In Plain Sight

He pulled the secretary cabinet’s foldaway table down, then opened the upper doors. Inside were a row of three leather bags resembling a doctor’s valise, and rows and rows of stoppered bottles above them, containing every imaginable substance. Below the bags were pigeonholes filled with stacks of varying papers, and drawers that held pens and pencils. These were the tools of his trade.

Without a pause, Alex pulled down a battered, brown valise. The top opened down the middle and had a hinge so it would fold out ninety degrees. Under one side, his oculus and breathing mask were held in place by elastic straps. The other side held smaller versions of the stoppered bottles, just not so many. In the bottom of the case were his multi-lamp, pencil box, a tube with a selection of papers, a few other odds and ends, and a Colt 1911 semi-automatic pistol in a shoulder holster. He stripped off his jacket and slung the holster in place, settling the weight of the gun just under his left arm, and checked the magazine.

Full.

He put on his jacket again, making sure it hung so that the bulge underneath his left arm could not be seen, then picked up the bag and exited the vault.

“See ya,” he said to Leslie as he put on his hat and headed for the door.

“Try to talk them into letting you use an expensive rune or two,” she called after him. “I need a new pair of stockings.”

* * *

Alex rode the elevator down to the street. A steady rain fell and it seemed dark, even though it was only early afternoon. The glow of neon signs in storefronts cast halos of color through the downpour.

Tearing another page from his rune book, Alex stuck it to the brim of his hat, then lit it with his cigarette. A tingly sensation washed over him from his head to his feet and then he stepped out into the rain. The drops bent and danced as they reached him, moved aside by the magic. The barrier rune would only last an hour, but that was more than enough time for him to catch a cab to the south side mid-ring.

The rings provided power to the entire island of Manhattan, from the south side docks all the way up to the Bronx. The rings were physically centered on Empire Tower, the former Empire State Building. These days Empire Tower held a magical capacitor, created by Andrew Barton, one of New York’s resident sorcerers. Once charged, the Tower radiated power over the entire island. Since the Tower was so far south on the island, the field wasn’t round, but oval, putting the actual center of the power projection somewhere over Central Park. The farther you were away from the center, the worse your power reception got. This inspired the wealthier of New York’s citizens to build luxury buildings all around the Tower in an area known as the Core. Those closest to the Core were in the inner-ring, the high rent district. Mid-ring were businesses and middle-class folk, and everyone else was in the outer-ring.

The south side was actually pretty close to Empire Tower as the crow flew, but since the center was shifted north, the bands were thinner at that end. Most of the harbor and its environs were decidedly outer-ring, but just a few blocks away were nicer, mid-ring apartments.

* * *

Alex exited his cab thirty-five minutes later and made his way toward the cluster of police cars parked in front of a neat, three-story brick building. He got a few curious glances when people on the street realized the rain was avoiding him, but he was used to that.

“What do you want?” the officer at the door said in his best “go away” voice. He had a pug nose, close-set eyes and a scar on his cheek that made him look all business. Definitely the right man to put on the door.

“I’m Alex Lockerby,” Alex said, handing the officer a business card. “Detective Pak is expecting me.”

A surge of emotions warred across the cop’s face. He’d seen that Alex was a private investigator from his card, and Pak was the only Japanese on the force. Most Americans didn’t think much of Asians, but Pak had proved himself a good detective, and that made him family to the NYPD. Finally the cop decided that his dislike of private dicks and foreigners was less than his respect for his job and fellow officers.

“Third floor on the right,” he said, handing back the card. “Room 323.”

When Alex reached the room, he knew immediately why Pak had called him. The charred remains of a man lay in a recliner. The easy chair was blackened and burned, revealing the wire frame that supported it, but the walls and floor were fine, apart from some smoke damage. A round side table stood next to the chair containing a pulp novel, an empty shot glass, a pack of cigarettes, and a book of matches.