Chicago, 1931: a city awash in gray.
Above, the sky is pale and overcast, the sun refusing to come through and the clouds refusing to snow. The skyscrapers that keep going up are a darker shade, a transition from the still darker color of the asphalt that paves most of the city these days. The whole place looks like something out of a Greta Garbo picture, changing in an instant from muted and blending tones of gray to sudden high-contrast black and white.
Two years back the stock market crashed, but the Windy City still blows along. The bread lines grow, but the jazz still plays and lady still sings the blues. Prohibition's still on, but Abe Dumbledore's still serving up bathtub gin at the Hogshead. The pictures have sound, but the streetcorners still have their silences, and even now they are on occasion still broken by gunshots. Tom Riddle is a nearly-forgotten name, but Lucius Malfoy still keeps the old machine of bootlegging, drugs, women, and bribery running.
Once upon a time, Malfoy was nothing but muscle for the old man. Now it's all his show, and the last ADA who tried to get anything pinned on him, Cecil Warrington, ended up dead four weeks back. Everybody suspected Malfoy, or at least one of his goons, but as usual there was nothing concrete, no evidence the police could use...and not many brave enough to take him on even if there were. His murder remains unsolved, to the great consternation of Detective Gawain Robards.
But even covered by clouds, the stars still shine. Even in a den of corruption, there are a few good men--and women. And even in the darkest world, a few bright shards of hope remain.
* * *
Detective Gus Rookwood arrived at the scene of the crime an hour and a half after the uniforms got there. They were called right from the neighborhood, but he had to come all the way from downtown. He carried a look of confidence, the easy stride of a man who knew his job well because he'd been doing it a long damn time. He had come through the big corruption scandal of '26 without a single black mark against his name, and most everybody in uniform respected him for that. He was a good guy, too--real laid back, not like some of the fellas who started putting on airs soon as they got the detective's gold shield. Word was he'd probably make Sergeant pretty soon, too.
"So what've we got?" he asked, lighting up a cigarette. The small apartment already smelled like smoke, so he didn't think he'd be doing anyone a discourtesy by lighting up now, and God knew Dee'd pitch a fit if he tried to do it in her house.
"Male, early twenties, gunshots to the chest," one of the uniformed officers answered matter-of-factly, but then there was a pause. A long pause, the sort that said there was a hell of a lot more coming and yeah, you might wanna sit down for this one. "It's Sirius Black."
Rookwood was unflappable as always - didn't even flinch at hearing the name of one of the best jazz players in town, Sirius Black of the Blacks, of those Blacks. "Not too surprising," he commented. "Those musicians're always into something, ain't they? And then the name, well..." The detective shrugged.
"Yeah, but detective...lookit this." Another uniform speaking up, and he was bringing over a framed photograph from the nightstand.
The frame was dark brown, well-made, nothing like the cheap furniture in the rest of the place. It was more a match to the fancy suits in the closet and the smuggled Canadian bourbon in the kitchen. That would be a little interesting in and of itself, but the photograph upped the ante like a desperate man shooting dice. A pretty face looked out at them with a secretive smile that reminded Gus of Bette Davis. Judging by the note taped carefully to the frame, the dead district attorney's fiancee had plenty of secrets, indeed:
To Sirius, with all my love,
Emmeline.
Gus Rookwood barely flickered an eyelash, but on the inside, he smiled. His life just got a whole lot easier.
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