White Satin
In a dim hallway on the seventh floor alive with the tragic perfume of roses rising from the flower market below, the first on scene lurked as far from the door in question as he could while keeping it in observation range.
That was Thane da Silva's first clue. It was also as far as he was going, investigationally speaking, until someone told him what was going on. He returned his bleary gaze to the gendarme at the top of the stairwell, managing to combine an insolence slouch with attentiveness. That slouch, plus the dark features stamped him indelibly as Basque, probably on rotation to the seedy heart of Paris in an attempt to dull the provincial bloom.
He opened his mouth and confirmed Thane's summation. "Scene's secure. Even the door handle. I could tell from here that the door was ajar so..." He shrugged, brows slanting down to give him a hawk like air. "Nudged it open, hoping to preserve any prints."
"And called it in," Thane said flatly. "To the Department, specifically."
He didn't need to finish the thought; they both knew the Basque had bypassed procedure and potentially compromised himself with his commanding officer. Even more interesting, he either knew how to route the call through the various switchboards or knew the direct number.
The Basque shrugged. "Felt ... itchy, like ozone before a lightning strike."
Thane considered the Basque. He was as young as the day and just looking at him made Thane feel as old and bitter as the dregs of night. Better, much better, to throw them both out and start afresh.
"Kind of thing my belle-mère would call someone walking over her grave," the Basque added.
Mountain country, Thane reminded himself as the hair on the back of his neck prickled. Witch country. He pressed tingling fingers to his dry eyes, counted to ten and then twenty when that wasn't enough, and then considered the door at the end of the hall outlined in the reflection of dawn.
"Right," he said. "A secured scene. Must be my birthday."
"I'll stay here," the Basque volunteered. "Keep watch."
He didn't volunteer for what and Thane didn't ask. He nodded instead and started the lonely walk. Fifteen paces had rarely felt so long, and with every one, Thane regretted answering the phone. He should have been halfway to the Italian border by now with his favourite blonde and nothing more demanding to worry about then what to have for lunch, the ravioli or the scaloppini followed by insalata mista.
But the door beckoned. And Thane couldn't resist the call. The old panel, warped and sagging on its hinges, felt neither hot nor cold to his touch though it did swing silently, easily, under the slightest pressure.
Roses, the scent of them almost visible on the warming air, assaulted him as soon as the door cleared the jamb. Thane shut his eyes against the rush and breathed through it. He rocked for a second and recovered to take in the bohemian dream of an artist's space beyond the threshold.
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