Eldritch Noir

Part VIII

As the red light of the sun broke the eastern horizon, a tired corpse named Eddie Marlboro sat in a squad car outside a seedy hotel, drinking shit coffee and wishing he had become a butcher like his mother wanted. Technically, the detective was on his break. Willowby was up there watching Reneé Rose, but Marlboro still found himself eyeing the patrons as they entered and exited the hotel, examining the possibility of threats.

Rose was adamant about staying in her mansion, but Marlboro didn't like the idea. A hotel would be less secure, but nobody would know she was there if they played their cards right. Officially, Rose was a witness, not a suspect, but Marlboro didn't know what to believe.

One thing Marlboro knew about Hollywood was that all the flashy actors and musicians were just cogs in a big, scary, dirty machine. They were so far removed from humanity that you could quickly point them out in a crowd, even without the makeup or the fancy jewelry. They had a certain cadence and way of moving and speaking that signaled they were not part of the typical crowd.

Marlboro hadn't meant to fall asleep, but soon, he was blinking hard, and someone was tapping the driver's side window. It was Willowby. Marlboro grunted and rolled down the window.

"Sorry to wake you," Willowby said. "Mia called. She's got some info about Romano's body. Want to head down there?"

Typically, Marlboro wanted to handle these things but felt strange about leaving the hotel.

"You go," he told Willowby. Marlboro got out of the car and slammed the driver's door. "I'm going to take another run at our witness. Is she awake?"

"Yes, sir. In fact, I don't think she slept at all last night."

"That makes two of us..." Marlboro nodded to Willowby. "Go on ahead. Call me later with the details." Willowby placed his hands in his pockets like always when he wanted to say something. "I don't want to hear it, Willowby. I already got chewed out last night by the Captain."

"I just... don't understand what you see in him, sir," Willowby admitted.

"I don't either," Marlboro sighed. "Get going, Willowby. We'll talk later."

Willowby nodded and got in the squad car.

As Marlboro entered the hotel lobby, he scanned the faces of the people around him. Men, women, nobody was out of bounds when it came to suspicion. He raked his mind once more for details about the shooter from last night, anything conclusive, but the only thing Marlboro caught sight of was a fast-moving individual, maybe six feet tall, dressed in all black.

The elevator dinged every time it passed a floor. Marlboro stood alone, hands in his pockets. He was uneasy. Something was wrong, and it wasn't the case that was bothering him. He ran Captain Fields's words through his mind, and his blood boiled.

Everyone thought they knew Marlboro's father. A good cop, they said, a good man, and he was. But Marlboro found that it made most people feel entitled to the idea of Edward Marlboro Sr. Edward Marlboro loved his community and the people in it, making people, neighbors, and coworkers feel like he belonged to them. When his father died, the Captain, Bruce Leopold, clasped a hand on Eddie's shoulder, sixteen years old, and said, "We all know what you're going through, son."

Marlboro found himself scowling alone in the elevator.

Did they know?

They came to his funeral and praised him, a hero sent off into the ether. Then they came home from that somber funeral and forgot that he was gone. Eddie didn't get to forget, and neither did his mother.

Still, there was some truth to what Fields said, and that unnerved Marlboro. His father didn't know when to quit, and that's what got him killed. Marlboro wondered if he knew when it was time to get out when he had finally run his course.