Shadows on Sycamore Street
December 4, 2024
The drizzle painted Sycamore Street in slick reflections of neon lights as Detective Clara Hart stepped out of her unmarked sedan. The yellow police tape fluttered in the chilly wind, cordoning off the alleyway where a life had been extinguished just hours before.
“Morning, Hart,” greeted Officer Reyes, her breath visible in the damp air.
“Morning. What do we have?” Clara’s voice was steady, though her sharp eyes scanned every detail around the scene.
“John Doe, mid-thirties. No ID, wallet’s gone. Gunshot wound to the chest. Looks like a robbery gone bad,” Reyes explained, lifting the tape for her to duck under.
Clara knelt by the body, noting the telltale signs of a close-range shot. The man’s tailored coat and polished shoes didn’t scream “random robbery victim.” Something was off.
“Who found him?”
“Local shopkeeper,” Reyes said. “He heard the shot around 3 a.m. and called it in.”
Clara glanced around the narrow alley. A shattered phone lay a few feet from the body. She picked it up carefully with a gloved hand, its cracked screen flickering faintly.
“Run a trace on this. And get me any surveillance footage from the area,” Clara ordered.
Hours later, Clara was back in her office, sipping lukewarm coffee as she stared at the footage from a convenience store’s security camera. A shadowy figure emerged from the alley at 2:58 a.m., slipping into the street. The quality was poor, but something about the person’s gait tugged at Clara’s memory.
“Detective Hart,” Reyes called from the doorway. “We got a hit on the phone’s data. The victim’s name is Benjamin Cross. Investment banker. Guess what? He has a record—a fraud case from five years ago.”
Clara leaned back in her chair, her instincts flaring.
“Pull everything on him and his associates,” she said.
By nightfall, Clara found herself outside a high-rise apartment on the other side of town. The information Reyes had unearthed painted an intriguing picture: Benjamin Cross had been implicated in a major financial scandal, but the charges had been dropped. His former business partner, Victor Lyle, wasn’t as lucky. Lyle had spent three years behind bars and had been released six months ago.
Clara pressed the buzzer labeled Lyle.
“Who is it?” a gruff voice crackled through.
“Detective Hart. Open up.”
Inside, Victor Lyle looked older than his forty years, his face weathered and lined.
“What’s this about?”
“Benjamin Cross,” Clara said, watching his reaction closely. His eyes narrowed, but he said nothing.
“He was found dead this morning.”
“Dead?” Victor feigned surprise poorly, his voice cracking.
“We know about your history with Cross. Did you two have a run-in recently?”
“No,” he snapped, but Clara’s sharp gaze had already spotted the faint smear of mud on his otherwise pristine shoes—the same shade as the muck in Sycamore’s alleyway.
“Mind explaining the dirt?”
Victor’s face paled. He opened his mouth but said nothing.
Clara stepped closer. “You followed him, didn’t you? Confronted him about what happened five years ago. Did he laugh in your face? Push you too far?”
Victor crumbled, sinking into a chair.
“He ruined me,” he whispered. “Walked away with everything while I rotted in prison.”
“And you decided to take justice into your own hands,” Clara said softly, as she reached for her handcuffs.
The drizzle outside had turned into a downpour, washing away the shadows on Sycamore Street—but not the memories of what happened there.