DARK CITY
Christopher M. Colavito
First published 2015
Joffe Books, London
www.joffebooks.com
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The spelling used is American English except where fidelity to the author’s rendering of accent or dialect supersedes this.
©Christopher M. Colavito
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A compelling murder mystery which you won’t be able to put down
On a freezing winter night, the body of a teenager is found in the snow.
Mike and Callie Simpkins moved north to restart their lives and get their finances back on track. Their son Braxton immerses himself in an online game-world of crime and gangs. When he decides to meet some of the players in the real world, tragedy strikes.
Detective John Swift must untangle a web of virtual and real crimes in order to solve this complex mystery. And as the family copes with unimaginable grief, even Braxton’s stepfather Mike comes under suspicion.
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
My great thanks to everyone who encouraged me to continue writing, and thanks especially to my friend Drew, who convinced me that this book in particular was worth writing
Chapter 1
Bottled Sin
Death tore through the night with a vicious sound, a voice shredded by a severed life. Evil lurks in the night, feeding on the fear that hides in the shadows. In the city, in this city, angular architecture devoured the streets, slicing into the ground with its sharp edges dulled by the blood of misery. This was no place to look for happiness; it was a city fueled by the dying light of souls. Death was a part of life, an inescapable white noise littering the background. Yet it was only when it inched close to home that its existence was noticed. Since death was all around, few were moved to act, as yet another tree in the forest of humanity fell silent to the earth.
Detective Dylan Knox was more jaded than most people. He had spent most of his adult life chasing down the elusive prey known as death. There was more to it than that, he knew, but he saw no reason to waste his energy delving into the minds of madmen. People were filled with evil, and not just those he hunted. Every person he came across, victim or killer, innocent or guilty, had secrets they prayed remained hidden. Innocent, he came to realize, was just a word, one that held little meaning. It was a joke, an irony waiting to be revealed, because anyone who was innocent of whatever sin had been uncovered was merely waiting for their own to come due.
As he walked towards yet another crime-scene, his mind felt free to wander away from the case at hand. His eyes passed across the crowd of gawkers and death-fetishists who had crawled out of the recesses to stare at this new depravity, but his mind registered no information. Instead, he was lost in another world, wondering what life could be like for people who were ignorant of the true reality of life.
There must be some truth to the saying that ‘ignorance is bliss,’ he figured. He would have given anything to be able to forget the things he had seen, and all the things he knew about humanity’s true nature. We're all just bottled sin, he thought, vessels waiting for the moment the seal breaks and we spill out from our little containers.
Detective Knox nodded at the officers keeping the perimeter, and, as he prepared to enter, shedding the cold cloak of the night, a voice broke into his thoughts.
“That old man was just waiting for someone to stick a knife in him. I'll never understand how he managed to avoid being killed for this long.”
Detective Knox smiled grimly at these honest words. Whoever had spoken obviously knew as much as he did about the true reality of life. He bit his lip, let the twinge of pain comfort him, and he spun on his heel and turned back into the icy air.
Pressed against the yellow tape were two anxious spectators, trembling with the nervous energy of people who had not yet become inured to the routine business of death. The man who had just spoken twitched with every breath, revealing his hand. He stood beside a young woman, as wide-eyed as he, but who was evidently more able to compose herself. She was not, Knox noted, excited by this death the way her companion was. She was more interested in the spectacle itself, in the people who had emerged in its wake.
Detective Knox introduced himself, and was greeted with an eager handshake.
“What was that about a knife and a killing?”
The young man faltered for a second, realizing how harsh his outburst sounded. Not wanting to be branded heartless, he changed his tack.
“I was just saying that it's no secret round here that the old man wasn't the most well-liked guy in the world. He was always fighting with someone, screaming about this or that. I figured it was only a matter of time until someone got fed up enough to do something about it.”
“You mean — kill him?”
Some of the color drained from the young man's face. Though he was not ashamed of his words, he understood how suspicious such theories might sound. Nevertheless, whether he saw a kindred spirit in Detective Knox, or he was trapped in a moment of foolish candor, he answered honestly.
“Yeah, I suppose I do. I'm not exactly surprised that he's dead.”
“You say that very casually.”
“Look, it's not as if I'm not sad that the guy's dead, but let's be honest here. There are bad things going on all around us all the time. We just try not to think about them.”
Knox nodded his head. He could appreciate the honesty of these words, even if the young man himself couldn't grasp the full significance of what he was saying.
“It's not like that at all,” the young woman standing next to him interjected. “He was a sweet old man, who didn't deserve to be murdered.”
“Oh come on, how can you say that? That house was a powder keg just waiting for a spark to fall in the right place and set it off.”
“That doesn't make him a bad person, or make it any more acceptable. Good people get mad too. Or didn’t you know?”
The young man had walked into a trap, one he would not be able to extricate himself from without the liberal giving of apologies. Still, he thought, if he was already wounded, there was no reason to cease fire.