A Glimpse Into Darkness: Meet Detective Lucas Palao

Detective Lucas Palao of the NYPD’s 44th Precinct was sitting in his apartment in the Bronx on Walton Avenue, drinking whiskey. (1884 Walton Avenue, Bronx.) His mother, a Frenchwoman, had given him the name Lucas, and his surname Palao came from his father—a Polynesian. His apartment in the Bronx—not very big, but his own—Lucas also had thanks to his parents. He earned a decent living, enough for a young unmarried man, but his parents, who lived in Honolulu, Hawaii, still spoiled their only child by sending him a considerable amount of money every month.



Lucas didn’t drink much, didn’t go to bars or strip clubs with his colleagues, devoting almost all his time to work and reading books in silence. His colleagues’ attitude toward him ranged from indifference to outright dislike—Palao had an exaggerated sense of justice, didn’t take bribes, and didn’t make deals with his conscience. If a hardened criminal sat across from him at the table, but was not currently involved in any crime, Palao spoke to him as to an ordinary honest citizen. Neither past sins nor past merits interested him—only what was being investigated here and now.



In the department, he maintained friendly relations with two colleagues: Peter Smollett, a detective of the same third class as Lucas, and Officer Ángel Martínez—a Mexican. Lucas sometimes went to play pool with Peter, and Ángel always dragged him to lunch at the Mexican diner “Tacos El Coyote.” But Lucas did have one true friend—a huge red Maine Coon cat named Confucius. The cat was a philosopher, loved order and silence, and fully lived up to his name.



Lucas was drinking whiskey: he was hungry, but today’s case had exhausted him both physically and psychologically, and he didn’t have the strength even to reach the fridge. Confucius looked at his friend and owner with his usual philosophical bewilderment—as all intelligent animals do, the cat knew the smell of alcohol and couldn’t stand it.



Today’s case was nasty in every way: it was completely illogical, excessively bloody for its illogicality, and the absurdity was compounded by the testimony of witnesses and informants. Here’s how it looked, based on what was seen and the information gathered.



South Bronx. In the building of an abandoned factory, a drug dealer known throughout New York, César Torres, had set up a lab to produce some kind of crystalline junk. And he had set it up quite recently, as informants swore and vowed—otherwise, of course, they would have told long ago. Fine, that was plausible; working with informants was always tricky, and for incorruptible Lucas, who had nothing to offer the “snitches” in return—it was high-level work.



So, the underground drug lab was raided. Brutally, with automatic gunfire—two guards were killed in the yard, two inside, and eight workers right at their “workstations.” And then the oddities began—the “junk” wasn’t taken, the “lab” wasn’t burned down, the attackers simply left the dead and walked away.



Palao was exhausted, squatting a hundred times, measuring shooting angles, collecting shell casings, and drawing diagrams. The main oddity was the witnesses’ statements claiming that the raid was the work of the Rhino. And that was the most illogical part—Moses “Rhino” Pierce was a gangster, a very dangerous criminal, but he never dealt with drug lords, couldn’t stand—according to numerous rumors—drug addicts. And by those same numerous rumors, he had never crossed paths or clashed with César. But his people were seen at the scene, so the version—the only one for now—had to be pursued. There could be other connections—maybe César had taken money from Mo (though it was unlikely Mo would give it, knowing where it would go).



Lucas sighed, took a big sip, and leaned back on the couch, stroking Confucius. The cat purred contentedly…



Lucas dozed off. He woke up when the cat under his hand suddenly jumped up, arched his back, and hissed loudly. Lucas placed his hand on the cat’s scruff, trying to calm him—Confucius’s fur stood on end. Palao tried to see what had so disturbed the cat, but in the place the cat was looking, there was nothing.



“Easy, easy, buddy, what’s wrong? There’s nothing there.”



The cat looked at him disdainfully—or so it seemed to the owner—jumped off the couch. Hugging the floor, Confucius crept toward the corner where the bathroom door was. Shifting from paw to paw, as if preparing to jump, the cat waited a couple of seconds and darted around the corner. The bathroom door was closed. The cat hissed at the door, looked at Lucas as if calling him, and hissed again. He stretched to his full height—when the cat stretched like that, his paws reached his owner’s collarbones—and began scratching the door.



“Move aside, let me see what’s there.”



The detective looked at the coat rack where his jacket hung, the pistol was in the pocket, smirked, took a wrench from the nightstand drawer. Carefully moved the feline philosopher away from the door, yanked the door open. Stepped inside—as expected, there was no one in the bathroom.



“So, what were you making all that noise about? Come in.”



The cat didn’t come in, lay down on the floor in front of the door, and watched his owner closely. The phone rang. It was Peter.



“Hello, hi Pete.”  

“Hi, Lu. Any news?”  

“What news?! I’m trying to figure out who exactly was seen at the scene—we can’t pin the case on ‘a tall Black guy, athletic build,’ who ‘I think I saw with Mo.’ I’m waiting, they’re supposed to find out and give me at least one name.”  

“What do you mean ‘one’? There were several of Mo’s guys?”  

“We’re not even sure Mo’s guys were there at all. I don’t remember any junkies in Rhino’s gang—unreliable people don’t hang around him. But here’s another question—they were producing drugs there, not selling them, so what could Black guys not from César’s crew be doing there? Pete, pull your ‘singers,’ maybe your guys have something useful.”  

“Alright, I’ll call you after I talk to them. But not for at least an hour—I try not to expose them, I’ll have to go to the ‘spot.’”



All detectives/officers had carefully chosen meeting places with informants; it was important that no one from the criminal world knew or could tell others—after such a slip-up, a “snitch” would be found dead somewhere in an abandoned building in the South Bronx within a couple of hours.



“Alright, talk soon!”



Lu tossed the phone onto the couch and returned to the bathroom. The cat was still lying on the threshold, not entering, but behaving more calmly. He was watching his owner attentively, but his ears were pointed forward, meaning something in the bathroom was very interesting to the cat. Lucas examined the small space: everything was in its place, towels hung just as the detective had left them after his shower… What had caught Confucius’s attention?



Looking around once more, Lucas was about to leave when his gaze caught on blurry streaks on the mirror. The guy was young, but meticulous and attentive to detail—he couldn’t have left such streaks. He might have splashed water, toothpaste, or shaving foam, but not that high. Hmm… He approached the mirror, looked at the streaks, and on a hunch, breathed on the glass. Letters appeared on the surface, two words: “Help me.” Lu flinched, took a step back.



He had read many mystical books, about ghosts—spirits, lost souls, vengeful entities and the like. And he had read about messages on fogged-up mirrors too. But usually those were threats, not pleas for help. And anyway—it’s one thing to read about it in a book, and quite another to read it on your own mirror.



Lucas looked again at the sparse furnishings of the bathroom, glanced at the fading letters, went out to the cat, and crouched down.



“Furball, did you sense a ghost?”



The owner rolled his friend onto his side, began stroking his flanks, scratching his belly.



“My guard, like a watchdog!”



Confucius squinted contentedly. Suddenly the cat jerked, sprang up like he had on the couch, arched his back and hissed, staring into the depths of the bathroom. Lu stood up, stepped into the bathroom doorway, began inspecting everything, focusing on every inch, but saw no movement and didn’t even feel anything.



“Okay, calm down.” He looked at the wrench clutched in his hand, imagined how ridiculous he looked with such a “weapon.” He put the wrench back in the nightstand, turned around, and suddenly remembered a moment from an old supernatural movie. He shook off the internal chill—“Who knows what kind of ghost ended up here”—turned on the hot water. The mirror slowly fogged up. Lucas took a few steps back, leaned against the shower cabin, and waited.



Then things happened just like in movies and books—words began to appear on the misted surface: “Please, help me…”



“Who are you?”



Lu noticed that the invisible entity was addressing him respectfully, writing “You” with a capital letter, and decided to respond in kind.



“How can I help You?”



The next sentences read: “My name is—or was—Olivia Holden. I need Your help as a detective.”



Lucas was taken aback—what he absolutely couldn’t imagine was investigating a crime where the main witness was a ghost.



“Hello, hi Pete.”  

“Hi, Lu. Any news?”  

“What news?! I’m trying to figure out who exactly was seen at the scene—we can’t pin the case on ‘a tall Black guy, athletic build,’ who ‘I think I saw with Mo.’ I’m waiting, they’re supposed to find out and give me at least one name.”  

“What do you mean ‘one’? There were several of Mo’s guys?”  

“We’re not even sure Mo’s guys were there at all. I don’t remember any junkies in Rhino’s gang—unreliable people don’t hang around him. But here’s another question—they were producing drugs there, not selling them, so what could Black guys not from César’s crew be doing there? Pete, pull your ‘singers,’ maybe your guys have something useful.”  

“Alright, I’ll call you after I talk to them. But not for at least an hour—I try not to expose them, I’ll have to go to the ‘spot.’”



All detectives/officers had carefully chosen meeting places with informants; it was important that no one from the criminal world knew or could tell others—after such a slip-up, a “snitch” would be found dead somewhere in an abandoned building in the South Bronx within a couple of hours.



“Alright, talk soon!”



Lu tossed the phone onto the couch and returned to the bathroom. The cat was still lying on the threshold, not entering, but behaving more calmly. He was watching his owner attentively, but his ears were pointed forward, meaning something in the bathroom was very interesting to the cat. Lucas examined the small space: everything was in its place, towels hung just as the detective had left them after his shower… What had caught Confucius’s attention?



Looking around once more, Lucas was about to leave when his gaze caught on blurry streaks on the mirror. The guy was young, but meticulous and attentive to detail—he couldn’t have left such streaks. He might have splashed water, toothpaste, or shaving foam, but not that high. Hmm… He approached the mirror, looked at the streaks, and on a hunch, breathed on the glass. Letters appeared on the surface, two words: “Help me.” Lu flinched, took a step back.



He had read many mystical books, about ghosts—spirits, lost souls, vengeful entities and the like. And he had read about messages on fogged-up mirrors too. But usually those were threats, not pleas for help. And anyway—it’s one thing to read about it in a book, and quite another to read it on your own mirror.



Lucas looked again at the sparse furnishings of the bathroom, glanced at the fading letters, went out to the cat, and crouched down.



“Furball, did you sense a ghost?”



The owner rolled his friend onto his side, began stroking his flanks, scratching his belly.



“My guard, like a watchdog!”



Confucius squinted contentedly. Suddenly the cat jerked, sprang up like he had on the couch, arched his back and hissed, staring into the depths of the bathroom. Lu stood up, stepped into the bathroom doorway, began inspecting everything, focusing on every inch, but saw no movement and didn’t even feel anything.



“Okay, calm down.” He looked at the wrench clutched in his hand, imagined how ridiculous he looked with such a “weapon.” He put the wrench back in the nightstand, turned around, and suddenly remembered a moment from an old supernatural movie. He shook off the internal chill—“Who knows what kind of ghost ended up here”—turned on the hot water. The mirror slowly fogged up. Lucas took a few steps back, leaned against the shower cabin, and waited.



Then things happened just like in movies and books—words began to appear on the misted surface: “Please, help me…”



“Who are you?”



Lu noticed that the invisible entity was addressing him respectfully, writing “You” with a capital letter, and decided to respond in kind.



“How can I help You?”



The next sentences read: “My name is—or was—Olivia Holden. I need Your help as a detective.”



Lucas was taken aback—what he absolutely couldn’t imagine was investigating a crime where the main witness was a ghost.



 “Forgive my ignorance, Mrs. Olivia—or Miss? Are you a ghost?”  

“Detective, your Polynesian grandmother was a sorceress, her blood runs in you, you can speak to spirits just as she could. With your permission, I can appear and explain. Just Olivia will be enough.”  

“Nice to meet you, Olivia. My name is Lucas, though you probably already know that. My cat is disturbed by your presence, but I hope that won’t be a problem for you. If you don’t mind, let’s talk in the living room.”



Lu stepped out, looked at the cat—his ears were twitching, but overall Confucius looked calm. He took a step into the room and involuntarily flinched, instinctively reaching behind his back where his pistol usually hung in a holster on his belt. A woman was standing in the room—or rather, the silhouette of a woman—but the silhouette wasn’t blurry; the detective could even make out facial features. Around 50–55 years old, wearing a long dress that reached below the knees, with a simple cardigan over it; long hair—the ghostly silhouette wasn’t in color, it was like in old cartoons, as if drawn in milk, but the detective’s imagination helped him fill in the colors. He was certain that Mrs.—for some reason, Lu decided the woman was married—Olivia was blonde, the dress appeared blue, and the cardigan beige.



The ghost spoke—her voice was quiet, almost at the edge of audibility, but Lucas heard and understood every word.



“Hello, Lucas. Yes, you could say I’m a ghost, though I myself dislike admitting it. I died 13 days ago, but I’ve delayed my departure—I won’t try to explain why that happens. I think it’s because of what I’m about to tell you.



I died suddenly, a blood clot broke loose. My husband passed away long ago, so I can be considered Miss.”



Lucas thought Olivia laughed.



“I have a son, Robert Holden, he’s 29 years old. It’s about him that I want to ask. I didn’t manage to write a will, so automatically everything I had was passed to my son. The main valuable item was a painting, it was kept in the basement, wrapped in burlap—I kept meaning to hang it in the room or the living room, but never got around to it. My son knew about the painting, as did my older brother, Jack. Two days after my death, my son went down to the basement, but the painting was gone. He went to his uncle to find out if he had it, but something happened—Jack was found dead that evening, and my son was arrested on suspicion of murder. Apparently, neighbors testified that they heard shouting and sounds of a quarrel. I can give not just 100—but 1000 percent—that my son didn’t kill anyone.”



“One moment, ma’am. Let’s sort out the details before I can give you an answer. What kind of painting?”



“It’s one of Claude Monet’s lesser-known works, \*Dandelions\*.”



“What’s its value?”



“Estimated value is around five million dollars.”



Lucas whistled in surprise.



“And you claim it was stolen?”



“I’m convinced of it. You’ll ask this anyway, so I’ll anticipate your question—the painting can’t exist without documents: there’s a certificate of authenticity; a document proving ownership; several independent expert evaluations. These documents weren’t stolen along with the painting, but someone is now trying to find and take them.”



“How do you know that?”



Lucas was no longer a man at rest—he was now a working detective, focused and collected.



“Two days after my brother’s death and my son’s arrest, I… visited our home. The house wasn’t sealed…”



“It shouldn’t be sealed, it’s not a crime scene.”



Lucas interrupted Olivia automatically, thinking over her words.



“…and at night, two people broke in.”



“Can you describe them?”



There it was—the thrill of the hunt.



“Both white, one tall like you, a brunette, the other slightly shorter, a blond. The blond spoke with a British accent, even though it was whispered, I heard them. They searched the whole house, but thank God they didn’t break the furniture, so the documents are still in the house. Only my son and I know where the hiding place is—it’s not easy to find.”



“Alright, alright, alright, alright.”  

Lucas rubbed his hands together, expressing impatience—he had completely forgotten who he was talking to at the moment.  

“Who arrested your son? How was your brother killed?”  

“Detective Jeremy McCullough. From what I was able to overhear, he was strangled. With hands…”  

“So, the house wasn’t searched?”  

“It was.”  

“Strange, there’s no murder weapon. What does your son do?”  

“He’s a handyman, fixes everything—from glasses to refrigerators. He has his own workshop.”  

“Ma’am, let’s take a short break—I’m hungry as a wolf, even as a whole pack of wolves. Would it be a problem for you to wait a bit?”  

“Don’t worry, detective, I have absolutely nowhere to rush to anymore.”  

The ghost’s voice trembled, and Lu saw a sad smile.  

“I understand your concern, ma’am. From what you’ve already said, I can assume your son is innocent. I’ll be right back, and we’ll continue. By the way, the cat stopped hissing at you—what’s that about?”  

“Mystics believe cats are guides between the world of the living and the beyond. I think the cat senses my intentions.”



As if responding to Olivia’s words, Confucius entered the room, looked directly at the ghost, jumped onto the couch, and lay down with his paws tucked under him. He showed no aggression.  

“You’re probably right. That’s for the best—I’ll be quick.”



Lu ran to the 24-hour coffee shop \*Dunkin’\*, grabbed a couple of hamburgers, a sweet pastry, and coffee. He decided to eat it all at home, but couldn’t wait any longer and devoured—more like swallowed—one hamburger in just a couple of bites. He opened the door, stepped into the apartment, and froze—a pistol barrel was pressed against his temple.



“Don’t move, we didn’t come to kill.”



Lucas glanced sideways at the guy with the pistol—a tall African American. The guy grabbed the detective by the shoulder and, without lowering the gun, led him into the room. In the office chair, turned with its back to the window and desk, sat Mo. Another guy with a pistol stood in the opposite corner, keeping the room and entrance in view. The first thug shoved Lu into the room and stayed by the door.



“Hello, Palao.”  

Lucas placed the bag with food and coffee on the coffee table and flopped onto the couch.  

“I won’t wish you good health in return, Mo. What the hell are you doing here? Trying to scare me?”  

“Palao, do you know who I am?”  

“Oh, you want to hear from me how tough you are?”  

Lucas laughed, Moses winced.  

“What does that have to do with anything?! You’re pinning César on me—you know me, that’s not my thing at all!! You’re looking for me, how else could I talk to you?!”  

“By phone, for God’s sake! What makes you think we’re looking for you?”  

“Rumors started spreading…”  

“Interesting, where do these rumors come to you from? Fine, you won’t say anyway. Tell me what you want and get out, I’m hungry.”  

“Palao, everyone knows you’re a fair man and don’t jail people for nothing—I wasn’t there! And my guys weren’t there either! I swear on anything you want, I didn’t even know about that drug factory. Be a man, look into it.”  

“Look at me, Moses. Do you have an alibi?”  

“I do, but you’re supposedly looking for my guys, and I don’t buy them second-hand—they’re my family.”  

“Ohhh…”  

Lu grimaced.  

“Let’s skip the eternal brotherhood stories, I know you guys… Alright, let’s say I’m willing to believe you. Anyone kicked out of your gang recently?”  

“Someone’s always leaving. And what gang are we now, anyway? When was the last time you heard we did something illegal, huh? Be honest!”  

“Honestly—I haven’t heard anything in a long time.”  

“There you go!”  

“Mo, you didn’t have any beef with César?”  

“Nooo, I don’t even know him. Last time I fought was with the Chinese, and even then, for like 30 minutes and just verbally.”  

Mo laughed.  

“How’s that?”  

“Well, a couple of Chinese guys came to me for protection—they opened a club and a diner. I was surprised, but agreed. I’ve been investing money in business for a while now.  

Then some slant-eyed mafiosi showed up, started accusing me of taking their people under my wing. Said only Chinese protect Chinese, and that it was a blow to their authority. And they were all armed, like commandos.  

Well, my bunnies weren’t exactly carrying ping-pong paddles either. I politely told them that the businessmen weren’t defectors—they came to me, I promised them protection. If I back out now, it’ll be a blow to \*my\* authority.  

They resisted, but I had something to offer them.”  

“And what did you offer?”  

Mo hesitated.  

“Well… something. Something I had, and they didn’t, but really needed. Now we’re buddies—thick as thieves. So that’s all my wars. I invested in the club and the diner—we opened it in a different location than they originally wanted—made it bigger and cozier. That’s how I make money now, Palao.”  

“Alright. Let’s take your words as a starting point—you understand I’ll have to verify them?”  

“Palao, I’m not an idiot, I get it. And I know you’ll check my alibi too.”  

“Then think about this: if you’re telling the truth—which I almost believe, since you wouldn’t have barged in so boldly—then someone’s setting you up. Who and why—think about it, I’ll dig too.”  

“Dig, I’m begging you! I know you never take money, but if you help—I’ll owe you a favor.”  

“Get out already, Don Corleone… "I’ll be owed a favor".”  

Lu mimicked Moses. Mo stood up, his guys left the room, and the gangster turned at the door.  

“Either way, I’m gratef—”  

Moses froze, his mouth twisted, eyes bulged—he was staring into the corner.  

“What… What is that?! Pa… Palao!”  

The detective turned his head, already knowing what Moses saw—the silhouette of Miss Olivia was clearly visible in the corner. He smiled.  

“Don’t panic, Mo, that’s the detective’s assistant.”  

Moses crossed himself and bolted out of the apartment.



“They don’t let you eat, detective. Go ahead, I’ll wait.”  

“While I’m chewing, Miss Olivia, tell me—did you go to your brother’s house after his death?”



“I couldn’t bring myself to do it, though I’m not sure why... I’ll be right back.”



The ghost vanished, and Lou ate while thinking over Olivia’s story. He already had some ideas, but needed to plan his actions — getting involved in someone else’s investigation wasn’t easy. He finished eating, cleared the table, and brushed crumbs off the couch left by the sloppy Confucius. The cat lifted his head, reacting calmly to Olivia’s return.



“Lucas, everything’s turned upside down. I don’t think the police would leave such a mess after searching the apartment. I think the same two people who came to us were in the house.”



“I agree. Are the yellow tapes still there?”



“Yes.”



“Miss Olivia, I have several ideas, but I need information. Dictate to me your brother’s and your home addresses, your brother’s and son’s phone numbers. How old was your brother?”



“Sixty-three.”



“Miss Olivia, I apologize in advance if my question sounds inappropriate, but could your brother have remained... in the same state you are now?”



“Don’t worry about tact, my dear detective. I can’t imagine what I would feel or say if we’d switched places. No, his spirit left immediately.”



“I understand. Next: who else could have known about the painting? Could Jack or Robert have mentioned it to someone?”



“I don’t think so. I know them both: Robert is a quiet man, let’s call him poorly communicative. Jack is suspicious — almost paranoid.”



“Alright, let’s imagine one of them spoke about the painting, not earlier... but after your death. Jack was married... was he?”



“Yes, long ago. No, his wife didn’t know.”



“Does your son have a girlfriend?”



“No, Robert is alone. He tried dating a few women, but it didn’t go well.”



“Alright, we’ll think about that separately. Tell me, do you have any other relatives?”



“No close ones. There’s a cousin, but she’s completely unaware of our affairs — didn’t know about the painting. She lives in Pennsylvania.”



“I’m not asking about the painting — could she sign a contract with a lawyer?”



“I think so. She knows my son; we’ve met sometimes at family holidays.”



“Then we’ll send OUR lawyer to Robert. We’ll be able to stay in touch with him and protect him if needed.”



“I don’t know how to thank you, Lucas!”



“Nothing to thank me for yet, ma’am. Now I need some sleep — tomorrow I’ll try to bring my ideas to life.”



—



In the morning, Lucas met Peter at the station. Their desks were pushed together in the corner by the window, and the detectives sat facing each other.



“Hey, Pete. Make my day.”



“Hey, Lou. Here, take a look. I brought Rosie with me — she sketched the faces based on what they described.”



Rosie — Rosanna Smollett — was Peter’s niece, daughter of his older brother. She had an exceptional talent for drawing; Pete often brought her to informant meetings when they needed to secretly sketch a suspect’s portrait.



“Just faces, huh? We need to meet with Mo, ask him.”



Peter burst out laughing, wiping away tears from laughing so hard.



“Of course, he’ll just tell you everything. Call him here, why bother chasing him around?”



Peter laughed again.



“Oh, you didn’t know — Mo came to my place yesterday.”



“You’re serious?!”



“Yeah. Busted in with two other ‘lunatics.’”



“Why? What did he want? Are you okay?”



“All good. He paid me a visit to say he’s completely innocent. Doesn’t know Caesar, never dealt with him, never fought. Wants things handled properly and begs not to be blamed for something he didn’t do.”



Peter rested his cheek on his hand, thinking.



“Lou, if he dared to burst into your home and ask YOU to investigate...”



Pete gave his friend a meaningful look.



“Then he’s really not involved.”



“I think so too. He told me about two places he’s interested in. He’ll probably be hanging around there. So we’ll proceed like this: I’ll offer him a way to clear his name. But part of his crew must come and testify. Let them identify the ones in the sketches, prove they had nothing to do with the murders. That way, we’ll have a reason to clear the Rhino of suspicion and find the real culprits.”



“Now THAT will be a show — I can already picture everyone’s faces in the station: Mo’s thugs, testifying like good citizens.”



Peter laughed again, and Lou joined in, imagining the scene.



“Try it — I’m curious to see what comes of this. If it works, you’ll be known as the rhino-tamer for life.”



The friends laughed again.



“Just keep quiet about our plan for now. If it all falls apart, we’ll be laughed at forever. I’m heading out — tell the captain I went to question witnesses.”







“Alright, call me if anything comes up.”



Lucas got behind the wheel of his weathered Cadillac DeVille and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, thinking. Lucas had a girlfriend. They weren’t officially a couple at that moment, but they were very close to taking that step. One day, after realizing their feelings, they had spoken openly, deciding not to rush into the important and responsible decision to live together. For now, they were dating, walking together when time allowed, having lunch together. Her name was Teresa Pak.



She was strikingly beautiful — half Korean, half mixed-race — her father was Korean, her mother the daughter of a Ghanaian man and a white American woman. Dark skin, straight nose, wavy — but not curly — hair, and slanted eyes. When Tess and Lou walked the streets, passersby often turned to admire her beauty.



But right now, the detective wasn’t thinking about her looks. Teresa was a lawyer. After graduating from Columbia University with a bachelor’s degree in psychology, she continued at the same university and earned a master’s degree, this time in law. She was a superb lawyer — passionate, determined, and mercilessly “devoured” her opponents. It may sound cynical, but Tess believed that if you’re a lawyer, you must defend any client, even if he’s a maniac or a rapist. Whether you want to or not, whether you feel sympathy or hatred toward the client — it’s still your job. And your job must be done 100%.



Lou dialed her number but hung up immediately — he didn’t know how to explain to his beloved why he took on this case, where the information came from, and lying was out of the question. “Alright, I’ll ask her to trust me for now, and maybe later I’ll tell the truth.” He dialed again.



“Hello, hi Tess.”



“Hello, Lou.”



“How are you? Am I bothering you too much?”



“I’m fine, thanks. No, I’ve got a minute. What about you? Everything okay?”



“Yes, sweetheart, all good, running around. Can you spare 15–20 minutes?”



“Now?”



“If you can — now. If not — we’ll do it later.”



“Mmm, where are you? Can you come over right now?”



“Of course, I’m already in the car.”



“Great, call me when you’re outside the office.”



Teresa worked at an office in Manhattan, on the corner of 6th Avenue and West 47th Street. Twenty-five minutes later, Lucas was there. Tess came out — dressed in a business suit with a blazer and skirt. The suit was ivory-colored, contrasting with her dark skin and loose black hair. She kissed the detective as he got out of the car and pointed toward a café.



“Let’s go get coffee.”



They ordered drinks and a pastry for Tess. She leaned back in her chair, looking Lou in the eye.



“You’re tense — talk to me, what’s going on?”



Lucas told her the whole story, leaving out only Miss Olivia’s ghost. Teresa looked past Lou, thinking.



“Sweetheart, I’m a lawyer, and you’re a detective. Doesn’t it bother you that none of the information can be verified? Everything — the theft of the painting, maybe it was sold, lost, or traded; the idea that the documents are still in the house, or even that they exist; the testimony that this guy, Robert, didn’t kill his uncle; the fact that someone is looking for these papers in both houses. You say the guy was orphaned after his mother’s death — where did you get that info?”



“Kitten, I can’t tell you where I got it. Not because I don’t trust you — otherwise I wouldn’t have come — but because you simply wouldn’t believe it. Still, I tend to trust the source.”



“Lucas, you’re scaring me… What kind of source could I not believe? Aliens? Elves?”



She laughed. Lucas smiled too and shrugged vaguely.



“Spill it, or I won’t help.”



The detective hesitated, then waved his hand.



“I spoke to his mother’s ghost…”



“WHAT?!”



Tess’s eyes widened in shock, scanning the detective’s face for signs of mockery.  

“What the hell! Are you serious?! You’re pragmatic when it comes to work — how did you come to this?! Did you hold a seance?”  

“No, she showed up in my apartment on her own.”  



Lucas told the part of the story he’d kept hidden.  



“That’s insane! Lou, I don’t even know how to respond. But I’m already willing to help — no one’s ever had experience like this.”  



The girl looked at Lou with fascination, raised her hand into the air.  

“Just imagine how we’re going to build his defense.”  



Teresa laughed again, but her laughter suddenly stopped. She grew thoughtful, her expression serious.  

“Listen, Lou. The first thing we need to do — after I sign the agreement to defend the accused — is draft a document, not even an agreement, but a power of attorney that gives me the right to keep the painting’s documents. Now, I urgently need to see your Olivia. I wonder if she’ll appear to me?”  



“I think so. I’m not the only one who sees her.”  



Lucas told her about Mo’s visit and how quickly he’d left.  



Tess chuckled, pointed a finger at the detective.  

“I’ll be at your place tonight — even if you say no, I’m coming anyway. I’ll bang on the door until you open it.”  



Lou burst out laughing.  

“You’ll embarrass me in front of the whole building. Then I’ll need to cook something.”  

“Just buy wine. I know your cooking — master chef. I’ll bring the groceries and cook myself.”  



“Tell me this — aren’t you scared?”  

“I am,” the girl admitted honestly, looking him straight in the eye.  

“But I’m way more curious than I’m scared.”  



“Alright then, ghost hunter. I’ll see you tonight.”  



They agreed to meet in the evening, around 7:00 p.m., and Lou headed out to find Mo. He had an idea where the new Chinese restaurant was — the one Moses had mentioned. It was already midday, and he figured the place would be open.  



He wasn’t wrong. The hall — like the gangster had said — was large and beautifully decorated, full of people who looked like office workers from nearby buildings.  



“Good afternoon.”  



Two waiters approached Lucas and greeted him with a bow, saying,  

“Níng hǎo.”  



The detective sat at the table they offered. While waiting for his ordered noodles with meat and vegetables, Lou looked around the restaurant.  



In the corner — just as expected — sat four guys from Rhino’s gang. Lucas walked over to them; they looked at him warily and surprised. Without greeting them, he said,  

“Call Mo and tell him Palao’s here. Tell him to come.”  



Without waiting for a reaction, Lucas returned to his seat, pulled out his phone and checked his messages.  



His food arrived — fresh, tasty, and inexpensive. He drank green tea and leaned back peacefully in the soft chair.  



Rhino arrived five minutes later, breathless. He walked in, spotted Lucas, and sat at his table.  

“Hey, Palao.”  

“Hey, Mo. Take a look. Though if I were you, I’d bring a couple guys here too, so people don’t start whispering that you’re a snitch. Let them know we’re trying to clear you and the others of murder charges.”  



Moses nodded understandingly, called over the guys from the far table, and motioned to someone outside. Two more walked in — the same ones who had come to the detective’s apartment earlier.  



“Listen, guys. We need to prove we’ve got nothing to do with it. Do you recognize these people from the sketches?”  



The guy who had just walked in picked up the drawings first, turned them around, looked at Mo.  

“Boss, that’s the nutcase who shot at the bartender…”  

“How interesting.”  



The detective stared at Rhino; the gangster pressed his lips together.  

“Palao, that bastard’s name is Eugene — no idea about his last name, I don’t ask those. I didn’t mention the bartender before because there was nothing to mention — nobody got hurt. The guys took his gun and threw him out. Warned him they’d kill him if he showed up again. But it was just to scare him,” Mo added nervously, looking at Lucas.  

“Bullet—”  



Moses turned to the guy holding the sketches.  

“What do they call him?”  

“His nickname is Speedy Gonzales. His laugh sounds like that cartoon character. He was totally nuts. And the second guy — that’s Jeremy, his buddy.”  



He placed the sketches on the table. The other guys turned them over, unsure what to do, but confirmed Bullet’s words.  



“Mo, keep Bullet and your other guy — the uninvited guest — here. The rest can go. Now explain that bartender story.”  



“You don’t need it. We were hanging out at the bar. That idiot was high, started waving a gun around, the guys tried calming him down, he began running around, acting up. The bartender begged him to put the gun down, and he fired at him. Thank God, he missed. The guys pinned him, smacked him around a bit, and threw him outside. The bartender kept the gun...”  



“Listen, I’ll need to find those two. The bartender — that’s good. Will he testify in your favor?”  



“Judd, Bullet — you know him. Is he solid?”  

“Yeah, boss, he’s good. We always treated him right. He won’t back out. And if he finds out it’s for your alibi, he’ll help instantly. It’s the truth — let him write it down.”  



“Palao, what else do you need?”  

“Pick five or six guys — more if you want — who have brains and can come give testimony. You can act moderately bold — like people who know they’re innocent. The statements should go like this: yes, we know those two, their names are so-and-so; no, they’re not one of us, we kicked them out for erratic behavior. Someone can say they gave them a ride home, someone else can mention a last name. Keep it smooth. Say you were summoned by Detectives Palau and Smollett. Everyone should have rock-solid alibis. And no dumb stuff like: ‘Where were you during the murder?’ – ‘At home.’ First ask: ‘When did the murder happen?’ In short, Moses, prepare. If everything goes as we discussed, you’ll be cleared of this case. I need the bar’s address and the bartender’s name.”  



Jared grabbed a pen and a piece of paper from the waiter, scribbled down info, and slid it to the detective. Lucas read it, put the note in his pocket, and was about to get up when Rhino stopped him.  



“Palao, hold on a minute. I’ve got a question. Two, actually.”  



The gangster smiled — not mockingly, more humbly.  

“Shoot.”  

“That… thing I saw in your apartment... was that a ghost?”  

“Yeah.”  

“Ah… What’s it doing there?”  

“Living.”  

“Ah… Why?”  

“So I’m not bored — we chat.”  

“Ah… Got it... Where’d it come from?”  

“I summoned it — my grandma’s a witch, didn’t you know?”  



Lucas could barely hold back his laughter, watching Rhino.  

“Don’t worry, it doesn’t attack unless commanded. I only send it to enemies. We’re not enemies, are we?”  

“What?! Palao! Of course not!”  

“Then don’t worry. Okay, second question.”  



Moses was so stunned he forgot what he was going to ask.  

“Mo!”  

“Huh? Oh, I forgot what else I wanted to ask. Anyway, I’ll get the guys ready. They’ll be at your station tomorrow, around 10. Cool?”  

“Yeah. Alright, I’m off. If anything, find me. Although, wait — listen: something’s bugging me. You’re being set up, clearly. I told you before, Mo — think. Here’s the thought that won’t leave me alone: I suspect those two are already dead. They were exposed, the blame shifted to you, and now they’re no use to anyone. So we need to act fast, because tomorrow, right after your testimonies, they’ll start looking for them. And God willing — I’m wrong. See you tomorrow.”







“Hello, Pete, where are you? Uh-huh, great, I’m on my way to the station too.”



At the station, Lou told Pete everything he'd learned from Rhino’s men.  

“What about Mo? Does he grasp how serious this is?”  

“Yes. He’ll bring in enough people for us to build a solid case. Did the captain ask about me?”  

“He did — I told him you were out interviewing witnesses.”  

“By the way, don’t tell him that we’re having a gangster convention here tomorrow. Let it be a shock for everyone. Also, we need to bring in Ángel tomorrow, because we’ll be stuck here all day with this gang.”  

“Whisper to him to be here by 10:00 a.m. And tell him not to mention it to anyone.”



The captain walked out of his office.  

“Palao, how’s it going?”  

“Good afternoon, sir! We’re moving forward. We’ll have results from the questioning tomorrow. Right now Smollett and I are going to interview another witness — Samuel Polonsky.”  

“Who’s that?”  

“The bartender from the bar where Mo’s guys hang out. Figured I shouldn’t go alone, just in case...”  

“Smart. Go together — with those types, anything’s possible.”



Lucas checked the note — they arrived at the address. Pete looked out the car window and whistled — they expected a cowboy-style dive bar, but this place defied expectations.  

“Wow. Is this really it?”  

“Yeah, same address: 1401 Plaza Drive, Bar Suyo. Let’s go.”



The bar was impressive — it felt more like a high-end restaurant, with a huge selection of food and drinks.  

“Man, gangsters live well. I can only imagine what the prices here are like.”  

“Trust me — way out of our pay grade.”



Lou sighed. They went inside, looked around. No one was there — for a place like this, the workday hadn’t started yet.



“Hello, what can I get you?”



A dark-haired, green-eyed bartender smiled warmly at them from behind the impressive length of the bar. The officers showed their badges.  

“We’re looking for Samuel Polonsky.”  

“That’s me. Is this about the idiot who shot at me? Jared warned me you’d come. Let’s go to that table and talk.”  



“Mr. Polonsky, Mo’s guys told me the gun from the incident is still with you?”  

“Yeah, but I didn’t touch it — picked it up by the trigger guard with two fingers and put it in a bag.”  

“Mr. Polonsky, next time don’t be so careless — illegal possession of a firearm is still punishable. Just imagine: if someone had been killed with that gun and you’re the one holding it — who do you think they’d suspect first?”



The guy turned pale — clearly hadn’t thought through the consequences when hiding the weapon.  

“I... I didn’t even think...”  

“Alright, take it easy. Just tell us everything. Don’t worry, we know you’re not involved.”



The bartender confirmed everything Lou had already heard from Rhino’s men. The officers confiscated the weapon, recorded him as a witness, and asked him to come to the station tomorrow morning to formally testify. The bartender calmed down and promised to be there by 10 sharp.



“This place just made me absolutely ravenous,” Pete said, patting his stomach.  

“Let’s go to that — what’s it called — the place you and Martinez always go.”  

“‘Tacos’?”  

“Yeah. Here we can only afford a cup of coffee. One cup for half our paycheck.”



Peter smiled sadly. Lucas patted him consolingly on the shoulder and got in the car.  

They each got a $9 burrito, a bottle of Coke, and sat at a small table.  

“Now this is food that fits a cop’s budget.”  

“Don’t cry, Pete — once you’re captain, you’ll eat at Suyo every day.”  

“Captain, yeah, sure. We should at least try for sergeant first...”  

“Don’t cry, soldier.”



At the station, the detectives brought the gun to the lab to lift fingerprints and run a ballistics test.



—



Lucas bought flowers and a bottle of wine for Tess. Cleaned up after the cat, swept the floor, checked the apartment — it was as tidy as could be. He settled on the couch. Confucius jumped up too, demanding attention for his philosophical presence. The cat playfully grabbed the petting hand, rolled over, dashed to the door — and just then the doorbell rang.



Lou opened the door, hugged and kissed Teresa. Confucius also insisted on cuddles.  

“Hello, hello, my darlings! Confucius, let’s cook dinner — hungry?”  

“Me or Confucius?”  

“Both.”



Teresa laughed, headed to the kitchen, occasionally tripping over the philosopher trailing at her feet. Lou brought in the bags Tess had brought and set them on the table.



(dinner)



“Sit on the couch with me. Confucius, come here. Miss Olivia, I need to speak with you.”



The air shimmered, the space in the corner quivered — like it does sometimes in heat, when the air “ripples” on the road. Olivia appeared. Teresa gasped and grabbed Lou’s hand.



“Good evening, Lucas.”  

“Good evening, ma’am. Meet my girlfriend Teresa Pak. She’s the lawyer who will defend your son.”  

“Good evening, Teresa — pleased to meet you. And thank you both for your help!”  

“Teresa, do you hear what Miss Olivia is saying?”  

“Yes!”



Tess looked at Lou — half fearful, half amazed.  

“Miss Olivia, please don’t be offended. I didn’t believe Lou when he told me about you. And as a lawyer, I need to be sure the information is reliable.”  

“Dear, don’t apologize — I wasn’t sure I was me either...”



Olivia gestured at herself.  

“In this... form, I can’t help anyone. And my son is all alone, without support.”



Her voice carried such hopelessness that Teresa burst into tears, touched by the mother’s pain for her son.



“Oh, please, darling, don’t cry. I’ve already gotten used to this condition. Turns out even ghosts have personal lives.”



Tess stopped crying from surprise and stared at Olivia wide-eyed.  

“What do you mean?”  

“Turns out there are lots like me — lost souls. Long dead but still stuck in this state. Some of us talk to each other, and one of them is even courting me...”



Miss Olivia blushed. Lucas smiled.



“Ma’am, that’s wonderful! Makes life — well, afterlife — more lively.”  

“Yes... he seems nice... even if he’s a ghost.”



“Excuse me for interrupting, Miss Olivia.”  

“I’m listening, Lucas.”  

“Please give me the address of your son’s workshop.”  

“1083 Jerome Avenue. There’s an electronics shop nearby.”  

“Got it. I already have a plan to get into the prison and meet Robert.”



“Let’s think together what I should say to make him open up and trust me. He’ll have to learn — there’s no other way — that you’re the source. Of course, he won’t believe it, will think I’m crazy. But if you tell me about a fact from his childhood, a shared secret, something only you know and no one else could, then he might reconsider. He’ll realize I could’ve only learned it from him — or from you.”



“I can’t picture Rob listening to you talk about our family secrets. But you’re right — he won’t believe otherwise. Yes, there was one moment from our life — my husband was still alive then. I think it was 17 years ago. We were out walking — late autumn. Rob and Leo — that’s my husband — saved a swan on the lake. It had swallowed bait from a snapped fishing line and the hook got caught in its beak. Rob cried, hugging the poor bird around the neck, while his dad removed the hook. No one saw it — only the three of us knew.”



“Yes, that kind of memory will work perfectly. By the way, Miss Olivia, did you ever try to reach Robert? After your death, I mean?”  

“I tried... But something always stopped me, kept me out...”  

“Physically or emotionally?”  

“Probably both. I couldn’t get through to him — found you easily, but not him. And I’m sure I’d face fear, rejection, and unwillingness to accept my... existence.”  

“Yeah... None of this is clear. I don’t understand your condition or how you appear, so let’s not dwell on it. What else...”  

“Wait — I have a question.”  

“Go ahead, Tess.”  

“The end goal is to sell the painting, which is impossible without the documents. The thieves didn’t find them, but sooner or later they will — the house is empty. I’ll draft a contract — a power of attorney — stating that my client, Robert Holden, entrusts all documents about the painting to his attorney, Teresa Pak, until he requests them back. Two copies — and the head of the correctional facility can act as the notary. I think me showing up after Lucas won’t be such a shock anymore.”



“We just need to hide the painting documents among other papers — like ones about the house, or workshop items — anything to keep them inconspicuous.



…but here’s the question — how do we retrieve those documents from the house?”



Two pairs of female eyes — one alive, one ghostly — looked at Lou with great intensity.  

“Thank you, ladies. So you’re suggesting I sneak into the house and steal them?”  

“Do you see another way, darling?”  

“Lucas, I can even tell you where the spare key is hidden.”  

“What are you two pushing me toward? This is a crime!”



“And what’s happening to this family right now — isn’t that a crime?!!! Your actions aren’t intended to harm or cause damage! Quite the opposite! Yes, you don’t have written permission, but don’t be such a formalist!”  

“And that’s coming from a lawyer! Alright... I’ll think tomorrow about how to do it.”



Almost until three in the morning, Lou and Tess turned the situation over from every angle. Each voiced ideas, and together they dissected them, trying not to miss anything important. Young lovers, full of energy and drive — that night, they didn’t make love, though they missed each other — their minds were consumed by unraveling this one-of-a-kind case, no matter how you looked at it.



“Alright, that’s it, let’s go to sleep, sweetheart. Tomorrow’s going to be tough.”  

“How am I supposed to sleep?! I.TALKED.TO.A.GHOST! This is insane!”



Lucas laughed, kissed his beloved.  

“I know — but you’ve got to get used to our new reality







The morning at the precinct began as usual: after getting instructions from the captain, Pete and Lou grabbed coffee and sat at their desk.  

“Well? Just a bit longer and we’ll find out if our Rhino scheme worked.”  

“Oh, Lou... My palms are sweating with curiosity.”



Christo Dobrev from the counterterrorism division stepped out onto the porch to smoke. In the courtyard stood about eight Black men. The officer eyed them sternly.  

“Hey, gang! What are you loitering around here for?”  

One of the guys gave Christo a sour look and reluctantly replied:  

“We came to give testimony.”  

“What?!”



The massive Bulgarian officer almost fell off the porch from shock.  

“Seriously?! Who summoned you?”  

“Detectives Palao and Smollett.”  

“Hold up, just a sec—”



Christo marched into the precinct.  

“Palao! Smollett! There’s a bunch of Mo’s thugs outside saying they came to give testimony. It’s like the second coming of Christ!”



A hush fell over the station — some peeked out of their offices to check if Dobrev was serious, others rushed out to the porch to see for themselves.  

“Hey folks! Don’t spook the witnesses — they might run off!”  

Lucas laughed.  

“Pete, let’s grab a few for questioning. Ángel! Martinez! Help us out, there’s a lot of them.”



Mo’s guys behaved boldly, but they gave their testimonies. Gradually, the identities of the suspects emerged. The one who shot at the bartender was Eugene Tyler, and the second — Jeremy Gibson. Police now had both their addresses.



“You hear that, Mikey?”  

Lou asked the next witness.  

“Jeremy — did anyone hang out with him besides Speedy Gonzales?”  

“No clue. I didn’t roll with him. He’s not even African — poor quarter-blood.”  

“Oh, come on! Look, Pete, I’ve got a true Aryan here — just Black. Mikey, your last name isn’t Hitler by chance?”  

The thug muttered something under his breath.  

“Sign here and you’re free to go.”



The final witness was the bartender. Samuel Polonsky repeated what he’d already told them, signed the report. Martinez headed to the bar with him to recover the bullet from the wall and add it to the evidence. But the grand — almost triumphant — finale was delivered by Moses Pierce himself, entering the precinct with none other than Anthony Spivak, a lawyer famous throughout New York and worth nearly as much as the “Estrela de Fura” ruby.



Both wore expensive suits and shoes, looking down at the officers. Spivak scanned the detectives sitting at their desks, knocked on the captain’s office door, and entered — letting Mo walk ahead.



“Lou, all that’s missing is a press crew and Mo’ll go from suspect to victim of police brutality.”  

“Pretty much.”



The lawyer and Mo came out five minutes later. Rhino stopped in the middle of the station and sneered:  

“Hasta la vista, cops.”  

Then swaggered toward the exit.



The captain emerged from his office.  

“Well, I’ll be damned!”



He spread his arms in amazement.  

“Palao, Smollett — I don’t know how you managed this, but I hope all the testimonies turned out as needed.”  

“They did, sir. We’ve got names, addresses, even the gun belonging to one of the suspects.”  

“So why are you still sitting here? Assemble a team and go check those addresses!”  

“Yes, sir!”



“Captain — let the guys go. I’ve got one more important witness. He’s in prison right now. Those two were seen at his workshop — apparently he fixed weapons for them.”  

“Alright, Palao. We’ve got enough people — you go to the prison.”



Lucas found Detective Jeremy McCallough.  

“Hey, McCallough.”  

“Hey, Palau.”  

“Tell me — this guy…”



Lou flipped through his notebook, pretending not to remember the name given by the witness.  

“Robert Holden — you arrested him?”  

“I did. Why?”  

McCallough replied without hesitation.  

“Mo’s guys say he has his own workshop. The suspects had him fix their weapons.”  

“Could be. He’s in for murder.”  

“No way?!”



Lucas clapped his hands theatrically.  

“Then he’s 100% our guy. Where’s he locked up?”  

“Rikers Island.”  

“Alright, I’m heading over to talk to him.”  

“Go ahead.”



McCallough replied indifferently and sat down at his desk

You could only reach the prison on Rikers Island via a single bridge. Palao’s papers were checked three times, and they kept asking him to confirm the detainee’s name before finally pointing him to the right building.

There wasn’t a dedicated interrogation room at the prison. Meetings and interviews were conducted in a shared space with plastic chairs and tables. Robert was brought to the detective in front-locking handcuffs. A long chain led from the cuffs to shackles. He had a scrape on his nose from a hit, and a bruise under his eye.

Palao turned to the guard.  
“You could at least take the cuffs off. He’s hobbled like a horse — where’s he gonna run?”  
“Yeah right. He’s a murderer. What if he lunges and kills you?”  
“You serious? His conviction isn’t even confirmed. A suspect isn’t a killer. You want me to write out a formal waiver of liability?”  
“That’d be great,”  
the guard grumbled, removing Holden’s handcuffs.

“Hello, Mr. Holden. I’m Detective Palao. I need to ask you a few questions.”  
“Hello, I’m listening.”

Lucas waited for the guard to step away toward the wall, then spoke quickly and quietly.  
“Listen closely, Robert. I’ll be showing you some sketches and photos — they don’t concern you. Just pretend you’re looking at them and focus on me. I’m 101% sure you didn’t commit any murder.”

The inmate stirred, but the detective hushed him.  
“Easy. I can see you’ve been beaten.”

Holden opened his mouth, glanced toward the guard by the wall, and said nothing.  
“You don’t have to say it — it’s written all over your face. Starting tomorrow, you’ll have a new attorney. Not a public defender — your own, and a very strong one. Her name is Teresa Pak.”

The inmate tried to speak, but Lucas signaled him to stay quiet. Then spoke loudly, so the guard could hear:  
“Look carefully at the photos.”

He lowered his voice again.  
“Next: no one will touch you here anymore — I’ll take care of that. Not a word to anyone about this conversation — clear?”

Robert nodded, glanced at the guard, then leaned toward the detective.  
“Explain to me — why all this care all of a sudden? I don’t have money for a lawyer, or for anything else.”

“I made a promise to help you...”  
“To whom?”

“You probably won’t believe me, but I’ll try to explain. First, let’s get the facts straight: we’re convinced that your uncle wasn’t just murdered and the cops couldn’t find the killer and pinned it on you — rather, the uncle was killed *so that you would be arrested* and wouldn’t interfere.”

“Why?!”

“Your painting was stolen almost immediately after your mother’s death — but without the paperwork. Without it, no one can sell the painting.”

“How do you know that?!”

“Quiet.”

Lucas turned toward the guard who’d twitched at Holden’s outburst and raised his hand to calm him.

“We know the thieves already searched your house, but didn’t find the hiding spot — though they will soon, if the documents aren’t removed.”

“But how do you—?!!”

“I said sit quietly and listen!”

The detective raised his voice.

“We talked it over and made a decision: you’ll sign a power of attorney for your new lawyer to temporarily hold your documents. And you’ll also decide what *other*, less important documents she’ll receive, so the painting paperwork doesn’t stand out.”

“Ohhh, so *you’re* the one who stole the painting! And now I’m supposed to hand everything over and make it easier for you.”

“You have every right to think so. But — before I leave — I’ll tell you a story.

Seventeen years ago, late in the fall, little Rob, his dad Leo, and mom Olivia Holden were walking by a lake. A swan swallowed some bait from a fishing hook, and the hook got stuck in its beak…”

Robert’s eyes widened.  
“How do you… That’s impossible!”

“Robert, if I were you I wouldn’t believe it either. But think about how I could possibly know that story — or about the hiding place for the documents.”

“Detective… this just *can’t* be!”

“As you can see — it can. I’m leaving now. Hang in there — we’ll get you out. From here on out, everything goes through lawyer Pak.”

The guard led the inmate to a solitary cell, removed the chains, and locked the door. Robert sat down, wrapped his arms around his head, and tried to process what he'd just heard.

—

Lucas crossed the bridge and headed straight to Mo’s Chinese restaurant. Greeting the waiters, he took a seat and placed an order. Apparently, Rhino had changed the arrangement — that was the only explanation Lucas could find. Now the waiters warned him in advance when the detective arrived, and Mo’s men weren’t in the restaurant. Mo showed up quickly and sat down next to Lucas.

“Hey, Palao.”  
“Hey, Mo.”  
“Everything alright?”  
“Yeah, your guys did everything right. Just a few details left — checking your alibi, for instance. But I’m not worried about that. By the way — nice job. That appearance with the lawyer was impressive.”

Moses grinned, winked.  
“Yep. Spivak cost me a pretty penny, but it was worth it. Thank you so much, Palao. You’re a truly just man.”  
“Glad to help, Mo. You won’t believe it, but I came to ask a favor in return.”  
“No kidding?! Anything you need!”  
“You got anyone solid and reliable in Rikers?”  
“Oh ho — Rikers? We got Zulu in Rikers! Doesn’t get more solid than that!”

“Perfect — just what I need.”

Zulu was a legend not only in criminal circles but also among law enforcement. An African — *not* African American — very tall, thin but sinewy. Some said he was from Swaziland, others from Botswana or Nigeria — no one knew for sure. In police circles, it was rumored that Zulu had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Accused of double murder, with no alibi. His public defenders couldn’t prove his innocence — nor could the prosecutors prove his guilt.

Moses had offered to hire a lawyer for him, but Zulu — full name Mguna — categorically refused to let anyone spend money on him. And so, for many years, he sat in pretrial detention at Rikers.

He was a master diplomat — Blacks, Latinos, Asians, and Arabs coexisted peacefully. The only group Mguna had an ongoing war with — white inmates. One leader of the neo-Nazi faction stabbed Zulu near the heart. Zulu grabbed him by the throat with his left hand, yanked out the shank, and turned the attacker into a heap of bloody meat — all in front of dozens of witnesses.

Afterward came the infirmary, then solitary confinement. But many inmates testified that Zulu had been attacked — that he was defending himself.

During his time in the infirmary, Zulu befriended the doctors and had secret channels for accessing anything: medicine, cigarettes, water, drugs, phones, etc. The prison administration appreciated his diplomatic skill — he kept peace, prevented fights, and secured perks for other inmates. Guards feared him and wanted no trouble. One overzealous officer who hit a detainee fell from the second floor during a cell inspection and broke his neck. Officially, it was an accident — no one was charged. But everyone got the message.

“What do you need Zulu for? Gonna send him ‘prohibited packages’?”

Mo laughed.  
“Yeah right. Me, sending contraband?”

“There’s a guy locked up — an orphan. He’s in a nasty situation, just like you were. He’s been charged with killing his uncle, but I swear — he’s completely innocent. I saw him today — he’s been beaten. No clue by whom. He doesn’t know me, so I can’t count on his trust.”

“Oh, Palao... Why haven’t you grown angel wings yet? You try to help everyone. Are you handling his case?”  
“No, another detective is.”  
“Then how do you know for sure he’s innocent?”  
“You forgot who’s helping me?”

Lucas gave a crooked grin, locking eyes with Rhino.  
“Oh right.”

Moses slapped a hand over his mouth and glanced around.  
“Yeah… that’s a strong argument. Just won’t hold up in court.”  
“Well listen — you’re saving people, so call on me. I’ll help. I mean it.”

“Thanks, Mo. If I need backup, I’ll ask. Tell Zulu not to let anyone mess with the kid. If possible, keep an eye on anyone who starts asking him questions.”

“I’ll call him right now. Hang on.”

Mo dialed his cell phone.  
“Hey, brother! How are you? Great — glad to hear. How’s your health? Good.

You got everything you need in there, or you need anything? Let me know.

I’ve got something important. Need you to take someone under your wing — a kid, an orphan. Cops are pressing him hard. Hang on…”

Moses covered the receiver.  
“What’s his name?”  
“Robert Holden.”  
“Robert Holden, bro. He’s in solitary somewhere.
“…He’s white.”  
“Who told you?”

Mo raised his brows in question. Lucas gave a vague shrug — as if saying, “decide for yourself.”

“Brother, you heard of Detective Palao? Yeah, that one. He’s asking for this favor. Alright — thank you, man. Stay in touch.”

“Well,” Mo said, “he said that now even a fly won’t get near that kid’s cell without permission. So don’t worry. Dig where you need to dig to clear the guy’s name.”

“Thanks again, Mo. And we’re even now — if you mess up, I’ll lock you up without a second thought.”  
“Ha — I know how you are. No need to remind me. Alright then, take care!”

—

Next morning, after breakfast, the door to Robert Holden’s solitary cell opened. A tall, thin African man stepped inside, looked at Robert for a few seconds — and the young man instinctively tensed up, knowing who this was.

“Hello, Robert. Relax. I come in peace. Do you know who I am?”  
“Hello. Yes, I do. You’re Zulu.”  
“That’s good. Listen — I know you’re an orphan. *Were*.”

Mguna gave Robert a meaningful look.

“From now on, we — me, my crew, and everyone who’s with us — are your family. And we’ll tear apart anyone who dares touch you.”  
“I don’t understand. First — I’m white, and as far as I know, you don’t like whites.  
Second — I just don’t see why I deserve this kind of luck…”

“I’ll tell you: you’re new here, and don’t understand — I don’t care what color someone’s skin is. What matters is whether they’re a *person*. Whether they’re Black, white, green, or blue — makes no difference. Those Nazi defectives declared their racist war, and now reap the consequences. Next: a *human being* asked me to help you. He’s a cop — and I hate cops, their rotten, corrupt crowd — but this one, no matter how desperate the department is to pin guilt on someone, never locks up anyone without proof.

No matter who you are, if your guilt isn’t proven, he’ll treat you as a person. That’s the kind of man he is. And the one who passed me his request — was an outright criminal. Yes, a criminal. But the cop cleared him of murder — simply because it was the just thing to do. So I agreed to help you without hesitation. Got it?”

“All but one thing — he’s not my investigator. Why is he doing this?”

“Like I said — out of a sense of justice. Higher justice, you might say. That’s his nature. If everyone were like him — this place wouldn’t be overcrowded.”

“He’s Palao?”

“Yeah. Detective Lucas Palao. Now listen: if I’ve got this right, the cops are trying to shake something out of you by any means. Don’t tell *anyone* anything — including us — that could be used against you. And don’t mention that Detective Palao visited you, or showed interest. He stuck his nose into someone else’s case, so they might start interfering. Keep it secret until he tells you otherwise. Do you have a way to contact him? Or do you need help?”

“No, he said we’ll stay in touch through my new lawyer.”

“He’s sending you a lawyer? Smart. What’s their name?”

“Teresa... Teresa Pak, I think.”

Zulu burst out laughing.  
“Kid! You were born in diamond diapers! Even prosecutors are afraid of Pak. She’s so sharp, she bites opponents mid-air. Yeah, you’re lucky.”

“I’m just wondering why... I don’t even know any of them.”

“When your lawyer comes, ask her. But with those two — you’ve got a real shot at getting out.”

“You think so?”

“I do. And quit talking to me like I’m a cop arresting you.”

Robert laughed.  
“Got it. I won’t.”

His mood lifted rapidly. Hope sparked like the first rays of dawn. The only thing that still bothered him — though no longer irritated as it did yesterday — was Palao’s hint that he’d spoken with Robert’s late mother. *“Who else could’ve told him — I didn’t.”*

—

Lucas was catching up on sleep. He woke up to Confucius screaming — not meowing, but growling, hissing, spitting and snarling. Then the cat jumped from the bed, hid in a far corner of the room, and kept wailing. Lou opened his eyes, ready to yell at the cat — maybe even throw something — but the shimmer in the doorway stopped him.

A figure materialized in the doorframe. At first, the detective thought it was Olivia — but it was clearly male. He was an older man with slicked-back silver hair, a hooked nose, thick gray sideburns, a frock coat and a strangely knotted tie. His eyes burned with wild fire, his fingers twisted like claws.

“Who are you and what do you want?!”

Lou sat up, clutching the blanket. Strangely enough, he wasn’t afraid at all.

“Looks like I’ve come to the right place.”

The voice was rasping, louder than Olivia’s, and deeply unpleasant — like an electric drill buzzing inside his head.

“I don’t know where you meant to go, but I’m asking you kindly — calm down and don’t scare the cat.”

The ghost stared into the corner, spotted the cat, then turned back to Lou. His voice changed — calmer now, and no longer drilling into Lou’s brain.

“I came for you, Detective Palao. We’ve got trouble.”

“One thing at a time. How should I address you?”

“Polite one... just like Olivia said. After the way you and your girl treated Olivia’s misfortune, you can call me Uncle Vincent. You’ve restored my faith in humankind, I must admit.”

“Nice to meet you. So, Uncle Vincent — what trouble do *we*…”  
Lucas emphasized the word “we”…  
“…have?”

“Five minutes ago, some stinking witch tried to summon Miss Olivia. You realize — I hope — that given her current state, that would’ve been a kidnapping for information?”

“Of course. I even suspect only the people who stole the painting could afford to pay for that summoning. Did you see who ordered it?”

The ghost stayed silent — clearly puzzled.

“No, I didn’t get a good look. My fault — I was so focused on striking the summoner, so intent on ripping her apart from inside…”

His eyes blazed again, fingers curled into claws, and Confucius collapsed back into a panic.

“…that I didn’t notice the visitors. Sorry — my failure. She’s probably in the hospital by now…”

“How do you know that?”

“I gave her a heart attack.”

Lou stared silently, waiting. Uncle Vincent seemed to interpret that silence as judgment.

“Don’t look at me like that! I’m a *vengeful ghost*, as you people call us. So I went too far… out of habit…”

“I wasn’t judging you. I was just thinking and waiting for you to continue.”

“Well, that’s the whole story.”

“What about Miss Olivia?”

“She’s fine. I left her in a safe place… Secret... They won’t extract her easily from there.”

“Good. That’s the best news so far.”

“Yeah — because everything else is bad. Suspects can’t be interrogated, their identities unknown…”

“Uncle Vincent. Judging by your language — were you a cop? Before becoming a ghost, I mean.”

The spirit flared up again.

“What do you mean ghost?! I’m an *apparition*!”

“Easy, Uncle Vincent! You yourself called yourself a ‘vengeful ghost.’ And let’s agree right now — we’re on the same side. No need to argue. And reign in that anger — you’ll kill my cat.”

“You said… *you* people call us that… Sorry, Lucas, you’re right. Wait a minute.”

The apparition turned toward the cat. Lou heard nothing, but Confucius stopped flattening his ears. His fur settled. A few minutes later, the cat snorted, marched to the sofa, leapt onto it and curled up next to his owner.

“Uncle Vincent, if I’m not mistaken, apparitions are stronger than ghosts. You can change form and move objects?”

“Yes, that’s right. In short.”

“Uncle Vincent, as a police veteran with extensive experience — would you like to help in this investigation?”

“Hmm…”

The apparition smiled.

“That’d be wonderful. My word, it’s been ages... In 1916, they’d just formed the Bureau of Investigation under the Justice Department — that’s when I was transferred there. Oh, how we fought the ‘red’ plague brought from cursed Russia. Man, we chased down those communists…”

The ghost rolled his white eyes blissfully.

“We all owe you so much — can’t imagine what things would be like otherwise. If you don’t mind me asking — how did you die?”

“In the ‘20s, there was an Italian scumbag here in New York. A mafioso — Giuseppe, or ‘Joe’ as they called him — Masseria. He eliminated his rivals and by the late ‘20s became *capo di tutti capi* — boss of all bosses. I was Italian myself — Vincenzo Girotti. I was investigating shootouts over illegal alcohol, tons of murders — he was tightly hooked. But... in 1930, he ordered a hit on me, and I was shot. Three shooters — each fired at least five bullets. They dumped me in the river, but there’d been heavy rain, flooding — the body didn’t sink. My corpse drifted under an old, half-collapsed building. That’s where I’ve been ever since... Well, my bones.”

“Sorry if that upset you, Uncle Vincent. But may I ask — would you like a cigar?”

“Ah... I... Yes, but...”

“Wait. Let me, as a layman, propose a few bold ideas: you’re an apparition, with certain powers — you can move things, even lift light objects, right?”

“Well, yes.”

“Then you can pick up a cigar?”

The spirit thought for a few seconds.  
“Yes. I could.”

“Since you can think, you can imagine things too. And I’m convinced — can’t explain it scientifically, but I’m sure I’m right — that you and Miss Olivia, in your current states, are what we call *souls*. The part of us that lives in our bodies from birth until death — and now, apparently, even after. All the experience you gained in life is still with you. So here’s the conclusion: you can smoke a cigar — you can hold it, you can imagine the taste.”

“Son, I’m starting to like you.”