Chapter Four: The Breakdown

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The air conditioner sends cool air breezing through David's chocolaty brown hair as he drives Felicity down Saguaro Ave. It's a dreary area with limited landscaping and dilapidated 1960's strip malls lining the road. There's not a tree to be seen except an occasional Palo Verde. The entirely cloudless Phoenix sky offers no natural diversion for the somber pair, no barrier between them and the harsh desert sun. Something about a clear sky is disconcerting to him. Without the dimension of clouds, it feels uncomfortably close, almost suffocating. He can't wait to get inside to the open air of the indoors.

Felicity stares blankly out of the passenger side window. The ends of her hair curl under her jaw, clinging to her naturally tanned skin. She hasn't uttered a word since they left the motel. Based on prior experience, David knows she's either upset or deep in thought. He's not sure which. One could never be sure with Felicity.

"So... how're you doing?" he says to the air. "You know it wasn't your fault, right?" As usual, there is no change whatsoever in the countenance of his companion. "How could you have known that the bullet went through the wall and hit Mr. Gallagher? The curtains were closed." He turns right onto the freeway entrance. "If it makes you feel any better, he probably died instantly. It looked like the bullet may have hit his heart. There's nothing you could have done to save him."

Out of the corner of his eye, David sees her lip twitch. A quiver, perhaps? Is she crying? He glances over. No, she's the picture of composure as usual. Sometimes, she seemed altogether inhuman.

"You'll feel better once you get some rest. How long have you been awake?" he asks in vain. "Since yesterday morning, probably. Easily over twenty-four hours. How about food? Are you hungry?" Still, she remains completely silent. He doubted she would eat while in this condition anyway.

Twenty silent minutes later, he parks in front of her two bedroom house. Felicity isn't much of a landscaper. She has a brown gravel yard, like many Arizonans. The only plant life consists of a small palm tree and a bed of desert lantana.

"This is your stop," David says to her, smiling sympathetically.

"It doesn't make sense," she finally says, still staring out of the window.

"What doesn't?"

"Why would she make such a stupid mistake?"

"Who? The assassin?"

Felicity turns and looks at him incredulously. "What makes you think she's an assassin?"

"I don't! Well, not seriously. But she did have a silencer, right? The whole black trench coat, red hair, luring men to hotels. It sounds mighty assassin-ey" Felicity continues staring at him for a second, then bursts into uncontrollable laughter.

"Assassin-ey?" she gets out between laughs.

"Yeah! I guess I've just been imagining her as some Russian Natasha type. You know, like Black Widow, or something!"

"David, I don't understand how spiders have anything to do with this."

"Never mind," he says chuckling. "What mistake are you referring to?"

"The comb. Although she's probably not an assassin," she says pointedly, "she seemed like she knew what she was doing. How could she blunder so badly as to leave behind a comb with her hair in it? And what's more, how did it end up under the bed runner? If it fell out of her purse, doesn't it make more sense to land in plain sight? In a place where she could easily see and retrieve it? No, something's not quite right about it."

"Maybe, she ruffled the bedding when she was struggling to get the body into the trunk," David explains. "Then, somewhere along the way, she dropped the comb. Before she left, she hastily straightened out the bed, not noticing the comb, which gets swept under the runner."

"It's possible, I guess. Or maybe, it's not her comb at all. It could be the maid's. Or the previous patron's. We all know hotels don't always change the bedding between guests."

"Are you sure that's what you think? Or is it just what you're hoping?" David asks. "If it is the killer's hair, this case might be over sooner rather than later. You won't get the chance to do any real detective work."

"That's not true, David! I want to catch this killer more than anyone!"

"I know you do. But, you want to catch her your way. The old-school way by interviews, observations and deductions, like Sherlock Holmes. There's nothing you hate more than modern forensic technology. It's the steam-powered hammer to your John Henry."

Felicity stares at him, mouth agape, in disbelief. "I'm nothing like Sherlock Holmes!" she finally exclaims. "He hoarded knowledge of largely useless information like the kinds of ash produced by various cigars and cigarettes. Meanwhile, he didn't even know the earth revolved around the sun! I'll have you know that my knowledge is well-rounded and actually useful!"

"Whoa, whoa! That part was meant as a compliment, Felicity!"

"Oh, ok," she says, blinking. "Thank you then."

David sighs and runs his fingers through his hair. "You need to get some breakfast and sleep, Fel." He takes his keys out of the ignition. "I take it you don't have anything prepared?"

She looks down and shakes her head. Of course she doesn't. Felicity can't cook anything other than scrambled and boiled eggs. She subsists on sandwiches, salads and take out. So much for "well-rounded knowledge."

"Let's go," he says, gesturing to her front door.

The two tired detectives trudge up the concrete path to the front security door. Felicity fumbles with her keys. This is Felicity's first house. Before, she lived in a modern monstrosity of an apartment building. David had expected her new digs to be similar: black and white modern décor with classical music in the background, like the inner sanctum of a super villain. He was only half right. When Felicity has creative control, she doesn't do too bad. The new place is adorned in safe shades of brown and beige. It's a little cold and impersonal, but not unpleasant, much like Felicity herself. And yes, she does play classical music occasionally.

Once inside, David heads straight to the immaculate kitchen. "I know you have bread and eggs, so I can make us some French toast," he says, opening the pantry. Other than some canned goods, the shelves are completely bare. "Or not," he says, peering into the fridge. He turns toward her. "I thought you always had bread."

"I did. I threw it out a couple days ago. Mold."

"Okay, I think I can figure something out." He pulls out the eggs, cheese and deli meat. "How does an omelet sound?"

"Sounds good," she says, pulling a barstool out from the kitchen island. She plops down and stretches while David heats up the once-used skillet. Humming a happy tune, he's soon slinging hot omelets on cool glass plates.

"Bon Appétit," he says, flourishing the plates. They sit across from each other, eating in comfortable silence.

"I don't know how I missed it," she says halfway through the meal.

"Missed what?" he asks, mouth half full.

"Jim Gallagher. It's so obvious that something was amiss. That very night, directly after the gunfire, I should have thought about the bullet's trajectory and destination," she says, looking around. "Even if I was slow enough to miss that, I should have known as soon as I saw the hole in the wall. I mean, if there's a hole in the wall, it obviously, isn't still in the unnamed victim! And what about the interviews? I interviewed people all morning and it never once occurred to me to look for Mr. Gallagher!" she exclaimed, banging the end of her fork on the counter. "I should be flattered to be compared to that hack, Sherlock Holmes. I'm the real hack!"

"Felicity, it's not your fault," he starts.

"Not my fault? I was there to follow Mr. Gallagher. He should have always been at the forefront of my mind!"

"You witnessed a murder. Of course you weren't thinking of Jim Gallagher then. You were thinking of the victim and how to catch a killer," he reasoned.

"Jim was the victim!"

"Yes, but not the only one. Not the intended one," he says, gesturing over his half-eaten omelet. "Again, you witnessed a violent crime, Fel. That's enough to shake the most hardened detectives," he whispers, reaching across he counter to stroke her arm.

"I'm not a child," she says coolly, shifting her arm out of his grasp. She stands. "Why don't you just go, David?" she says, looking down.

"Fine," he says, conceding. He heads for the door.

"Thanks for breakfast."

"Yeah. Right," he says before closing it behind him.

It's strange for Felicity to be so moody. Usually, she ranges from stoic brooding to contained contentment. Something must be amiss. He knows that her outburst had nothing to do with him. She's in pain. The question is: Is it a bruised ego or guilt? He'd love to be able to help her, but she's like a wounded animal, lashing out at those around her. No one can help her while she's in her current condition. She'll have to go it alone, like always.

Author's Note: Thanks for reading chapter four! In the next chapter, the case hits the local news and blows up. How will the public react to the fact that there's a killer on the loose? Will the added pressure drag the detectives to their breaking point? Keep reading to find out.

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