The Silent Witness

Detective Claire Lawson stood over the lifeless body, the dim glow of the alley’s flickering streetlight casting long shadows across the damp pavement. The victim, a middle-aged man in a tailored suit, lay crumpled against the brick wall, a single bullet wound in his temple. No wallet. No phone. Just a blood-stained note clutched in his fist.

Her partner, Detective James Carter, crouched beside the body, slipping on latex gloves before prying the note from the victim’s fingers. He unfolded it and frowned.

“All it says is, ‘Midnight. Pier 17. Come alone.’”

Claire exhaled sharply. “Looks like he did.”

James surveyed the alley. “No witnesses?”

Claire nodded toward a rusted dumpster nearby. “Maybe one.”

Perched on the lid was a small black cat, its yellow eyes gleaming in the darkness. It watched them, unblinking, tail flicking lazily.

James snorted. “Great. Our only witness doesn’t speak English.”

Claire shook her head, stepping back. “Let’s talk to the bartender across the street. Maybe someone saw him before he ended up here.”

The bar was dimly lit, the scent of whiskey and cigarette smoke clinging to the walls. The bartender, a grizzled man with a salt-and-pepper beard, barely glanced up as they approached.

Claire flashed her badge. “Detectives Lawson and Carter. We’re investigating the man found dead in the alley.”

The bartender sighed, wiping down the counter. “Yeah, I saw him. Came in around ten, sat at the corner booth, barely touched his drink.”

“He meet anyone?” James asked.

The bartender nodded. “Some woman. Red dress, real confident. She sat with him for a while, then left in a hurry. He followed about ten minutes later.”

Claire leaned in. “Did you hear what they talked about?”

He shook his head. “No, but she slipped him something before she left. A note, I think.”

James exchanged a glance with Claire. “The same one we found on him?”

Claire’s mind raced. If the woman had set up the meeting, she either knew he’d be killed—or she had lured him into a trap.

“Security cameras?” she asked.

The bartender chuckled. “This place barely has running water. No cameras.”

James sighed. “Figures.”

They stepped outside, the cool night air thick with the scent of rain.

Claire’s phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen—lab results on the note. She read quickly, her pulse quickening. “The paper had traces of a woman’s perfume. Jasmine, with a hint of spice.”

James arched a brow. “That’s oddly specific.”

Claire nodded. “Because I’ve smelled it before.”

James stiffened. “Where?”

Claire turned, her eyes locking onto the alley where the cat still sat, watching them.

“On the last victim,” she murmured. “Three weeks ago. Same perfume, same method, same missing ID.”

James exhaled. “So we’ve got a repeat killer.”

Claire nodded. “And a woman in red to find.”

As they walked away, the cat let out a slow, knowing blink.