Double Pair

Friday morning broke over New York City with a gray, unrelenting drizzle that matched the mood inside the NYPD precinct. The special investigative unit gathered in the briefing room at 9:00 AM sharp, the air thick with the scent of stale coffee and the faint buzz of fluorescent lights. Detective Jeremiah Bonnemere stood at the front, his sleeves rolled up, a whiteboard behind him scrawled with names, timelines, and question marks. Gaston lounged near the back, his notebook open, while the rest of the squad—Detectives Alvarez, Patel, and Simmons—sat in a loose semicircle, their faces etched with fatigue and determination.

The past week had been a grind, but the pieces of Jason's final hours were starting to snap into place. Yesterday's meeting with Sidney and Victor had lit a spark, and overnight, the team had dug deeper into the web of players who'd crossed paths with Jason at the Emperor's Bar. Today's briefing was their chance to turn that spark into a flame.

Jeremiah cleared his throat, tapping a marker against the board. "Alright, let's run it down. Jason's death wasn't random—we've got too many threads tying back to that Sunday night at the Emperor's. We've identified nine persons of interest from his gambling circle, plus Sidney Staunton. Each one's got a story, and at least one of them knows what happened. Let's break it apart."

He draw an enormous central ellipse with the writing "Jason" in center and draw nine circles around with nine different names.

He pointed to the first name on the board. "Michael Hargrove. Middle-aged lawyer, big reputation, bigger debts. Word is he's been dipping into shady deals to keep his firm afloat—embezzlement, backroom settlements, you name it. Sidney saw him with Jason that night, tense and whispering. Could be Jason had dirt on him, or they were cooking something together that went south."

Alvarez raised a hand. "We pulled his financials. Guy's drowning—two mortgages, a gambling habit, and a nasty divorce settlement. If Jason was squeezing him, Michael's got motive."

Jeremiah nodded. "Next up: Rowland Carter. English cabbie, mid-30s, nasty temper. He was at the Emperor's with Jason until 3:00 or 3:30 AM. Got a rap sheet—bar fights, one assault charge that got dropped. Taxi logs put him near the club at 6:00 AM, same time a driver ID'd Jason outside. Violent streak plus proximity? That's a red flag."

"Checked his cab's GPS," Patel chimed in. "He's cagey about that night—claims he was off-duty after 4:00 AM, but the meter ran until 6:30. Lying through his teeth."

"Good," Jeremiah said, moving down the list. "Hilary Voss. Musician, early 20s, broke as hell. Pawned his guitar two weeks ago for poker cash—Jason's table was his lifeline. Left the Emperor's at 4:30 AM. Struggling artists don't usually kill, but desperation's a hell of a drug."

Simmons flipped through a file. "Pawn shop owner says Hilary was jittery, kept asking about quick cash loans. Might've owed Jason more than he could pay."

Jeremiah scribbled a note. "Jang Lee. Celebrity chef, late 30s, owns a fusion joint downtown. Rumors tie him to the Triads—money laundering through his restaurant. He was at the table that night, no confirmed exit time. If Jason crossed him, mob ties mean a clean hit's not off the table."

"Health department's got complaints about his place," Alvarez added. "Cash-only transactions, sketchy suppliers. Smells like a front."

"Brenda Torres," Jeremiah continued. "Stripper from Miami, 28. Jason's partner that night—left the table at 5:00 AM. Word is their relationship wasn't just professional. She's got no record, but Miami PD says she ran with a rough crew down there. Jealousy? Revenge? We need more on her."

Patel smirked. "Her alibi's shaky—says she went home alone, but a neighbor saw a guy matching Jason's build near her place at 5:30 AM. Could've been a late-night rendezvous gone wrong."

"Boris Volkov," Jeremiah said, his voice dropping slightly. "Ex-soldier, Russian, 40s. Military intelligence background—wet work, interrogation, the works. Brooding type, kept to himself at the table. No alibi after 4:00 AM. If he's involved, he'd know how to cover it up."

"He's a ghost," Simmons said. "No social media, no recent employment. Last known address is a flop house in Brooklyn. Feels like a pro."

"Javier Morales." Jeremiah tapped the next name. "Courier, mid-20s. Delivered packages for Jason—maybe more than he's admitting. Left the Emperor's around 3:00 AM. If Jason was moving something illegal, Javier's our link."

"Caught him on traffic cams," Alvarez said. "His bike was parked two blocks from the club at 5:45 AM. Says he was 'running errands.' Bullshit."

"Bertrand Leclerc," Jeremiah went on. "Museum curator, 50s. Quiet guy, but he's got a weird knack for poisons—published a paper on toxic plants years back. At the table until 4:00 AM. If Jason was poisoned, Bertrand's our dark horse."

Patel frowned. "Museum's got him on shift logs that night, but he clocked out early—3:30 AM. Claims he went straight home. No witnesses."

"Doherty Kline," Jeremiah said. "Retail clerk, 30s. Seems harmless—works at a department store, keeps her head down. But Sidney says she was sharp, always watching the table. Left at 4:45 AM. Could be hiding more than we think."

"She's clean on paper," Simmons noted, "but her manager says she's got a temper—snapped at a customer last week over nothing. Undercurrent there."

"And Sidney Staunton," Jeremiah finished, circling her name. "Head waitress, Jason's lover, key witness. Her story's got holes—times don't match Victor's, and she's too close to this. She's either a pawn or a player."

Gaston finally spoke up, his voice cutting through the room. "Breakthrough's here. Lab came back overnight—Jason's tox screen showed traces of aconite. Lethal, fast-acting, hard to detect unless you're looking for it. That's not a street drug; that's deliberate."

The room stilled. Jeremiah turned to the board, adding "ACONITE" in bold letters. "Poison. That narrows it—Bertrand's knowledge fits, but anyone could've sourced it with enough cash or connections. Jang Lee's mob ties, Michael's desperation, Boris's skills… even Doherty could've played it subtle."

Alvarez leaned forward. "Timelines tight. Jason's alive at 6:00 AM outside the club, per the cabbie. Dead by 7:30 when the jogger found him in the alley. Aconite kills in hours, sometimes less if dosed high. Someone slipped it to him late—after 4:00 AM."

"Focus on the late leavers," Jeremiah said, tapping the board. "Hilary, Brenda, Boris, Doherty, Sidney—all still in play after 4:00. Rowland's cab puts him nearby at 6:00. Javier's bike at 5:45. Michael and Jang Lee—we need their exits pinned down."

"Split it up," Gaston ordered, standing. "Alvarez, Patel—take Michael and Jang Lee. Simmons, dig into Rowland and Javier. Jeremiah and I will handle Bertrand, Hilary, Brenda, and Doherty. Sidney's next, with Victor in tow. We've got 48 hours before the trail goes cold."

The squad dispersed, files in hand, the room emptying into the hum of the precinct. Jeremiah lingered, staring at the board. Nine names, one poison, and a dead man in an alley. The breakthrough was here, but the truth was still a shadow—just out of reach.

Outside, the drizzle thickened into rain, washing the city clean while the secrets festered beneath. Jason's killers were close, and the squad was closing in.

The precinct hummed with a renewed urgency as the squad scattered to chase their assigned leads. Jeremiah, however, lingered in the briefing room, his eyes locked on the whiteboard. The aconite revelation had shifted the investigation's axis, but it was the bar's webcam footage—finally retrieved from the Emperor's spotty security system—that promised to anchor their timeline. Hours of grainy video sat on a hard drive at his desk, a silent witness to Jason's final night. If the answers weren't there, they weren't anywhere.

By midday, Jeremiah had commandeered a cramped evidence room, the glow of a monitor casting sharp shadows across his face. He'd been at it since 10:00 AM, analyzing every frame from midnight to 7:00 AM, when the bar shutters rattled down. The footage was a patchwork—jerky cuts, dim lighting, and the occasional glitch—but it was gold. Each flickering second peeled back the haze of witness statements, revealing truths Sidney, Victor, and the others had either forgotten or buried.

He started at midnight, syncing the timestamp with Victor's claim of picking Sidney up. Sure enough, there was Victor, looming near the bar's entrance at 12:03 AM, his broad frame unmistakable in a leather jacket. Sidney appeared moments later, handing off her apron to another waitress before slipping out with him. Jeremiah paused the frame, noting the time. Sidney's story about seeing Jason later held water—her shift had ended early, but she'd returned. Why?

Fast-forward to 1:45 AM. Sidney reentered the frame, alone, her hair loose now, her posture tense. She moved to the bar, where Jason sat nursing a whiskey, his sharp features softened by the amber glow of the overhead lights. They talked—briefly, intensely—before Sidney drifted back to the floor, wiping tables as if nothing had happened. Jeremiah rewound, zooming in. Jason's smirk was gone, replaced by a flicker of unease. Something Sidney said had rattled him.

At 2:00 AM, Rowland Carter swaggered in, his cabbie's cap tilted low. He joined Jason's table, where Hilary strummed a borrowed guitar, Jang Lee sipped a beer, and Boris hulked silently in the corner. The game was in full swing—cards slapped down, chips clinking, laughter cutting through the bar's din. Rowland stayed until 3:12 AM, then stumbled out, his gait unsteady. Jeremiah flagged it—consistent with his 3:00–3:30 exit, but his cab's later presence at 6:00 AM loomed large.

By 3:45 AM, the table thinned. Javier Morales darted in, a courier bag slung over his shoulder, and handed Jason a small package—discreet, quick. Jason tucked it into his jacket without a word. Javier was gone by 3:52 AM, his bike's taillight flashing on a street cam two blocks away minutes later. Jeremiah scribbled a note: What was in the package? Drugs? Cash? Aconite?

At 4:15 AM, Hilary packed up, his hands trembling as he fumbled with his case. He'd lost big—his stack of chips had dwindled to nothing. He shot Jason a dark look before slipping out at 4:28 AM. Brenda, meanwhile, hovered near Jason, her sequined top glinting under the lights. She leaned in close, whispering something that made him laugh—a rare, unguarded moment. She stayed until 5:02 AM, then sashayed out, alone, her heels clicking on the hardwood. No sign of Jason following her.

Boris lingered, a statue at the table's edge, until 4:45 AM. He didn't play much, just watched, his eyes tracking every move. When he left, it was abrupt—no goodbyes, just a shadow vanishing into the night. Doherty Kline, the retail clerk, was subtler. She nursed a drink near the bar, her gaze flicking to Jason's table until 4:47 AM, when she slipped out unnoticed. Bertrand Leclerc, the curator, exited at 4:03 AM, his coat buttoned tight, his expression unreadable.

Then came Michael Hargrove. At 5:30 AM, the lawyer was still there, his tie loosened, his face flushed with drink or frustration. He slid into the seat beside Jason, the last man standing from the original crew. The bar had emptied out, save for a few stragglers and the bartender wiping down the counter. Jeremiah slowed the footage, frame by frame. Michael leaned in, his lips moving fast, his hands gesturing sharply. Jason listened, his posture stiffening. At 5:48 AM, Michael clapped Jason on the shoulder—a forced camaraderie—and stood. He left at 5:55 AM, his gait steady but hurried.

Jason stayed. At 6:02 AM, he drained his glass, tossed a few bills on the bar, and walked out alone. The webcam caught his silhouette against the dawn light filtering through the door—no Brenda, no Sidney, no one trailing him. Jeremiah froze the frame. That was it—6:02 AM, the cabbie's sighting at 6:00 lined up, give or take a minute. Jason had left alive, but by 7:30 AM, he was dead in an alley three blocks away.

Jeremiah leaned back, rubbing his eyes. The footage cleared some fog but thickened the mystery. Michael was the last to speak with him, their exchange charged but cryptic. Neither Brenda nor Sidney had left with him, debunking any late-night tryst theories. The aconite had to have been administered late—between 4:00 and 6:00 AM, given its potency. Was it in the whiskey? The package from Javier? A handshake from Michael?

He called Gaston over, replaying the key moments. "Michael's our pivot," Jeremiah said, tapping the screen. "Last contact, plenty of motive. But the poison—could've been anyone from that table slipping it earlier. Sidney's back-and-forth bugs me too. She's in deeper than she's letting on."

Gaston nodded, his jaw tight. "Michael's got the means—debts, connections. But Boris screams execution, and Bertrand's poison knack fits like a glove. We need the package's contents and Jason's glass from the bar. If it's aconite, we've got our delivery method."

"Bar's closed today," Jeremiah said. "Owner's dodging us, but I'll get a warrant by tonight. Meantime, let's pull Michael in. He's cracking—those gestures weren't calm."

The evidence room door swung open, and Alvarez poked her head in. "Michael's lawyered up already—won't talk. But Jang Lee's restaurant just got a delivery from a supplier tied to a Triad front. Coincidence?"

Jeremiah smirked grimly. "No such thing. Get Patel, hit the restaurant. Gaston and I will tackle Michael's stonewall. This breaks today—or it buries us."

The webcam had spoken, but its testimony only sharpened the edges of the puzzle. Nine suspects, one poison, and a ticking clock. The squad was closing in, but the killer was still a step ahead—hiding in the frames Jeremiah couldn't rewind.