Alternatively

Yellow Blooded

He could smell her perfume from a mile away. Rose and parchment, though he was sure was not the intended scent. It swirled by his office at night and wisped around the corners before dawn. She threaded through the city like a phantom, slipping through his fingers without so much a glance back. When he picked up her case, the perfume was a taunting laugh, mocking his skills as a detective. It still taunted him, but in a new sort of tantalizing manner. The rain drowning the streets of Lower Manhattan couldn't wash away the trail he followed like a red string of fate. It was going to be a good night if that dame was involved.

Somewhere among the labyrinth of blocks, glass shattered on the cobblestones and a howling laugh bounced off the buildings around him. The locations he had found previous speakeasies were never the same, his team failing to make a correlation between hideaways. They disappeared like smoke, always one step ahead of the department. All other underground systems were sniffed out within a 24 hour time period, leaving the Gray Wing to be the longest running speakeasy as well as a local legend. It was only when he was alone did he manage to find one still in operation. It didn't matter, though; they would have moved by morning, leaving no trace aside from some scuffle marks on the floors.

Holding his umbrella tightly, Percy rounded the corner and faced a silent bookshop. The windows were dark, the orange streetlamps distorted in their reflections. The little sign in the door regretfully declared the shop closed, promising it's opening the next morning at 9 AM with a smiley face. It looked pretty inconspicuous, which was usually a trait uncommon in covers. Those running speakeasies wanted the authorities to know they were there, defying the law, and yet they had no proof to catch them. It didn't work out in their favor when someone in the operation slipped up, sending the entire system toppling right into the hands of awaiting officers. The Gray Wing made no such mistakes, always swiped clean. Nothing in the case files lead him to the shop, it was a private call to his home that tipped him as to where the next station would be set up. It was always a private call and always to him.

She loved to play the game.

He jiggled the door handle, not shocked that it was locked. That wouldn't be like her.

Trash cans rattled in the alley beside him and he waited until the cat scurried into the rain before rounding to the back. There was little light, but he managed to find the loading door on the blank wall. It was also locked, but he knew the game as well as she did. He felt around the bricks of the road beneath him until pulling one up, the metal of a key glimmering in the night. There wasn't any point in putting it back when he pushed through, but he was nothing if not courteous.

"Evening."

Percy looked to the rag-a-muffin janitor, collapsing his umbrella as the door closed behind him. "Evening."

"This isn't a public area," he cordially said. "I'm afraid you have to leave."

The hall was dank and dim, nothing like a bookshop storage room should be. Thunder rumbled outside and Percy took off his hat respectively. "Could I wait out the storm here? I don't mean no trouble."

"Seeing as you broke in here, I suggest you scram."

"I could pay you a drachma."

The janitor leaned against his broom. "A drachma."

"Yes sir."

The phone call had been short and sweet, a mere riddle and a single word. If he followed the format laid out since the beginning, he should be able to get by without a hiccup.

"I suppose you could hide yourself down there," the janitor flippently sighed, gesturing to the trap door he stood over. "And keep your money, sir."