Footprints

Footprints tell stories. Where someone came from. Where they went. Whether they were walking. Running. Or trying very hard not to be noticed.

The footprints at Pier 17 told me something else. Whoever made them had expensive taste. I crouched beside the first print. Clean heel. Narrow sole. Probably, leather. These weren’t dockworker boots. I’d spent enough time around the harbor to recognize those. These belonged to someone who normally walked on carpet.

Yet here they were. Standing at the edge of a pier connected to a warehouse that officially hadn’t existed for thirty years. Interesting.

Under the Pier

The prints led toward the water. Then disappeared. I looked over the edge. Black water. Old pilings. Nothing else.

For a moment, I considered climbing down. Then I remembered I was a cat. We have standards regarding unnecessary interactions with water.

Instead, I followed the edge of the pier. That’s when I saw something underneath. Black cardboard. Wedged between two boards. I reached down and pulled it free. A matchbook. Black. Gold lettering across the front:

THE MARLOWE ROOM

I’d heard of it. Everyone in Midnight Harbor had. Few people had been inside. The Marlowe Room wasn’t really a restaurant. It wasn’t exactly a club. It wasn’t officially private. But somehow everyone understood that if you had to ask whether you were welcome…

you weren’t.

The owner was Dominic Marlowe. Dom to the handful of people who knew him well enough. Mr. Marlowe to everyone interested in continuing to enjoy good health.

Shipping.

Imports.

Warehouses.

And apparently…

matchbooks left beneath abandoned piers.

Back to The Watering Hole

Tank was behind the bar. Of course. Sometimes I wondered if he ever left. I put the matchbook in front of him. He looked at it. Then at me. Then back at the matchbook.

“Throw it away,” he said.

“Good afternoon to you too,” I answered

“Nick.”

“Tank.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

“That’s what worries me,” he said.

I opened the matchbook. One match was missing. “Who is Dom Marlowe?”

“You know who he is,” was his reply.

“I know what people say,” I coyly responded.

Tank returned to polishing his glass. “What do people say?”

“Shipping.”

“True.”

“Imports.”

“True.”

“Warehouses.”

The glass stopped moving. There. Interesting.

“Warehouse 17?” I asked.

Tank started polishing again. Too late. I’d seen it. “Don’t,” he said softly and sternly.

“Don’t what?”

“Whatever you’re thinking.”

“I was thinking about pie.”

“You weren’t.”

“Coffee?”

“No.”

“Warehouse 17?”

Tank sighed. “Unfortunately.”

Someone Else Is Looking

I told him about the footprints. That changed his expression. “How fresh?”

“Recent.”

“How recent?”

“Today.”

Tank glanced toward the window. “Nick…”

“What?”

“You need to understand something.”

“I’m listening.”

“That fire happened thirty years ago.”

“So everyone keeps reminding me.”

“People had thirty years to investigate it.”

“And?”

“They didn’t.”

“Maybe they weren’t curious,” I said smugly.

Tank leaned toward me. “Maybe they were smart.”

Before I could answer, the door opened. Nobody said anything. That’s unusual at The Watering Hole. Someone laughs. Someone argues. Someone complains about the weather. There’s always noise.

But now… Silence.

Tank looked past me. His expression changed. Not fear. Recognition.

I turned. A large figure stood in the doorway. Leather jacket. Heavy boots. Broad shoulders. His eyes moved across the room. Then stopped on me.

More specifically…on the black matchbook sitting beneath my paw.

Tank muttered something.

“What?” I asked.

He didn’t take his eyes off the stranger. “Gear.”

The stranger started walking toward us.

Apparently… I’d found another clue. Or another clue had found me.

CASE STATUS: OPEN

To be continued…