C13: A new case
Morning light slipped through the narrow gaps in the blinds and stretched across the bedroom in long pale stripes. Travis lay half buried in the sheets, one arm resting on Lanie's tummy.
At 7:30 sharp, the phone on the night table started ringing with a sharp vibration against the wood.
Travis groaned into the pillow, his eyes barely opening while his hand reached blindly toward the sound on the nightstand. He dragged the phone closer, rubbed his eyes with the heel of his palm, and answered with a rough voice that still carried the weight of sleep inside his chest.
"Wilson speaking. What have you got going on this early in the morning today?"
A clipped voice came through, already halfway into the report. "Detective, uniforms at 142 West 84th. Apartment 4B. The scene looks like a kidnapping turned bloody. We haven't found the body, but plenty of blood on the floor, walls, and kitchen counter. Signs of a struggle, broken furniture, one shoe left behind. The resident's girlfriend called it in when she couldn't reach him all night."
Travis sat up a little in the bed while listening carefully to the details, his free hand pushing messy hair back from his forehead while his brain slowly shifted gears from sleep into detective mode.
He took a deep breath, already calculating travel time. "Yeah, okay. I'll be there soon. Secure the scene, no one in or out until I get there."
He ended the call and dropped the phone back onto the night table.
Lanie stirred beside him, stretching slowly under the sheet as it slipped down from her upper body, revealing her boobs. Her dark hair fanned across the pillow, and she opened her eyes, voice still thick with sleep.
"Another case?" She asked.
Travis rolled onto his side to face her, propping himself on an elbow. "Yeah. Looks like a kidnapping with a side of violence. They haven't found the body yet, just a lot of blood and an empty apartment. Uniforms are holding it down."
Lanie pushed herself up on one elbow.
"Well then, detective, that probably means it is time for both of us to get moving with the day ahead of us," she replied with an amused expression on her face.
He reached out and traced a lazy finger along the curve of her bare shoulder, letting his hand drift down her arm. "Too bad. I was thinking we could steal a little more time. Jacuzzi's calling my name. Hot water, steam, and you naked and slippery..."
Lanie raised an eyebrow, a slow, knowing smirk curling her lips. She leaned closer until their noses almost touched. "Maybe tonight we can do something about that. I'll even bring the bubbles."
Travis closed the last inch of distance and kissed her, soft at first, then deeper, tongues sliding together in a lazy morning rhythm that still carried the heat from last night. When he finally pulled back, he brushed his thumb along her jawline.
"Looking forward to it, Miss Parish."
She gave him one more quick kiss, followed by a knowing smile. Then swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood, stretching her arms overhead so her back arched beautifully.
Travis watched her walk toward the bathroom, appreciating every step, before he forced himself to roll out of bed too.
...
[Crime scene]
Travis parked his black Ducati Monster near the cluster of patrol cars on West 84th Street and killed the engine.
The morning air still carried a faint chill.
He swung his leg over the bike, pulled off his helmet, and clipped it to the handlebars. A quick glance showed the usual early chaos: two uniforms keeping the small crowd of neighbors at bay, a CSU van idling at the curb, and a couple of reporters waiting around the place.
Officer Velazquez spotted him first and lifted the tape high enough for Travis to duck underneath without breaking stride.
"Morning, Detective," Velazquez said while falling in step beside him.
"Morning, officer," Travis said as they walked toward the building. "Walk me through..."
Officer Velazquez explained, "Scene's upstairs, fourth floor, apartment 4B. The victim's name is Ethan Mercer, thirty-four, works as a financial analyst downtown. Girlfriend's name is Sarah Kline. She's the one who called it in around five this morning when he didn't answer her texts or pick up his phone all night. She has a key, lets herself in, sees the mess, and bolts back to the hallway to call 911."
Travis nodded once and asked. "Girlfriend inside now?"
Velazquez answered, "Downstairs in the lobby with another officer. She's shaken but coherent. Says they had dinner here last night, and she left around eleven to head back to her own place in Chelsea because she had an early meeting. Mercer was supposed to text her when he locked up. Nothing came through."
"Well, let's check out the apartment first," He said, already starting up the narrow staircase.
They reached the fourth-floor landing. The door to 4B stood wide open, held by a rubber doorstop.
Inside, the apartment looked like someone had tried to stage a hurricane in the living room. A glass coffee table lay shattered across the hardwood, shards glittering under the overhead lights. The sofa had been shoved sideways, one cushion torn open with stuffing spilling out. Blood smeared the wall in long streaks near the hallway, more splattered on the kitchen counter, and a single high-heeled shoe—black, size eight—lay abandoned near the overturned dining chair.
Travis stopped just inside the threshold and took in the whole room without moving his feet. "First impression?"
Velazquez kept his voice low. "Looks like a home invasion that escalated fast. The front door shows no forced entry, so either the vic let someone in or they had a key. Blood trail starts in the living room, continues down the hall toward the bedroom, then stops cold in the master bath. No body or weapon recovered yet, but CSU is still sweeping. We found a broken lamp base in the hallway that might have been used as a club. Glass fragments mixed with blood on the carpet."
"Nice job, officer," Travis praised her.
Velazquez simply smiled.
He stepped forward carefully, avoiding the larger blood pools. He crouched lower near the kitchen counter, tilting his head to study the blood pattern more closely. The smears looked dramatic at first glance, long dramatic arcs across the wall like someone had been thrown hard, but the edges were too even, too controlled. Real struggle blood sprays in chaotic bursts, not neat theatrical strokes. He put his gloves on and touched the edge of one streak; it was still tacky but not fresh enough for a night-old scene. Someone had taken their time staging this.
He stood and moved through the living room.
'No hair or tissue,' Travis thought after examining the broken glass.
He stepped over broken glass and the torn cushion stuffing that spilled across the floor like fake snow. The sofa had been shoved at an angle that made no sense for a real fight, positioned just so the stuffing could look like frantic searching. He nudged one of the cushions with his boot tip. The tear ran straight and clean, no ragged edges from desperate hands clawing at fabric. A knife had done that, deliberate and slow.
"Interesting," he muttered under his breath.
Velazquez hovered near the hallway entrance. "You seeing something we missed?"
Travis didn't answer right away. He walked into the kitchen and pulled open the fridge door with his gloved hand. Cold air brushed his face. Inside sat the usual lineup at first glance: milk carton, half-eaten takeout containers, bottles of water, and a few yogurts on the middle shelf. Normal domestic clutter. But the shelves had been customized with clear plastic organizers that looked too precise for casual use, the kind labs use to keep samples upright and labeled. Tucked behind the milk sat three empty medical-grade glass bottles, the kind used for blood collection or serum storage. No labels remained, but the rubber stoppers still have faint puncture marks from needles. The bottles were spotless inside, not a trace of residue.
Travis explained. "This isn't a normal fridge setup. Someone turned it into a mini cold-storage unit. Those bottles are phlebotomy grade, the exact kind you draw blood into at a clinic or a private lab. Have the forensics test everything in this fridge. I'm pretty sure they'll find blood residue and have them collect all the kitchen knives. Tell them to look for fabrics or any traces of cotton that match the cushion."
Velazquez scribbled it on her notepad and stepped closer and looked inside the fridge. "You think the vic was collecting his own blood?"
"Exactly." Travis picked up one of the unopened water bottles from the top shelf, twisted the cap, and brought it to his nose.
The clean, sharp scent of bottle cleaner hit him immediately, the kind used in labs to sterilize glassware between uses.
Then held it before her. She also took a quick sniff.
"Medical grade clear?" Velazquez asked.
Travis nodded, "Yep. Probably drew his own blood over days or weeks, stored it cold, then used it last night to paint the scene. Excessive volume, perfect consistency for splatter, no arterial spray because it wasn't pumped from a living body under pressure. Then he rinsed these bottles obsessively."
He set the bottle back and closed the fridge's door. "The struggle marks, the torn cushions, even the single shoe left behind, all designed to scream kidnapping and foul play. But the blood is his, placed deliberately. The furniture edges look clean despite this 'struggle', and no hair or fibers are caught in the broken glass. Someone sat here and painted this picture."
Velazquez rubbed the back of his neck. "So Ethan Mercer faked his own disappearance. Why go through all this trouble?"
Travis leaned against the counter, arms crossed, staring at the blood streaks on the wall. "People vanish for three reasons: debt, danger, or desire. Debt would leave angry creditors knocking already. Danger would mean cartel or mob ties, but his financial analyst job doesn't scream high-risk contacts. That leaves desire. He wanted out of his life clean, no body to find, no questions about suicide or accident. A bloody kidnapping gives the girlfriend and family closure without a corpse. Insurance pays out faster on presumed death after seven years, but life policies sometimes have clauses for violent disappearance. He could have been planning this for months. Well, we'll find the details after a little digging."
Velazquez whistled low. "Cold move. Leaving Sarah to walk into this mess."
"Calculated." Travis pushed off the counter and headed toward the bedroom.
The master bedroom looked untouched, almost serene compared to the chaos in the living room. Bed made with hospital corners, pillows fluffed, no drawers yanked out, no closet rifled through. The wall safe has no scratches or no pry marks, nothing to suggest anyone had forced it open.
He scanned the room slowly, letting his eyes settle on details. A bedside table held a lamp, a half-read paperback thriller, and a small desk calendar flipped to the current month. Four dates were circled in red ink: 2, 5, 6, 9. He picked up the calendar, flipped backward through the pages, and saw the same four dates marked every single month for the past year. There were no notes, just those numbers in precise red circles.
Travis put the calendar down as he found it and walked to the safe. He entered the code: 2-5-6-9. The lock clicked, and the door opened.
It was empty.
There were no documents, cash, jewelry, or thumb drives inside. The black velvet lining showed dust outlines where items had been, but everything was missing.
He let out a quiet breath through his nose and turned back to Velazquez, who stood just inside the doorway, taking notes.
"Looks like Ethan messed up," Travis said. "He emptied the safe before he staged the scene, so no blood traces made it back here. Had he used his brain a little and cleared it out after the fake struggle, we might have bought the kidnapping story longer. The bedroom stayed clean because he never planned to come back for anything."
Velazquez glanced at the open safe, then at the pristine bed. "So he's gone for good. Packed what mattered and vanished."
"Exactly." Travis stepped away from the wall and headed toward the door. "Does this building have a private parking lot in the back?"
"Yeah, gated, residents only. Cameras too, but they're hit or miss depending on maintenance."
"Check it. See if his car is still there. If it's gone, pull the plates and get a BOLO out. If it's sitting empty, we might find receipts or a parking stub that tells us when he went before his disappearance and pull the footage for this month. I'll talk to the girlfriend."
Velazquez nodded and moved toward the stairs while Travis headed back down to the lobby.
Sarah Kline sat on a bench near the mailboxes, knees pressed together, hands twisting a crumpled tissue into knots. Her eyes were red. A young uniform stood a respectful distance away, giving them space.
Travis slowed his pace. He was already lining up the questions in his head when the front door opened behind him and someone stepped inside.
"Morning," Ryan said, voice low enough to keep the conversation between them. "The Captain sent me to back you up. He said you'd already have half the scene figured out by now."
Travis kept his eyes on Sarah while he answered. "Half is generous. The other half is screaming staged."
"Staged?" Ryan narrowed his eyebrows.
Travis explained the scene to him.
"You're kidding me," Ryan sounded surprised.
"Check it out yourself. Meanwhile, I'll talk to Sarah," Travis said, and then he walked over to Sarah and stopped before her.
Ryan went upstairs.
Sarah looked up at Travis. He could see tears and smudged mascara. She looked really sad and was crying.
Before Travis could start a conversation, he noticed Lanie walking in. They exchanged a quick nod as she walked upstairs with the forensic team. Then, he shifted his full attention to Sarah.
"I'm Detective Travis Wilson and I know you are going through some tough times, but I have to ask you some questions," Travis said as he sat down beside her.
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[22 advance chs] + [Modern Family: 12 chs Early access]