Too Late

Zion Jones let out a gust of air as he shut his dark brown eyes, right after looking at the black clock on the wall, as if that would ever bring him any comfort. He only had a few more minutes until his day of work at the Miami Interrogation unit would finally end, although the Everest-like pile of papers that coated his desk said something different. It was Friday, the end of the week, and there was supposed to be a hope for him and his wife and children to have a weekend of time spent with him, but he had bid that hope farewell too extensive an amount of time to remember ago, right before he was up to his eyeballs in paperwork on a new case. He knew too that he should not have any vain hopes such as this too, he was an interrogator and if he did not do his job right, it could always be worse. Much, much worse. The sheets that lay before him were all that he yet had on a burglary-gone-wrong, and he trusted that though all of his work appeared overwhelming, it wasn’t even the half of all the information that he didn’t yet have. It was going to become much, much worse. He also had always known that his wife, Brea, was never that happy about it when he agreed to do one more case at his office, but she knew that she could not stop the world from turning, but his absence from the MPD just might. It did not matter if he would miss his 4-year-old daughter, Beatrix’s preschool musical about which sunflower could grow the tallest and why plants need their roots, none of it mattered when compared to a city’s, and therefore, their life. Someday, they would understand, someday they all would understand, including Zion, but that fateful day was not today. He tried to shake away the dream of spending time on the Florida beach with his family by asking one of his fellow comrades on this case a question from across the dimly lit, morgue-like with the subject that they dealt with, across the room, “Noah, whose death does this case deal with again?” His answer came out, much like a machine once he placed his spectacles over his sky-blue eyes, leaving tousled hair that made it evident that he was stressed too. “Grayson and that kid that said he was your friend before his last breath, Shamus Stockett.” Zion fell back in his chair from his stressed stance, attempting at relaxation with one of his old techniques of stepping back for a split second with a gust of air. He could not believe it. It was not a dream, or rather a confusing, horrifying nightmare. Grayson he should have felt a deeper regret for, since he was a fellow, brown-eyed cop who agreed to help in this case, but losing friends, or even just at-work acquaintances at work was just something that Zion made his mind accustomed to, throughout the years. It was Shamus; Shamus, what was he even doing there, and how did he even remember Zion’s face after all these years? Yes, Zion could remember his name and face, but he always had been good at things like that besides (it got him to the job, or career choice that he was currently in). Why had Shamus claimed to be one of Zion’s old high-school pals right before his heart stopped beating? It all was very, very strange. They never even were. Maybe they had been partners on a science experiment project once, but that was it. They never sat together at lunch, Shamus was part of the science club, while Zion was a member of the basketball team. He never even recalled waving at him in the hallway once, and they did have similar schedules, need be. They never were even close to friends. They both were just another part of a burglary case that needed to be observed, or rather, interrogated. “He didn’t get away with a penny.” Zion muttered, without a note of inquiry in his voice, needing to think about another part of the case, rather than the part that was not interrogations responsibility. Suddenly, he jumped, apparently the woman beside him heard him meaning to talk to himself. “There are just some cases like that. This shouldn’t be new to you, Zion. Plenty of cold-blooded murderers in the past had just that approach, Nic Warvold, Ellen Bauer, Zlata Gies, to name just a few.” Zion’s eyes rose to the beautiful maroon dressed woman speaking to him. Dark eyed, dark haired Charmaine Eden raised a had to push her dark-rimmed glasses up her nose (that always lay straight on her nose, she wasn’t as much of a rebel as Noah was). If Zion’s dark eyes ever found a burrow inside his own head, now was the time. Charmaine was undeniably beautiful and for some reason, he hated that reminder that lay right across from him in his partner with his case, Noah Lightfoot with his cheeks quickly growing all the more red, as if he had forgotten entirely Miss Eden’s presence. He wanted to roll his eyes, but couldn’t, not while he was on this case. It would take up too much time. A split second more that he was away from his daughter, little Beatrix, and her performance, and not holding his wife’s hand, or just plain not being with her as far as the current matter with Brea went. He let out his air in a gust. He loathed wasting time. Sure he did, but his habits stated something different, as if he were hiding something. “You send me a list, Eden, of all the people who have that bad habit or might be changed to me. I think I’m going to have to take a closer look at this. Send it to my cell— (695)-433-4728. I think I know where to get started looking.” Noah and Charmaine didn’t even bother him with the claim of, shouldn’t we send a detective to do that, maybe they are all busy all the time, but they are trained and I just saw Frank Frost come through the South door…He knows more about inspecting then you. The pleas would each be fruitless, they knew. Zion had that look in his eye, much like a wolf on the prowl. Once started, he wouldn’t stop until the case was cracked wide open, much like the deer’s flesh when it became the prey of the previously mentioned animal. He was dedicated, there was no denying, and when he was this vibrant, he hardly ever came back with a bad result, or a phony accusation that a detective, like Frank, should have looked over more that they had to return to the streets. He knew he was nowhere near as trained, that is why his assigned job was specialized in things like looking over DNA or keeping photos in a special segments filing cabinet (not that it was the use, but Noah really needed to quit looking at pornography and actually talk to beautiful women, like Charmaine, and he might have a spot of a chance out in the world), but a boy can dream, and he had a good feeling about this. Sure, plenty of him and his good feelings had caused the MPD nothing but trouble, but who knew? This one could be different. Whitney Kogan. That was her name. He could see her now. Pixie cut short blond hair. Bright smile full of the straightest teeth that anyone had ever seen. Soft pink lips. Dark blue eyes that even smelled a little bit like deception. She was Grayson’s age before he passed on, awfully recently. He didn’t know how she would know anything about his supposed friend that he never even spoke to, Shamus, but there had to be a tie. Maybe he felt the slightest attraction to her that he wanted to run away, or be put in handcuffs because she wasn’t the woman who already bore him the cutest little girl any of them had ever seen. Why didn’t Noah and Charmaine try to stop him? Could he have been a distraction to the case? Or maybe, they were close in age and he didn’t know what was happening behind those now closed doors. Focus. Never. Focus. Whitney…He knew where she lived (don’t ask) and he knew all the quick backways, as he was referring to each of them as he put his key up to his old blue-gray chevy caprice, and was brought back by the most startling of all voices, at least for the moment. “I didn’t think you’d ever find me here, Jones. I honestly am stumped with how you did it.” Zion jumped immediately in place. There was no time for him to claim his truth of he hadn’t found anyone yet, he wasn’t looking for anyone (guess it was only partial truth), how did they even know he was about to leave on the search for someone (some woman, to be more specific) (other than his vehicle was indeed a classic in the truest sense of the word). He was blown out of the water by the next tidbit. Who did that voice belong to? It sure sounded quite a bit like…Whitney Kogan. This detective stuff was easier than he thought. Don’t get too excited now. She hadn’t really admitted to anything in specific yet and he had looked at near a million cases today. He wished that he had a gun, if it was one of the horrors that he thought up, he might have had reason to use it. His hand involuntarily rose to his hip, finding nothing there in shame. “Ma’am, I don’t know what you are even talking about. I’ll try to help. If you have anything to report, the station is right over there. I’m busy.” Every sound he heard was in fact, frightening, but what met his ears blew all the other starts out of the water. It was laughter, and this certainly wasn’t a laughing matter (at least not yet) as far as he knew. “You don’t know what you want, it’s death, and I would happily give it to you. Don’t you know who I am? I’m the reaper, and you have been expecting me for quite some time. This job is way too hard for you anyway, you are no Sherlock, and don’t you know what happens to him at the end of his story? Death happens to everyone. You can’t stop it. Even you sweet little angel, Beatrix will die someday.” “How did you-” “I’m not finished yet. All the ballet classes in the world will never replace you, as if you care. How about your wife? How long has it been since you’ve been with Brea? If you wanted her back, you should’ve seen it, and grabbed it while you had the chance. Another day at work, another day at the grind. That’s what you think, or rather thought, and now it is too late.” “How dare-” “I’m almost done, not as done as you, but I digress. You don’t take your chances and they all leave. Goodbye.” Suddenly, everything that Zion had left him. His last breath was a gasp. Too little. Too late. You don’t know what you have until it is gone.