7Disclaimer: I don't own the characters; they belong to Kerry Greenwood, Deb Cox, and Fiona Eagger.
The night was stifling. Rain had been falling off and on all day, and the air in Melbourne was heavy and humid. A light breeze was coming in with the open windows, but did very little to ease the temperature inside City South Police Station. Inspector Jack Robinson sat at his desk, looking, by all accounts, very relaxed. His suit jacket lay folded over the back of his chair, and he'd rolled up his sleeves and loosened his tie in an effort to cool off. A lock of hair stubbornly laid over his left eye, the small fan aimed at his desk trying its' best to chill the inspector as he pored over his paperwork.
"Need anything else, sir?"
Jack finished signing the report in front of him before glancing up at Constable Hugh Collins, his right-hand man. Hugh's jacket was unbuttoned, an infraction that Jack normally would have called him on, but things being as they were (and himself being in the state he was in), he chose to ignore it. After all-he checked his watch-it was nearly midnight. "Thought you'd gone already, Collins," Jack observed.
Hugh said nothing, and Jack knew that Hugh was still there for a couple of reasons. The first, that his date with Dot Williams had fallen through due to Dot being ill, and the second, that his chief constable wouldn't dare leave without Jack giving him the go-ahead. He felt bad that he had lost track of time and hadn't dismissed Collins earlier.
"Go on, then, Collins," Jack told him, stretching.
"You sure, sir?" Hugh asked him. He nodded to the sheaf of papers on his boss's desk. "I can help you finish that if you like."
The corner of Jack's mouth twitched. "Not unless you're going to forge my signature, Hugh. It's fine."
Hugh nodded. "All right then, if you're sure. Don't stay too late," he advised Jack.
This time, Jack did smile. "Much longer and it'll be early instead," he said dryly. "Good night, Collins."
Hugh nodded to him as he stepped out, a rush of hot air filling the room with the open door. The hot air made Jack feel more tired than he already was. Just a few more, he decided.
The honorable Phryne Fisher barely noticed the stifling heat outside, as she was also in relaxed dress: a cream slip and bare feet. She lay on her side, facing the open window. The breeze was almost nonexistent, but every now and then it would lift her black bangs off her forehead, ever so slightly.
A rumble of thunder interrupted her reading, and she set the book down on the duvet, frowning. A summer thunderstorm was no cause for alarm…and yet Phryne couldn't account for the strange feeling of foreboding that had suddenly come over her. She sat up, looking around the room. Everything in the room was in place. She was on the second floor, but she slid off the bed and walked over to the open window and looked out, well aware (and not caring) that she was on display to anyone who happened by. She saw no one on the street, nor in the houses across from her.
She worried her bottom lip with her teeth, turning back into the room. She reached for the robe draped over her dressing chair and slipped it on, making her way down the hall to Dot's room. Dorothy Williams, her assistant and friend, had been ill with a summer cold for a couple of days. Phryne assumed at this hour Dot would be in bed, and when she knocked on the door and got no answer, her assumption proved correct. Still, she pushed the door open and checked on her, just to be sure. Dot was under the covers despite the heat, snoring softly.
The pit in her stomach didn't ease, and Phryne closed Dot's door quietly, standing in the hall. Something didn't feel right. Mr. Butler was no doubt asleep, and Cec and Bert were probably at the pub, on their way out.
Everyone was accounted for, Phryne thought…and so why do I still feel as though something is terribly wrong?
Jack's pen clunked to the floor and he jolted awake. Blinking, he pinched the bridge of his nose as he realized he'd fallen asleep at his desk. He looked down at the paperwork still on his desk. The case had been a difficult one-a string of home invasions throughout the city. The perpetrators, one Oscar Abbott and one Lucille Brown, had been responsible for at least seven, resulting in thousands of dollars of theft and one assault that had left an elderly gentleman in the hospital after he'd stumbled on them mid-robbery. Jack and Hugh had been stymied, unable to find a pattern in the modus operandi, that is, until Phryne Fisher had come in and blown the case wide open. Lucille had been seen in the neighborhoods pushing a pram during the day, and the robberies had happened the same evening. Phryne had gotten Bert and Cec to float a rumor about some priceless jewelry at Phryne's home, and Jack and Hugh had set up a sting. The two thieves had made it all the way into Phryne's second-floor bedroom before Jack had cornered them. The resulting confrontation had resulted in the fatal shooting of Lucille Brown and the arrest of Oscar Abbott.
It was the discharge of a firearm that had Jack working on paperwork through all hours of the night. Abbott was in jail awaiting arraignment, and Lucille Brown was in the morgue awaiting any family to claim the body.
A rumble of thunder shook the building, and Jack leaned back in his chair. I think that's a hint, he decided. The rest of the report could wait until the morning. He stood up, turning to grab his jacket off the back of his chair.
When he turned around…he was no longer alone. Jack was suddenly wide awake. He stared down the barrel of a revolver, held steady in the hands of a young man with Lucille Brown's eyes. "Don't move," the boy, for he really couldn't have been more than fifteen, ordered Jack. "Take your gun and throw it on the floor."
Jack kept his left hand level with his waist, the right hand reaching for the pistol in his holster. He picked it out with two fingers and dropped it to the floor. "Kick it over here," the boy said. Jack toed the gun, sliding it over to him. The boy picked it up, now holding both of them in his hands. "Where are your handcuffs?" he asked Jack.
Jack said nothing, choosing to nod to the jacket in his hand. The boy stepped closer, not close enough for Jack to attempt to disarm him, but close enough that Jack knew if he'd made a wrong move, the boy wouldn't miss. "Take them out."
Jack slid a hand into his pocket, his eyes never leaving the boy. Thunder rumbled again outside. Jack pulled out his cuffs, awaiting the boy's next instructions.
The kid was smart, Jack noted. He had a steady hand, must have been waiting outside until he knew Jack was alone. His eyes flicked around the room, before settling on Hugh's chair across the way. "Sit down," the boy told him. "Throw me the cuffs." He set Jack's gun on the counter, and Jack lobbed the pair of cuffs over to him. He caught them deftly with his free hand. "Over here. Sit down!" he barked, when Jack paused halfway across the room. Jack complied, sitting down at Hugh's desk, wondering if Hugh had locked his firearm in his desk, or taken it home with him. He couldn't remember if Hugh had it on him when he'd gone home.
"Hands behind your back," the boy said. Jack threaded his hands between the slats on the back of the chair. The boy came around, stuck his gun in the waistband of his trousers and quickly cuffed Jack's hands to the back of the chair.
Apparently satisfied that Jack was going nowhere, the boy stepped in front of him and trained the gun on him once more.
"Can I help you?" Jack finally asked, keeping his voice light.
The boy's eyes narrowed. "Yeah. You killed my mother," he informed Jack, confirming what he'd suspected. "And now I'm gonna kill you."
