legal adults. Not that he believed it. Several of the girls were staring far too nervously at their own driver's licenses, and if that fresh-faced red-head in the miniskirt was a day over sixteen, he would eat his badge. Still, he wasn't here to harass the working girls. He was here to harass their master, and hopefully glean something useful for his case as a bonus.
Greed was holding court in a room close to the back, perched regally on a leather loveseat with martini glass in hand. He was surrounded by men and women alike, a few hostess beauties as well as a flock of the usual suspects. Roy recognized the hulking form of Law and the smaller, angular silhouette of Dorchette, both small-time thugs now converted to the cult of Greed-worship. They both shifted closer the second Roy and Hughes set foot into the room, hands hovering over bulges at their pockets that more than likely contained nasty surprises Roy would dearly love to have cause to search for.
The big man himself seemed exceedingly unconcerned, though. He was dressed to the nines as usual, clad in an expensive looking pair of shiny leather pants and an open jacket with a ruff of pristine fur that could only be ermine. Appropriate, Roy supposed, for a self-styled king.
Greed nodded his head toward them and took a pointed sip from his glass. Not a man who appreciated being rushed.
"Good evening, gentlemen."
He smiled then, revealing an impressive row of unnaturally sharp, filed teeth.
"My lady."
"Baby!"
Lyra's voice pitched up a full octave as she sprinted for the couch, all semblance of prissy east-side decorum forgotten. Greed extended his free arm toward her and she piled right into him, snuggled up next to him and pulled his arm tight around her shoulders. If she even noticed the other girls hovering about the room, there was no indication.
"Have these men been bothering you?" Greed crooned, rocking her, dog and all, up against his side. The poodle squirmed and yelped, trying to free itself, and Lyra let it go, more interested apparently in nibbling along the curve of Greed's neck.
"Not too badly," she husked against his throat. "But it was dreadful, baby, absolutely dreadful..."
"Miss Eubanks called to report finding a body," Roy said, cutting her off before she could spoil any more potential details. "It's been investigated as a homicide."
"Homicide, is it now?" Greed pushed his glasses up his nose, still grinning that insane pointy-toothed grin. "That's a step up. Last I'd heard, you were still shaking it on the street corners out east."
Roy gritted his teeth.
"I'm no longer part of Vice, if that is what you are implying." Though he knew damn well what Greed was implying. He'd taken a lot of flak for his heritage over the years, both for his Xingian looks and for his rather...unconventional upbringing. Most of the time, his connections to the steamy side gave him an edge over greaseballs like this one. Greed just laughed and threw it in his face.
"So they brought you back, made you full D."
Greed's eyes flicked from Roy to Hughes.
"Double D's in my parlor. Always welcome."
Greed slid a gloved hand up Lyra's arm, inward to squeeze at a breast. The girl squealed and giggled, kicking her booted feet up and down against the sofa. On the floor, Peaches huffed disinterestedly, before resuming his efforts to gnaw the carpet to bits.
"Not the type you usually entertain, we know," Hughes said.
Greed kicked back the rest of his drink, handed the empty to a hovering sycophant.
"So, who's the stiff? Anyone notable?"
"As of yet, unidentified," Roy said. "I don't suppose you'd have seen or heard anything unusual."
Greed shook his head, kicked the heel of his expensive-looking boot against the wooden floor paneling.
"Industrial-grade soundproofing. They didn't want the business owners bitching about the noise from the trains. Not that there are any. Track got rerouted when they widened for high-speed, new stop's six blocks north."
Roy just nodded. He'd figured as much. Even perfectly normal, law-abiding citizens interested in Doing Their Civic Duty tended to view dead bodies as black holes. Even if the murder took place in an amphitheater outside on a sunny Saturday afternoon, no one ever heard anything or saw anything. A person like Greed would be even less likely to pay attention.
Lyra took the opportunity to insinuate herself even further into Greed's lap, practically simpering. Roy resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He'd liked her better when she was playing at being tough.
"I didn't even think it was a person at first," she whimpered, face pressed firmly against his neck. "It looked like...like meat, like chunks of Peaches' wet food."
Even Greed winced at that.
"That bad, huh?" he asked, looking directly at Roy and Hughes.
"That bad. There anybody new in town that we ought to know about?"
A risky line of questioning with criminals. If they said anything at all, it was often a wild goose chase - sending the cops off against someone whom they had a vendetta against, or a "Joe Schmoe" who didn't exist. But infuriating as he could be, Greed was a curious creature: one of the lone, but constant proponents of the philosophy that there was honor among thieves. When he agreed to speak, he spoke frankly. He had no love for cops, but he did not go out of his way to jerk them around.
"Haven't heard anything. Especially not without a description."
"You heard the lady. There's not much of a description to give you."
"There was one detail," Hughes said.
Hughes pulled a pen out of his pocket, looked left and right and then seized on a stray cocktail napkin. Roy waited patiently as his partner sketched a quick facsimile of the tattoo they had just spent so much time taking pictures of. Hughes had a much better photographic memory than he did - not to mention a passable artistic hand. Roy watched in awe as a little semicircle became a full circle, a fanged snake, sprouted wings.
Hughes stepped forward and offered the napkin to Greed.
"This mean anything to you?"
For the briefest of moments, Greed hesitated.
"...no."
A rookie might have missed it. Roy himself only noticed because of the girl. Greed's left hand was still cupped against Lyra's breast, and when his fingers shifted she made a little silvery noise. He wasn't teasing her on purpose, though. Roy watched as Greed ever-so-slightly drew his gloved hand down.
"Is it supposed to?"
"It was found at the scene," Roy said, purposefully ambiguous, all the while watching Greed's reactions closely, his hands, his posture, his face. He didn't think he'd imagined the recognition in Greed's eyes a moment ago.
"We're thinking it might be a new gang tag."
No reaction to that. Greed tossed the napkin aside on a low table, rolled his shoulders into a shrug.
"Could be. You know banger boys. Anything to keep it hard. If they spent as much time doing all the hot shit they talk about, you'd be balls deep in real work, leave my club alone."
"Well, they definitely left it as a calling card. Whoever this was, they were putting someone on notice."
"And you're sure you don't know anything. No old pals in town, no new acquaintances."
"Heeeeey now," Greed drawled. "Let's get something straight."
Out of the corner of his eye, Roy noticed Marta peel away from the wall where she was lurking, a frown pursed across her thick, broad lips. Greed shook his head slightly and stayed her though, then turned back to fix his eyes on him.
"I'm going to own this town one day," Greed said simply. "From her tits to her bits. Every part of this place is gonna be mine, when I make it big. You and your buddy included."
"An ambitious prospect," Roy said tightly. He felt Hughes shift next to him, similarly offended. They weren't fools, they both knew there were cops on the take. Neither of them ever intended to be one of them. "It's good for a man to have a dream."
"Right, and you wouldn't know anything about ambition," Greed said. He grinned toothily. "Mister Bigshot D."
"Is there a point you'd like to make?" Hughes asked.
Dorchette and Law shifted this time, their shadows slinking closer to the sides of the couch. The flock of groupies seemed to be evaporating as well. Apparently the bottle-blonds all felt it was time to refresh their drinks at once.
Lyra was still perched primly on Greed's knee. She glared at them both defiantly, wrapped her arm a little tighter around Greed's shoulders.
"The point is, killing people ain't exactly my style," Greed said.
His right hand dropped down into Lyra's lap, right at the place where her legs met. She gasped as he dragged one long finger up along the inside of her thighs, hiking the edge of her miniskirt up along with it.
"See, the thing about people, I've found, they're a whole lot more useful alive than dead. Whole lotta stuff you can't do with a body once they're dead."
"Make love, not war?" Hughes asked. "Is that how you market these days?"
"Hey," Greed shrugged amicably, leaning back a little more into the sofa. "All I'm saying is, that kinda stiffie ain't interesting to me. I don't keep company with guys who make 'em."
His fingers dragged a little higher, cupped down and in, to shield what certainly would have otherwise been a grand view of the girl's panties.
"I prefer to take good care of my things," he growled hotly against Lyra's cheek. The girl moaned and tilted her head back to meet him, flushed and clearly exhilarated.
An exhibitionist, then. That was the problem with the gated community set. Raise your girls in a complete and utter void of stimulation, and they grew up to crave it so much they didn't care who was around to watch. And Greed still hadn't moved the left hand. Since they'd brought up the tattoo, Greed had kept it firmly hidden against Lyra's side. Coincidence? Or was there something else there Greed was interested in hiding?
Hughes cleared his throat a little, a very slight flush of pink peaked high in his cheeks. Roy allowed himself a small, private smile. For all the ugliness they saw on a day to day basis, the man could be hilariously old-fashioned about some things.
"If that's all you have for us," his partner said stiffly.
"Sorry," Greed said, twisting his hand a little, making the girl squeeze her thighs hard against his fingers. "If I were you, and I wanted to find a real nasty, I'd look where the harder action is."
As Hughes turned to leave, no doubt uncomfortable at seeing a girl writhe when he had his own wife at home, Greed's eyes suddenly turned to fix hard on Roy, twin, polished beads of heat.
"We all know the man with the most stones is the one who runs things, in these parts. Don't matter how ambitious you are, it's the truth. You can't ever get away from it."
"Good afternoon, Greed," Roy hissed. He turned on his heel to follow Hughes out. As they left, Peaches raised its head to let one solitary, asthmatic woof.
Marta flanked closely behind the entire way back through the club, herding them quickly through the twists and turns of the hallowed halls. The second they set foot into the alley outside, she began to close the heavy black door in their faces.
"Hope you enjoyed wasting your time. Don't come back here again, unless you got a warrant," she growled, and with that, the fortress clicked shut.
Hughes pushed his glasses up along the bridge of his nose, cleared his throat a bit.
"Looks like we ruffled some feathers there."
"Indeed," Roy mused. "No big surprise. Greed tends to attract the bottom feeders. You know what they say - losers make for loyalty."
Ousted gang-bangers, ex-cons, runaways; punks with unusual habits, like that Marta and her butch cut. Greed's gang was known for taking in the disenfranchised of the underworld.
"No-lifes with nowhere to go?"
"Just like any good religion."
They both shared a good chuckle for a block, before Hughes' expression grew serious again.
"Any bets on what exactly he's hiding?" Hughes asked. "Aside from the usual."
"He knew the mark. You saw how he reacted, didn't you?"
"Yeah," Hughes licked his lips. "I daresay our dark prince was nervous."
"He kept hiding his hand from us, too. Even though he was wearing gloves."
"Bruised knuckles?"
Roy shook his head.
"No, if it were that obvious he wouldn't have let us in at all. And Hughes, you saw that thing. Whoever took Mr. Doe apart, they used something a hell of a lot harder than bare fists."
"No, I agree. Just considering every angle. It's what we have to do."
Hughes' head tilted down toward him, ever so slightly. The gleam from a nearby streetlight reflected harshly off his square glasses, turning them temporarily into inscrutable patches of light.
"Which reminds me. Any thoughts about that last bit? About the 'stones'?"
Roy drew in a deep breath, rubbed a hand down along his face. Greed had been taunting him there too, and the fact that he knew was always the worst part. Hughes knew, Hughes understood, they'd worked their whole lives to find a way to bury it, but some things...some skeletons just weren't content to rest in piece.
"He was trying to get to you, Roy," Hughes murmured. He stepped just a little closer, close enough to almost touch. Meant to be a comfort. In the dank gloom of the alley, his body heat was almost overpowering. "Don't let him do that."
"...I don't think that was entirely it," Roy admitted. "He was talking about 'hard action'. On the street, that's code for a big deal."
"Mm." Hughes just nodded, neither approving nor disapproving. He never questioned how Roy knew something, just took it as truth. "Think it's a goose chase?"
"It could be a smoke screen. Everyone in the know thinks Greed's girls deal more than just curvy comfort."
"Everyone in the know", a subtle reference to his unusual extended family. Hughes just snorted and kept walking, as always, taking Roy's strange life in stride. Roy wondered if he'd ever be able to thank him enough.
"Drugs would explain why that fancy girl finds him so interesting. He looks like a lizard otherwise. Did you see those teeth!?"
"Yeah, the shark-look's new. I've always wondered about the hair, myself."
"Get 'em addicted," Hughes continued his previous line of speculation, "doesn't matter how crazy you look. They have to come to you to get their latest fix."
"Yeah," Roy said softly. "That would be one way to own people."
They continued walking in silence for a moment, watching the rats skitter aside as they picked their way through the alleys. As they once more neared the world of yellow tape and crime scene, they both paused, staring out at the busy techs.
"So. Where do we go from here?" Hughes asked. "I'm going to visit the coroner, see if we can't get a good toxicology work up. If our buddy Greed was right, and there's a drug connection, maybe the meat here will turn up poisoned."
Roy nodded. "Good idea. You want to start on the door-to-door, too? I'll join up with you in a bit."
"What? Why, where are you going?" Hughes pouted. As if he thought Roy still had a date to go back to.
"Where else?" Roy said. His mouth quirked up at the edges. "To visit a little friend of mine."
--
On to Chapter 1 - Part II
Chapter 1 - Part II