[narrative, news update: capital] Who: Frank What: News update/two narratives - Frank gets up to no good When: Today Warnings/Rating: Gore
It must be said: the man's got great shoes. That's the first thing anybody would notice, looking at the tableau - least, the detective at the head of the investigation thinks so, and he tells his partner. "Man's got great shoes."
His partner agrees. "He could afford nice." Sure there's blood pooling over the divot in the toe of the leather, but they were buttery mahogany brown and soft as a buxom beauty before they were soaked. Now, not even the Goodwill would take them.
The waka-gashira represents one Yakuza family's tri-city head, and that head is currently scattered across a glass coffee table. The fact that the table is intact when the rest of the room is in total shambles ("Ikea," says the partner, knowingly) is the next thing anybody would notice, after the shoes. Then the other corpses - one, two, three bodyguards, one half-undressed, his hair still wet from the shower. The two nearest the boss took bullets to the legs, then the chest. The one from the shower took one to the head, simple and clean. He's splayed in the doorway. The responding officer was kind enough to save whoever the hell owns this penthouse the cost of the water by flipping the faucet off. The dead man's skin glistens from lying in the spray.
The partner says they are rumblings on the street. Some deal between a fresh-in-town Yakuza family and the Russians in the works. This could be the Russians' handiwork, but it seems closer to the tea room from a month or two ago. Clean, efficient, ruthless. The corpses in the hallway outside (one, two, three, four) have broken collarbones and legs. One's lost half his teeth, and there's carbon residue on the scattered white bone chips on the floor. Whoever came through knocked them out with the butt of a gun.
If it's not the Russians, then someone is seriously interested on cutting into their business by scaring the Yakuza out of town. Or by making the Yakuza think they've been ratted out. Who knew about this penthouse, anyway?
[News]
[There's been anothershooting of area organized crime figures. Alleged Yakuza members were the target this time, not the Russians. The killer left seven dead and one injured - a doorman who was knocked out before he could reach the hallway with the corpses. He's able to give a vague ID, and happily reports it to the local news. A big guy with a gun, military type. Police are still not ruling out the theory that the killer is working with a group, and reassure the public that the investigation is ongoing.]
As the highway lights bend and flex over the dash, they illuminate Frank's bruised knuckles. He takes one hand off the steering wheel and flexes it to loosen the stiffness. They pop, painfully, one at a time.
He's got to get better gear, is all he can think. Old body armor and salvaged pawn shop weapons won't cut it for long. Ammunition's not a problem - this state's not as strict as some when it comes to where you can buy it and in what quantities. Enough cash goes a long way to keeping people quiet on that. Using the methods of the people he's killing, that helps. Cops don't expect that, so much. Most likely they're still checking gun store surveillance cameras while he buys up some guy's rainy day shell stock off Craigslist.
His right hand's shaking. Every so often, it twitches. Nothing he can do anything about, and it's new, nothing he had before. He's just gotta twitch sometimes. Perks of TBI or something. It could be worse.
He drives the speed limit. The guns are still in the trunk, and he's not getting pulled over for speeding or a busted taillight. The car couldn't be more boring, just a standard blue four-door with fading paint and misty mirrors.
He doesn't turn on the radio. Not much in the mood for singing. This is a quiet time, when everything in his head just fucking cools down a little, and he can stare at the road and not think or remember anything. The lines are predictable, and he knows the way to go, knows what he left for someone else to clean up, and his fingers twitch again.
He doesn't keep anything personal in the car. Not like the minivan or the coupe, pictures of the kids falling out of the glove compartment, Sarah's chokingly sweet candle shaped air freshener dangling stupidly from the rearview. This car still smells like the cologne of the guy that used to drive it.
When he thinks on these drives, it's about Sarah and the kids, but he doesn't hear their voices, and it's kind of a relief from the rest of the time.
He passes a cop, parked at the edge of a speed trap, and cruises by without a blink of red and blue.