9 Days
Written by Prelo White
Chapter 1: Scotch and Tips
The ceiling fan hummed as it spun, creating a gentle breeze, though it wasn't nearly enough to cool the oppressive heat. It was June 30, 1999, and New York City was enduring one of its hottest summers on record, with consecutive heat waves causing chaos and record-breaking temperatures. The dim ceiling light barely illuminated the room, highlighting the spread of documents, case files, and photographs scattered across the oak table. Shadows on the wall occasionally danced as cars passed by outside. It was a quiet night, but Detective Julius Kincade's mind was anything but.
He scrutinized the black-and-white photographs pinned to the wall. It had to be the butcher, he thought as he stood to get a closer look. He plucked a four-by-six photograph from the wall and examined it for what felt like the hundredth time. He'd lost count of how often he'd studied it, but he knew there was something he was missing, something he was determined to find. He tossed the photograph onto the pile of case files on the rickety old table and sat back down.
A cigarette burned slowly among the many butts crushed into a brown glass ashtray. His .22 caliber revolver rested in its holster near a half-empty glass of Whyte & Mackay Scotch whisky. Kincade noticed the empty bottle and finished what was left in his glass. He grabbed his cigarette pack and realized it was empty, cursing under his breath. He stood, tossed the empty pack onto the table, and grabbed his gun, wallet, and keys. "Time to re-up," he muttered to himself, heading out the door. The door slammed shut behind him, leaving the apartment quiet and the wall of evidence waiting for his return.
It was 12:38 AM, and Kincade knew that no liquor store would be open at this hour, so he headed to Emeralds, a bar owned by a retired detective named Samuel "Sam" Bishop. After his wife died of breast cancer, Sam bought the place to keep busy while his kids were in college. The bar was named after his late wife's eye color, emerald green.
When Kincade walked into Emeralds, a small bell jingled. The bar was a classic cop hangout, with pictures of detectives and police memorabilia adorning the walls. Sam greeted him with a smile as he dried a glass. "Kincade! Right on time," he said.
Kincade took a seat at the bar, looking around. It wasn't particularly crowded, but there were more people than usual, including a group of off-duty cops chatting loudly at a table in the back. "Am I? What am I right on time for?" he asked.
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