When Ivan finally stepped out of the Hamptonian Café, night had fallen, casting a glow over Bridgewick as streetlights flickered to life. The vendors had packed up and left, the street stalls vacant, save for a few lingering dockworkers loading cargo onto a freighter in the distance. The city had shifted into its quiet, after-hours rhythm.
"We'll need another day…" Ivan muttered to himself, scratching his head. The safe house he'd rented was no longer an option, the gang had found it, and staying there any longer would only put his old friend, Freddy, in danger. But without a plan for the next couple of days, he was left improvising.
"Maybe the Puget Center hotel?" he mused, recalling the modest place where he'd once rented a bathroom to freshen up. "Their sandwiches and potato salad weren't half-bad. Could be worth it for breakfast tomorrow…"
With a decision made, Ivan hoisted his suitcase and started toward the tram station, keeping his mind occupied with thoughts of a quiet, uneventful night.
---
Meanwhile, at ten o'clock the next morning, Freddy had just seen off his last customer of the morning. He leaned back in his worn chair, lighting a cigarette as he counted the small stack of bills he'd earned. Business had been decent; he allowed himself a rare moment of satisfaction.
His peace was interrupted by the sound of steady footsteps approaching outside. Freddy's instincts, honed over years of hiding and evading trouble, told him that someone uninvited was coming his way. He immediately put out his cigarette, slid the money into a hidden pocket, grabbed a rag, and began wiping down the tables, feigning ignorance.
His hunch was right. The door creaked open, the old bolt sticking with a gritty sound, and in stepped two figures in police uniforms, their eyes sharp and assessing. One of them strode over to Freddy and flashed an ID.
"Good morning, sir. We're detectives from Bridgewick Police Station. There's a missing persons case we're investigating, and we'd like to ask you a few questions. Your cooperation is appreciated."
Freddy looked up, feigning surprise before a smile broke across his face. "Ah, well, if it isn't Mr. Henshaw and Mr. Owens!" he said, his voice thick with his Italian accent. "What brings you two here? Trouble with the gang again, I imagine? Come, sit down, sit down! Let me fetch you a couple of plates of garlic bread with mozzarella."
The two "officers" exchanged a glance, momentarily caught off guard. Then, the one standing behind them stepped forward, a sly smile on his face. He raised a hand to his face, and as if by magic, his features shifted, melting away to reveal a different face entirely.
"Sharp eyes as always, Freddy," said Ryan Owens, his smile easy and familiar. He was the Bridgewick Gang's resident [Makeup Artist], a master of disguise, and alongside him stood his silent partner, Hank Henshaw, who gave a curt nod in acknowledgment.
"Sharp eyes? Nah, just stumbled, Mr. Henshaw's gaze is sharper than a hawk's," Freddy replied with a chuckle, playing along. He tossed the rag onto the counter, grabbed a reasonably clean pot, and set about preparing a pot of cappuccino; American style, just the way they liked it.
Owens took a seat, grinning. "Ah, that famed Italian of the Italians," he said, crossing his arms as he settled in. Henshaw, ever silent, took his place beside Owens, his gaze as unyielding as ever.
Freddy soon returned with a plate of garlic bread; with some mozzarella cheese on top of the bread Owens picking one up eating it all in o e gulp.
He laughed and reached into his jacket, producing a box of some hand rolled cigarettes. He offered one to Freddy, who accepted with a slight bow, tucking it away as a gesture of gratitude rather than lighting it.
"Relax, Freddy," Owens said, his smile softening but never quite reaching his eyes. "We're not here to play games. Hank has a few questions for you."
"Of course, anything you need to know, I'm here to help," Freddy replied, his voice steady but cautious.
Henshaw leaned forward, his piercing gaze fixing on Freddy, his voice low and deliberate. "We're looking for a an immigrant who expressed interest in joining the gang. He's recently gone missing."
There was something about Henshaw's voice, an odd resonance that seemed to compel a response. Freddy felt a subtle pull, a strange urge to answer without hesitation. He steadied himself, mind racing, careful to keep his face neutral.
Freddy blinked, his face a mask of blank confusion. "There are a lot of immigrants in this community, and plenty of them want to join the gang."
Henshaw pursed his lips, then glanced over at Owens. "Owens, do you remember the guy's name the Russian guy?"
Owens scratched his chin, looking a bit lost. "Ah… no, it's slipped my mind. Those Russian names can be tough to keep straight… I think the last name was something like 'Mel'?"
Freddy's eyes lit up, and he gave a helpful nod. "Ah, you mean Melor, right?"
"Yes, that's the one," Henshaw confirmed, his gaze sharpening. "He's gone missing. When did you last see him?"
Freddy paused, pretending to search his memory. "Yesterday morning. He came by my place for breakfast."
Henshaw cast a look at Owens, who responded with a silent nod.
Taking this as his cue, Henshaw leaned in, his voice steady. "We suspect a wizard named Ivan might be involved in Wang's disappearance. Do you know him?"
Freddy's face showed mild recognition. "Ivan? Oh yes, he's from Russia; I'm from Italy, so we're like European neighbors, you know? He stops by my restaurant quite often."
"When was the last time you saw him?" Henshaw's voice sharpened, each word edged with tension.
Freddy felt his heart pounding. It was as if he'd been pulled into a harsh interrogation room, bright lights glaring down on him, every twitch scrutinized. He could almost feel the cold steel of cuffs on his wrists and the chill of sweat down his back.
Clearing his throat, he answered quickly, "Yesterday morning as well. He came in for breakfast, same as usual."
"Did he mention where he was headed?" Henshaw's tone was now almost accusatory, pressing down on Freddy like a weight.
"No, no, he didn't mention anything," Freddy replied, his voice a bit strained, though he was careful to keep it steady.
Henshaw softened his voice, his tone taking on a calm edge. "Then, what did you two talk about?"
Old Freddy swallowed, feeling Henshaw's intensity but also aware that the man was growing weary; maintaining his intimidation magic was no small effort. Gathering himself, Freddy said, "He mentioned he was thinking of leaving Bridgewick. I wished him well, told him to write once he settled somewhere new."
"Anything else?" Henshaw pressed.
Freddy hesitated, trying to sound natural as he continued, "Well, no, nothing important after that. I may have grumbled a bit, told him how soldiers never pay for their meals. Want to hear about that?"
Henshaw waved it off with a slight grimace. "Not interested."
He straightened, speaking to Owens. "That should be everything, Owens."
"I'd agree. Seems like that immigrant, Wang, likely ran into a bad end," Owens replied, his hand absently rubbing his chin. "But this tells us something new about this 'Ivan.' He's stronger than we first guessed, closer to a 2D or 3D, rather than our initial estimate of 1E to 5D."
"True. The only question now is whether to pursue him or let him go," Henshaw said, his expression unreadable.
"That's not for us to decide," Owens replied, standing up and straightening his jacket. "Let's go. We'll report back."
Henshaw grunted in agreement.
They walked toward the door, but Owens paused just as they reached it. He turned back to Freddy with a faint smile. "Oh, one more thing, Freddy. How would you describe Ivan?"
Henshaw nodded at Freddy, commanding, "Answer him."
Freddy thought quickly, keeping his voice calm. "He's… he's a bit rough around the edges. Always wears old clothes. Doesn't seem like he has much money. But he's honest, hard-working. Not afraid to get his hands dirty."
Owens nodded, clearly satisfied. "Good. Thanks for cooperating, Freddy. And keep the cappuccino; I think we're finished here."
With that, the two men exited, leaving the door swinging shut behind them.
As soon as they were gone, Freddy slumped into his chair, letting out a shaky breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. The daylight, muted through the grimy glass, cast a faint, dusty glow across the room. His face slowly relaxed, the tension fading. He waited a few moments longer, straining to hear their footsteps disappear into the distance.
When he was finally sure they'd gone, he spat out the bitter coffee grounds he'd held in his mouth, his face twisted in disdain. "Damn, fucking coppers," he muttered, his voice filled with scorn and relief.