Some issues in the existence of fictional characters

"I’ve dreamed of this my whole life," said Zavulon. "Can you believe it, old enemy? I dreamed of working with you, side by side! Seems it’s true what they say... there’s only a step from hatred to love..."

"You’re a complete lunatic," Geser said quietly.

— Sergei Lukyanenko, Twilight Watch

 

Over tea, Makishima summed things up: "So. We’re resurrected again in this Library of Babel and stuck here together once more. We still can’t stand each other — I’d gladly get rid of you, and you of me. But after our deaths in that samurai epic, our pages returned to us, and after everything that’s happened, there’s no way we’d trust each other with them. I’d say we’ve reached a stalemate." "You do realize," L said, "that with the ingredients in the kitchen, one could make poison. Or a sleeping draught. You could have laced the pastries." "Hmm... I did think about it," Makishima admitted honestly. "But I put so much effort into them, it would’ve been a shame to ruin them." "I hope that samurai story made it clear to you how pointless this whole rivalry is," L remarked, like a teacher scolding a particularly dense student. "If it proved anything," Makishima countered, "it’s that you’re a complete monster." "Then so are we both," L said. Makishima had no retort. "Alright, fine, you’re right," he conceded after a pause. "It demonstrated... everything it needed to. Loud and clear. I propose a truce. And I apologize for dragging you into that fantasy mess without asking." "Fine. Then I apologize for dragging you into a samurai war." "Sorry for sending assassins after your dear Prince Akimitsu." "And you, for tormenting your... sister? Or whatever she was to you, I never quite figured it out." "And you, for starving your army." "And you, for poisoning the city’s water supply." "And you—" Makishima suddenly realized L was laughing. And, to his own surprise, he found himself smiling too. "So... how about we go somewhere else?" he suggested. L nodded. "Let’s just pick a decent book this time. One we both like." Makishima considered this and made his request: "Preferably one that’s not ninety-nine percent disemboweled corpses and bad poetry. Also, I’d rather not end up in a trigonometry textbook or some other highly specific literature. Other than that, I’m open. What do you like?" "I..." L began. Makishima braced himself — If he says he doesn’t read books at all, I swear to God, I’ll strangle him — but L simply smiled dreamily and said, "I like detective novels, of course. They have some disemboweled corpses, but definitely not ninety-nine percent." "Fine. A detective story it is." Rain. Goddamn rain had been falling nonstop for two weeks. It was as if someone up above had finally lost patience with this city and decided to just wash it off the face of the earth — drowning it in its own sins before it could drown in its own filth. Water poured endlessly from the sky, sometimes in a miserable, needling drizzle, sometimes in a torrential downpour. The sky had been smothered in leaden clouds for days; the world had lost all color — only the gray of concrete buildings and the black of umbrellas remained. The usual city noise had dwindled to nothing but the ceaseless patter of raindrops on every possible surface and the sloshing of water in the streets. Even the most die-hard optimists were on the verge of curling up with a bottle of gin and surrendering to despair. Maybe that’s why the boss was already in a foul mood this morning. At least, judging by how he was screaming at poor Johnny "Quick" Volt loud enough that even in the next room, the rain outside didn’t seem quite so obnoxiously loud anymore. Mac shrugged philosophically and took another swig of whiskey straight from the bottle. Drinking this early, and drinking this kind of rotgut, wasn’t the best idea — but trying to endure this black-and-white film noir of a morning sober seemed far worse. Besides, if the boss was this worked up — and from the sounds coming from his office, he was either throwing things or trying to knock a few more teeth out of Johnny — then Mac wasn’t in for a pleasant chat either. He glanced toward the office door and thought about lighting a cigarette, but the boss was strict about no smoking in the office. Strict about a lot of things, actually. Nicholas Locco — aka Big Nick — owner of several nightclubs and head of the city's largest crime syndicate, wasn’t a bad guy. He never waded into the most vile filth, tried to keep things honorable, and generally respected his men. Well... usually. Johnny "Quick" Volt shot out of the office as if propelled by a well-aimed boot to the ass. Disheveled, wild-eyed, he swept an unfocused glance over Mac, yanked his rumpled jacket into place, and limped toward the exit with clear urgency. "Mac! Get in here." The voice rang out from the wide-open office door. Technically, Mac’s full name was Makishima — Japanese by heritage — but he had long since accepted that these damn Americans couldn't be bothered to remember it. And pointing out the mistake to Big Nick would have been beyond foolish. This was the same Big Nick who had personally gouged out the eyes of the previous police chief for raising his voice at him. The same Big Nick who paid — and paid well. When someone handed you that kind of money, they earned the right to call you Mac, or "that slant-eyed bastard," or even Lucifer himself if they felt like it. Mac set down his half-finished whiskey, put on his most unreadable expression, and stepped into the office. "Sit," Big Nick ordered curtly, pouring himself a drink into a battered old tumbler. "Quick brought bad news. Looks like some assholes kidnapped Vincent." Vincent Palermo was the clan’s accountant. Guarded tighter than a Swiss bank, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, because he knew too damn much. Just thinking about getting to Vincent — let alone kidnapping him — was the kind of idea that only made sense if you had a death wish. "How the hell did that happen?" Mac asked, more for the sake of keeping the conversation going than because it really mattered. The how was secondary — what mattered was that the entire clan was now at risk. "And that’s the fun part," Big Nick snorted. "That fuckwit Quick was babbling some bullshit about Vincent just disappearing from his own apartment. An apartment rigged with alarms and guarded by five of my best men!" His voice started rising again, anger bubbling to the surface. "I truly have no fucking idea how you manage to lose a living person inside his own goddamn home, but these morons found a way." He poured himself another drink and summarized what little information they had. Which, frankly, wasn’t much. Vincent was supposed to leave for the bank at 4:30. He never came out of his apartment. Quick — his personal assistant — spent a good while calling him, then knocking on the door, and finally searching the place. No Vincent. "Not a damn trace! Every entrance and exit is guarded, every camera covered the place. Any ideas? Or did the fucker flush himself down the toilet?" Mac shook his head, trying to process the flood of information. But all he could hear was the rain pounding against the windows — and the dull ache of cheap whiskey settling into his skull. "Here’s the deal, Mac." Big Nick slapped a hand on the desk. "You’re going to find him. I don’t care how. Every resource, every man I have is yours to use. Just find him — and find him fast." "Boss, if I may ask — why me?" Big Nick shot him an irritated look. "Because no one else around here has a fucking brain. Now go investigate." Makishima hadn’t been prepared for this turn of events. He had expected the story to cast him as a criminal, not a detective. So when he stepped out of the "boss"’s office, he felt a bit... stunned. "Well, why not?" he thought. "Might as well try my hand at playing detective. First stop— Vincent’s apartment." He headed for the exit but paused when he saw the sheets of rain pouring down outside. After a moment’s consideration, he turned back, grabbed the half-empty whiskey bottle from the reception table, and stepped out into the storm. Noir demanded a certain level of authenticity, after all. And judging by how this day was shaping up, he was going to need it.   Private detective L. Lawliet sat patiently behind the wheel of his battered old Ford, watching the entrance of an upscale apartment building. The rain hammered against the windshield, forcing him to flick on the wipers every few seconds just to catch a glimpse of anything through the downpour. The day had started the way most of them did — with him loitering around his office, a dingy, dimly lit hole above a Chinese takeout joint that constantly reeked of burnt oil and some kind of acrid spices. No cases, just the steady patter of rain outside and a growing mountain of cigarette butts in the ashtray as he chain-smoked his way through a pack of Marlboros. He lazily flipped through the pages of a cheap tabloid, skimming past currency exchange rates and some scandalous piece about a Hollywood starlet, when he heard the sharp click of high heels on the staircase. Since no other businesses remained on the second floor — some had gone under, others had moved somewhere better — there was no doubt that the visitor was heading straight for the door marked L. Lawliet. Private Investigator. He barely had time to stub out his cigarette and shove it into the overflowing ashtray before a confident knock rapped against the door. "Detective Lawliet, I presume? My name is Selena. Selena Johnson." She was a knockout. A blonde bombshell in her early thirties, with flawless cascading curls, piercing blue eyes, and crimson lipstick that matched the scarlet dress hugging her curves in all the right places. Long, slender legs disappeared into glossy black stilettos, each step a promise of trouble. Lawliet could easily picture her onstage in a shimmering evening gown, long velvet gloves stretching past her elbows, a tiny decorative hat pinned with a peacock feather perched at a perfect angle. She’d be standing beneath a haze of cigarette smoke, her sultry, honey-smooth voice drifting through a dimly lit jazz club as a saxophone and piano carried her song into the night. She cleared her throat hesitantly, bringing him back to reality. Realizing he’d been staring just a little too long, Lawliet sprang to his feet, pulled out a chair for her, and — out of sheer politeness — offered her a cup of coffee. Luckily for both of them, she declined. The stuff was terrible. Then he got down to business. "You see, Mr. Lawliet," she began, twisting the strap of her handbag between delicate fingers, "this is a very delicate matter. I deliberately avoided the more well-known detectives to keep things discreet. I need absolute confidentiality." She nodded approvingly when he assured her that he could keep a client’s secrets, then continued: "I'm… involved with someone. His name is Jimmy — well, James. James Smith. We met at a jazz club… It was love at first sight. He told me he was married to some dangerous and powerful official’s daughter, but that there was nothing left between them. He wanted to leave her, but he couldn’t — his father-in-law would have him killed. So we met in secret. No phone calls, no unnecessary names or addresses, always arranging meetings in advance." She exhaled shakily, her voice thick with emotion. "He was always so kind… so gentle. He gave me the most expensive gifts, told me he loved me… Everything was perfect. But then — he just stopped coming. I waited for him, hours at a time, but he never showed. No messages, nothing. The hotel staff hasn’t seen him in over a week. "He wouldn’t just vanish like that. I knowsomething’s wrong. Maybe his father-in-law found out. Maybe he’s sick, or—or…" Her voice cracked. She broke down in tears. Lawliet let her cry it out, then leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. "So, if I understand correctly, you want me to find out what happened to him — quietly." She dabbed at her eyes with a pristine white handkerchief from her purse and nodded. "I don’t want to chase him down or make trouble for him. I just need to know that he’s safe. Can you find him, Mr. Lawliet?" Lawliet asked Selena the standard questions, jotting down her answers with meticulous precision. Information on the missing man was scarce — James Smith was a ghost. A fake name, no photographs left behind, no addresses, no names of acquaintances, no mention of his job or even his line of work. Any other detective might have found this discouraging, but Lawliet was the kind of man who thrived on a real challenge. A case too slippery for the police? Now that was something worth his time. He visited every hotel where Selena had met James and questioned the staff. A bellhop at the last hotel — encouraged by a couple of crisp bills — suddenly "remembered" that James had requested a cab early Thursday morning. Lawliet called the cab company, handed out a few more green incentives, and tracked down the driver who had picked up the mysterious Mr. Smith. Which was how he ended up here, sitting in his beat-up Ford, staking out a building in the pouring rain, waiting for something — anything — to happen. And something did happen. Lawliet’s cigarette nearly slipped from his lips as he gawked at the scene unfolding before him. Just to be sure, he wiped the windshield with his sleeve and squinted. A sleek black Volkswagen had pulled up in front of the building, and stepping out of it— flanked by two bodyguards holding an umbrella over his perfectly styled silvery hair — was none other than him. Damn Mac. The right-hand man of Big Nick. The bastard who had his fingers in half the city’s crime and yet always managed to slither away untouched. "What the hell are you doing here?" Makishima didn’t even have to turn around to recognize the voice. "Ah, Detective Lawliet." His voice dripped with amusement as he raised a hand, signaling his goons to stand down. "What a surprise. You’re a rare sight in a respectable part of town." He hadn't meant to make it sound quite so condescending —but seeing L standing there, disheveled in a wrinkled trench coat, a cheap suit, and a battered fedora, was almost too much. Makishima actually felt a little guilty for how much it amused him. "I’m investigating a missing person case," L said flatly, shivering as rain dripped from his hat down his collar. "And I find it very suspicious that Big Nick’s right-hand man just happens to be here." "Well, Detective Lawliet," Makishima said, stretching out the title like an insult, "it just so happens that we’re also looking for a missing person. Maybe we’re working the same case. In that case, why not pool our resources?" His bodyguards exchanged confused glances. Since when did Mac offer to work with the detective who constantly tried to mess with Big Nick’s operations? But Makishima shot them a look that made it clear — he had a plan. "I usually work alone," L muttered, still trying to decide if he could trust Makishima even for a second. "And I sure as hell don’t work with people like you." He tried to put as much disdain into the words as Makishima had put into detective, but it didn’t quite land. After an awkward pause, he added, "But… we can share information. We find the guy, we go our separate ways. Deal?" Makishima gestured toward the building. "Let’s talk inside. No point standing around getting soaked." He dismissed his guards, instructing them to keep an eye on the exits, then stepped inside with L. They entered the elevator, and as the doors slid shut, Makishima leaned against the wall, exhaling dramatically. "I’ve been drowning myself in terrible whiskey, stuck babysitting a pair of brain-dead thugs, and I think I signed off on someone’s execution today — probably two someones, I wasn’t really paying attention. I speak like I walked out of a dime-store pulp novel. My head constantly hurts, I hate this goddamn city and this goddamn rain." He turned to L and smirked. "I thought we’d landed in a proper noir mystery, but this? This is starting to feel like a bad comic book." L gave him a dry look. "Didn’t think you guys had comics in the future." "We do," Makishima sighed. "Like that Doraemonmanga you love so much. But I was never really into them." "I like comics," L said. "What’s the point of your fancy books if they don’t even have pictures or dialogue?" Makishima blinked. "Did you just quote Lewis Carroll?" "What?" L frowned. "Never mind," Makishima muttered, shaking his head. "So how’s life treating you, Detective?" L sighed. "I live and work in a dump with a busted door, spying on cheating husbands and tracking down missing dogs. I’m drowning in debt, I own exactly one decent suit, I’ve got insomnia and a nicotine addiction… Oh, and my doctor says I need to cut back on sweets." That last part actually made Makishima wince. "Oof." The elevator dinged. Makishima cleared his throat, straightened his tie, and slid back into his usual smirk — the one that even he found a little annoying. "Well then," he said smoothly. "Let’s trade notes." It really did seem like they were working the same case. Vincent Palermo, Big Nick’s accountant, had somehow been secretly seeing the stunning Selena — without ever telling her who he really was or what he actually did for a living. Maybe he was trying to keep her out of trouble. Or maybe Selena wasn’t telling the whole truth and had ties to the underworld herself. Was Palermo up to anything else during his little escapades, besides his meetings with Selena? There were more questions than answers, but the one that bothered L and Makishima the most was this: how the hell had he been sneaking out of his locked, guarded apartment without anyone noticing? The freshly minted partners tore the place apart, rifling through notebooks, searching for hidden stashes, even digging through the trash. But Vincent had vanished into thin air. “Maybe we should ask the concierge for the building’s floor plan?” Makishima mused, running his fingers along the spines of the books in the living room. The owner had clearly never opened a single one — identical hardcover collections of literary classics, pristine, obviously bought to conceal some kind of hidden passage in the wall. L, in the middle of methodically squeezing couch cushions, shrugged. “These things are usually simpler than they seem. Why bother with secret passages when you can just bribe one of the guards to look the other way every time you want to sneak out? I bet the books are just for show. I wanted a set like that for my office once, but they cost a fortune.” Makishima shot him a long, withering look but eventually conceded that he might have a point. “You wouldn’t happen to have a record of the days Selena met with Vincent, would you?” he asked. If Vincent really had paid off a guard, he would’ve only slipped out on certain days — when that particular guard was on duty. Which meant… “Kowalski!” Makishima exclaimed triumphantly, flipping through L’s notes and cross-referencing them with the security shift schedule Quick had provided. “Vincent only met with Selena on days when Kowalski was on watch! Let’s go pay him a visit—” “Wait,” L cut in, “you don’t think… our James Smith — I mean, Vincent Palermo…?” While Makishima had been buried in his notebook, L, out of boredom, had flipped on the TV. (He’d already checked the fridge earlier — nothing sweet, of course.) “Looks like he’s already turned up,” L said, nodding toward the screen and turning up the volume. “And I mean that literally.” The news anchor was chirping cheerfully: “This morning, an unidentified male body was discovered at the docks. The circumstances surrounding his death have not been disclosed. If you have any information regarding his identity, please contact the hotline—” A large photo flashed onto the screen, showing the pale, bloated, and unmistakably dead face of Vincent Palermo.   “So,” Big Nick said in a voice so calm it made Makishima’s stomach knot. He suddenly recalled all those stories about kings executing messengers who brought bad news. “Let’s go over this again. “Vincent — one of the most important people in this family — had access to all our accounts and financial transactions. He’s been laundering money for us for decades. He knew damn well that the guards weren’t for show — they were there so no dumb fuck would get the bright idea to kidnap Big Nick’s accountant and use him to squeeze the whole organization by the balls. But Big Nick isn’t that easy to squeeze, because he’s a smart guy. That’s why he had five guards on the bastard. Plus a personal assistant to keep an eye on things.” Nick spun his black Parker pen between his fingers, pausing for a moment before continuing, his voice still infuriatingly steady. “And now, we find out that Vincent didn’t give a shit about any of that. That he played his own security like a damn teenager sneaking out to fuck some broad. And now he’s lying in the city morgue, and we have no idea who killed him or what he might have spilled before he died. Did I miss anything?” “That’s all we’ve got for now,” Makishima answered as professionally as he could, trying very hard not to think about how, not too long ago, another one of Nick’s men had turned up beaten to death at an old sawmill a few miles out of town. “I’m heading to the morgue — to find out the cause of death and see if anything on him ties back to us.” Nick gave a slow nod, tapping the pen against the desk. “And that guard? What was his name — Kovalev?” “Kowalski. After the morgue, I’ll stop by his place — see if there are any leads.” Though, truth be told, Makishima already had a bad feeling about this. No one was picking up the guy’s phone, and it was looking more and more like Kowalski had disappeared right along with Vincent. “Don’t be stingy with the cash,” Nick said, his eyes drifting toward his cabinet of expensive liquor — a sign that this meeting was about to wrap up. “If you need to bribe someone or shut someone up, spend whatever it takes.”   Stepping outside, Makishima instantly regretted sending his goons with the umbrella away. It had taken him mere seconds to reach the car, yet he was already soaked through, as if he had stepped fully clothed into a shower. But after that meeting with Big Nick, enduring the company of those Neanderthals had been beyond him. L was lounging in the passenger seat, expertly fishing donuts from a paper bag with one hand while taking slow drags from a smoldering cigarette in the other. “Looks like you’re having a good time,” Makishima remarked. He reached to lower the window to clear out some of the smoke, but raindrops immediately splattered onto his jacket, forcing him to roll it back up. “I thought you weren’t supposed to eat sweets?” “Let’s just hope we crack this case fast and don’t have to stick around too long,” L replied cheerfully, licking grease from his fingers. “I think I’ll manage to survive until the grand finale. So, morgue first?” The trip to the morgue went suspiciously smoothly. “Private detective Lawliet” didn’t even have to grease any palms — the on-duty attendant was so taken with Makishima’s dazzling smile that she let them through without a fuss. (L later insisted that the expression looked more like a death threat than a charm offensive, but what did he know about the art of seduction?) They were granted full access to the deceased’s belongings, along with the official autopsy report. “So, do you recognize him? Can you confirm his identity? The police still haven’t been able to ID the body,” the girl chirped, twirling a strand of hair around her finger while sneaking glances at Makishima. “No, I don’t think this is the man we were looking for,” he answered quickly. Helping the cops connect Vincent to the mafia was the last thing on his to-do list. “My partner got it wrong — he’s a bit scatterbrained. Saw the photo on TV and thought it was our client, but clearly, it’s not.” L picked up on the hint immediately and nodded. “Yeah, my mistake. Sorry for the trouble.” A few blocks away from the morgue, back in the car, L summed things up: “No traces of mafia ties in Vincent’s belongings, which I assume makes you happy. We also know he died from a single blunt-force trauma to the head — no torture, no signs of struggle. Looks like the killer snuck up from behind, cracked him over the skull, then dumped the body in the docks.” “So he wasn’t killed because he was Big Nick’s accountant.” Makishima felt both relieved and uneasy. If someone had tortured Vincent for clan secrets, that would’ve at least made sense. But this? It seemed like he had been taken out for an entirely different reason — one that had nothing to do with the mafia at all. “Could it have been just a mugging?” “Wallet was still on him,” L countered, slipping another cigarette between his lips and patting his pockets for a lighter. “So far, everything points to either a personal motive or some freak accident. Though, maybe the killer staged it this way to throw us off…” There was a trace of hopeful curiosity in his voice. Then he flicked his lighter, took a drag, and exhaled a slow stream of acrid smoke. “God, I hope you drop dead from that disgusting shit sooner rather than later,” Makishima said with feeling. “If I did have lung cancer, it’d take years to finish me off,” L mused. “So smoking definitely won’t kill me before this case wraps up. Honestly, if you really wanted me dead, you should be rooting for the donuts — one more and I might just slip into a diabetic coma.” “As if that’s gonna stop you from eating them…” Makishima sighed, started the engine, pulled onto the road, and turned in the direction of Kowalski’s place. Dusk was settling over the city, the first lights flickering on in windows and streetlamps. Kowalski lived in the poor part of town — a neighborhood of rundown, peeling buildings, overflowing trash bins, and dingy diners with half-broken neon signs buzzing weakly in the rain. Every passerby they saw was either homeless, a cheap prostitute, or a low-level gangster — the kind of crowd that made up the entire local population, however statistically improbable that might seem. Makishima’s expensive Volkswagen drew greedy and suspicious stares. He parked it near a convenience store rather than right outside Kowalski’s place — a battered house at the very end of the street — and they hurried through the icy drizzle toward the entrance. Makishima pressed the doorbell several times, but no one answered. “You’ll have to call in a couple of Big Nick’s guys to bust it down,” L suggested. Makishima considered that they could just kick the door in themselves — it would be very fitting for this kind of story. Or would that be overkill? “My car’s already the talk of the neighborhood. No need to attract more attention.” He rummaged in his pockets and pulled out a lockpick. Fortunately, his character had a solid background in breaking and entering — just as any good mafioso should. A moment later, there was a satisfying click, and the door swung open. The hallway light was out, and the place smelled of rot. The kitchen looked like a hurricane had passed through: dishes, food containers, and utensils were strewn across the table and floor, while the sink overflowed with a putrid pile of unwashed plates. “Are you sure your guys didn’t ransack the place?” L asked, curiously inspecting a heap of empty pizza boxes stacked on the couch. “As far as I know, no.” Makishima nudged aside a bundle of foul-smelling socks with distaste and glanced over the papers scattered haphazardly across the dresser. “It’d take more than a search to make a place look like this.” L sifted through the mess with zero hesitation, while Makishima focused mostly on avoiding stepping in anything that might ruin his expensive leather shoes. At the bedroom doorway, L suddenly stopped, moved aside, and silently pointed inside. The walls were covered with photographs of a blonde woman. They were all taken in secret — her stepping out of a taxi, sipping coffee in a café, adjusting her hair while catching her reflection in a shop window. “Well, looks like Kowalski was a stalker,” Makishima remarked, scanning the obsessive display. “But who is she?” “I know her,” L said unexpectedly. “That’s my client — Vincent’s secret mistress. Selena Johnson.”   By the time they left Kowalski’s apartment, it was fully dark, the rain turning streetlights into hazy, shimmering halos. Realizing he hadn’t eaten all day, Makishima stopped by the convenience store where they’d parked and grabbed a couple of pre-packaged burgers, a box of cream-filled pastries, and a bottle of cheap whiskey. He was starting to settle into this world. Back in the car, the first thing he did was take a long swig straight from the bottle. As the warmth spread through his body, he decided life wasn’t so bad after all. I’m a full-blown alcoholic, and yet I still have the nerve to judge L for his cigarettes and donuts, he thought idly, taking another sip. Deciding that two heads were better than one, he began thinking out loud. “Here’s how I see it: Selena Johnson and Kowalski were working together from the start — probably hired by a rival clan. Selena cozied up to Vincent to extract information. But when Vincent started suspecting something, they panicked and took him out. Then Kowalski realized our clan would never forgive him for it, so he ran, leaving Selena behind. And she, being the resourceful type, decided to push forward — hired a private detective to gather intel for her. Someone smart enough to get results but dumb enough not to see through her act. No offense,” he added, glancing at L. L, for once, wasn’t smoking. He was chewing on his thumb, a habit Makishima had noticed when he was deep in thought. Finally, L spoke. “It’s a decent theory, but there are gaps. First, why hire me at all? If she and Kowalski were working together, he had full access to Vincent’s place as his bodyguard. He could’ve gathered whatever intel they needed himself. And more importantly — why the wall of stalker photos?” “Maybe they were lovers?” Makishima suggested. “People don’t usually photograph their girlfriends in secret.” Makishima nearly scoffed: Oh, and you’re an expert on relationships now? — but the truth was, L had a point. “I don’t think Selena’s involved,” L continued. “She didn’t know about Vincent’s work, didn’t know about Kowalski. She was just dating a rich guy she liked and genuinely got worried when he vanished. Kowalski, though… He was tailing Vincent. He knew Vincent couldn’t be left unguarded — if anything happened to him, Big Nick would have his head. So he was always lurking nearby, just in case. Then he saw Selena. And he fell for her. Hard. You saw that apartment — guy’s not exactly stable. He became obsessed. Started following her, taking secret photos, maybe even stalking her. “Vincent found out. Lost it. Told Kowalski to back off. Maybe they fought, maybe Kowalski ambushed him. Either way, he killed Vincent. Then realized he was as good as dead himself. Dumped the body in the bay and disappeared. I doubt he’s coming back. If he’s smart, he never will.” Makishima sat in silence, turning it over in his head. Out of sheer stubbornness, he tried to poke holes in L’s logic — but it all made too much sense. How ridiculous, really — to be a key figure in the criminal underworld, only to be murdered by your own lovesick bodyguard. Snapping upright in his seat, Makishima turned to L. "Listen, if Kowalski's lost his mind so badly that he even took out Vincent, then he's not lying low. He's going to keep going." L might have had a better grasp of a mad autistic man's motives, but Makishima was an expert in criminal psychology. He'd spent his entire life specializing in it — one might say he'd earned a doctorate in the subject with honors. "What do you mean? He knows your clan will start hunting him sooner or later. And then the police will get involved." "Yeah, the rational thing would be to hop on a plane and disappear somewhere in Australia. But you said it yourself — he's crazy, get it?" Makishima twirled a finger near his temple for emphasis. "He's already crossed the line and killed Vincent. Why not go even further and try to finally claim the woman this whole mess started over?" For a moment, silence hung in the car. "Shit. You're right," L muttered. "Selena. He went after Selena. And… I don't even have her address." Makishima rifled through his knowledge of the mid-twentieth century — rich, but rather fragmented — and hesitantly suggested, "If Selena Johnson is her real name, we can find her address in a phone book." L looked at him as if a halo had just lit up over his head. No wonder he hadn't thought of it himself — L, a child of the internet age, had never dealt with phone books. And unlike Makishima, he hadn't spent hours watching and reading period dramas. Amazingly, Selena Johnson was, in fact, named Selena Johnson, and her address was right there in the directory.   Her apartment was locked. No one answered the door. Makishima resorted to his usual lockpicking trick. Selena wasn’t inside. Thankfully, neither was her corpse. No signs of a struggle, no blood. It looked like she hadn’t even been home, though it was close to midnight. "Odds are, she's already dead," Makishima concluded. "But we still need to find Kowalski." "What if she just hasn’t gotten back from work yet? What if we can still save her?" "What does she do for a living?" L furrowed his brow, trying to recall his conversation with Selena Johnson. "She said she met Palermo at a club. Maybe she sings there… Not the most solid deduction, I admit. I just got the impression she looked like a jazz singer." Makishima nodded. "That kind of logic works in books sometimes." Besides, it was a Saturday — every club had live music on a Saturday. If Selena was a singer, that would explain why she wasn’t home yet. And if anyone was likely to have gotten tangled up with someone like Vincent Palermo, it was a broke but ambitious club singer with a taste for money and luxury. Most apartments accumulate a pile of paper junk over time, and Selena’s place was no exception. They found business cards and flyers from all sorts of venues, but the most frequent name among them was a club called Blue Note — which, conveniently, was just a short drive from her place. They got there in minutes. The club was small, underground, accessible by a steep staircase. Wasting no time, L slipped the bouncers a generous stack of bills and asked if a girl named Selena Johnson worked there. "She does," one of them said, "but you guys are late — her set's over, and she left, oh… maybe five minutes ago." "Did she take a cab?" "Nope. Left on foot." Makishima and L ran back to the car and retraced their route, prepared to comb through every dark alley where a maniac might lurk. There were plenty of them between Blue Note and Selena’s apartment, but Kowalski, it seemed, hadn’t bothered looking for a discreet spot. He had ambushed his obsession barely a hundred meters from the club. The scene before them looked like something ripped straight from an old, cheap noir flick (then again, this was an old, cheap noir flick). Kowalski had twisted Selena’s arms behind her back, holding them with his left hand, while his right grabbed the lace neckline of her dress, pulling her closer. His face and hands were streaked with deep, bloody scratches — souvenirs from Selena’s well-manicured nails. But beyond those, she had no weapon. And if not for L and Makishima’s intervention, this would have ended badly. L yanked Kowalski back by the shoulder, spun him around, and punched him square in the jaw. Despite being half Kowalski’s size, L fought so well that within moments, the brute was on the ground. Selena had scrambled to the wall, eyes wide with terror, watching the fight unfold. Makishima was watching too, though with considerably more appreciation. A well-executed brawl was always a joy to behold — especially when he wasn’t the one getting hit. He almost missed the moment Kowalski, realizing his fists weren’t enough, discreetly pulled a seven-shot Browning from his coat. Makishima stomped down on the hand holding the gun. Fingers crunched. Kowalski let out a noise somewhere between a pained groan and an enraged snarl. "Tsk, tsk! Dangerous toy," Makishima said, kicking the gun out of reach. "You know," L remarked, "this whole mafia thug look really suits you. You seem to be enjoying yourself." "Why, thank you," Makishima replied, genuinely pleased. "I kind of am." Without another word, L picked up Kowalski’s gun, pressed it to the back of his head, and pulled the trigger. "Hey!" Makishima protested. "I was gonna bring him in alive for Big Nick!" "And then he’d tell Big Nick about Selena," L said flatly. "We didn’t save her just for your boss to decide she heard something she shouldn’t have." With unexpected gallantry, he offered Selena a hand and helped her up. "Don’t worry, miss. We’ll get you home." "Hmph." Makishima slid into the driver’s seat, took another swig from his now considerably lighter whiskey bottle, and scowled. He was already mentally composing the best way to spin this story for Big Nick — one that wouldn’t get him killed on the spot. "We are taking her home, right?" L nudged him with an elbow. Selena cast L a grateful look before her expression darkened. "Detective Lawliet, did you find out what happened to Jimmy?" L hesitated, unsure how to break the bad news. Makishima, impatient, cut in: "Jimmy’s dead, sweetheart. And if I were you, I’d be out of this city by morning — because thanks to that Jimmy, some very dangerous people might start looking for you." L pulled out a not-so-clean handkerchief and silently handed it to her. Selena nodded her thanks and dabbed at her eyes. "Yeah… I’ve heard things about Big Nick’s clan. I get it. I’ll leave…" A few moments later, having somewhat composed herself, the blonde beauty leaned dreamily against "Detective Lawliet’s" shoulder and sighed. "God, what a night. I could really use a smoke." Then she cast a coquettish glance at Makishima. "And maybe a drink." *** "So that’s the ending? A maniac and some petty crime of passion? That’s the dumbest damn novel I’ve ever read,"Makishima declared. "It was a small, stupid case," L agreed. "But turns out, we make a decent team." "I’ll admit, I got into it by the end," Makishima mused. "Maybe this is just the start of a long-running series. Maybe our two bumbling detectives will get a real case someday. And that blonde, Selena? She’s definitely turning out to be a femme fatale villain." "No way!" L looked genuinely surprised. "You know, I actually liked it. Maybe we should check out more stories about them." Then his eyes glinted. "But later. I just got an idea. You know what else I like besides detective novels? Scary stories."