Free Detective D. Case by Neal Goldy

like hiding the key in a pile of other keys,
and that sparked D.’s thinking a little. He rolled up the little note into a
thin cylinder reminiscent of a cigarette and gave a long look at West Lake. It
couldn’t only just be the lake that the poem was referencing to, right?
              And then he saw it. A lily, in the middle of the
lake and out of his reach, floated like some magician had plopped it there
without a moment’s thought. D. got closer, edging towards the water. The lily
flower had a blue, almost purple, color to it and a dew-like substance covering
it like a gloss. His ankles had sunken into the underwater already, but D.’s
eyes never left the water lily. Maybe in the day it would appear painfully red
in the sunlight, whenever there will be any, but if it did, it would become
identical to the Chinese poem rolled up inside his pocket. A red water lily in
the daylight would match the words through which were painted the glorious
picture D. was sure nobody had read before, at least not in this city. His
shirt was halfway in water when he snatched the water lily, laughing in glee.
He waded to the park, not waiting to dry his clothes. This just might lead
somewhere.
              D.’s face hit the water before he reached the end
of West Lake. Under the surface, he heard gunshots from above. He needed
affirmation as to who shot and where. Eyes closed, D. felt six or so hands
weighing him down. The water pushed his lungs tight, burning with rage, and he
was desperately in need of keeping his breath going. He struggled with the
hands, but they clung to him like bad perfume. Except here it wasn’t, oh well,
guess we’ll have to get this day over with.
              The hands were multiplying (how so, if there were
six or so to begin with?) and D.’s lungs were shortening their patience. They
let go, and so did his breath, and the hands were everywhere. For a minute he
could see the shadow of West Lake, but he might have dreaming.
    *****
    “He blacked out yet?” demanded a scruffy-looking young man.
              “Not yet.” They were pulling an old man wearing a
shabby coat out of the lake. “I think so now, but I can’t be sure. You might
wanna check it yourself.” The voice belonged to a man younger than the
scruffy-looking one.
              “It’s always the same with you, isn’t it?” The
scruffy man kicked the younger and sent him to the ground with his arms.
Leaving him there, he went over to the old man in the shabby coat. He didn’t
look familiar.
              “Have you found out what he was doing here?” he
demanded again. He liked demanding things.
              None of them knew. He shot in the sky until
everyone got to the ground.
              “Pathetic excuses, you all are,” he muttered. He
kicked the old man, wondering if he’d wake. Ten seconds in with a second kick
and nothing happened. He guessed him dead for the time being.
              “Anyone know his name?”
              “He doesn’t have one,” one of the men piped up.
              The scruffy-looking man stormed up to the man who
spoke. “Don’t any of you know how to do anything?”
              “Uh, it’s an initial,” said the same man.
              “What was that?”
          “It’s from the old man, I think. His name isn’t really a name, but an
initial. It’s just a D.”
              The dumbfounded look the man was giving irritated
the scruffy-looking one. “How the hell am I supposed to know what that stands
for? Go find out now!”
     They
carried the old man with the letter D into their sports-car and began driving
off. People of the reading world surely would like to know the meaning behind
these actions, but it’s unfortunate that even in the scruffy-looking man’s mind,
he still kept his thoughts private.

Chapter 3
     
    As
far as Lincoln saw, there were many cameras. They were