Chapter Text
The scent of lemon and something sharply artificial lingers in the air, burning his nostrils. The scrubbed clean sink glistens with moisture, the silver fittings gleaming. An hour of work rewarded him with a clean bathroom, but not the calm he’d hoped for. Repeating the exercise in his kitchen only meant that his stove top could now double as a shaving mirror. Laundry? A quick fix to keep his hands busy, but not his mind.
Even the work-out session he forced himself through, and the futile attempt of meditation afterwards, have done nothing to ease the tension in Smoker’s muscles, even as they protested under the punishing pace he’d set.
Yet his eyes are constantly drawn to the dozing telesnail on his desk, its impassive expression only winding the coil of his worry ever tighter.
The minute hand on his clock keeps steadily crawling towards 9 AM.
Any moment now, he’ll receive the call. Smoker knows it. It will happen, and it will end both his and Tashigi’s careers.
He swears he can already hear Sakazuki’s voice, barking in his ear. That he needs to come down to the precinct immediately. That his crime scene has been compromised. That his consultants were caught tampering with a crime scene cleared for release.
The weight of guilt settles around Smoker’s neck like a noose. He glares at the slumbering telesnail, daring it to make a sound. The cigar between his lips shifts from one corner of his mouth to the other.
He hasn’t heard from Nami yet. And strictly speaking, that’s a good sign. ‘Girl’s a professional. Knows not to leave trails or incriminating evidence,’ he reminds himself. The lack of contact should be reassuring. It confirms that everything went according to plan, meaning that his consultants won’t reach out to him until early evening. Smoker’s hardened gaze finds the face of his desk clock.
It’s a grumpy-looking thing, air-dryed plaster sculpted by clumsy hands into a semblance of a bulldog holding a wind-up clock. It is painted with zero fidelity to any actually existing bulldogs and has a bright red bow and a little orange dot with a curly stem and green leaf painted on each hind paw. According to the bulldog clock, it’s 8:57 AM. Any moment now, the crime scene cleaners will arrive on Poplar Avenue and...
‘DING-DONG!’
Smoker jumps, grabs the receiver. Barks into it: “Howaitode!”
No one answers.
It takes him a moment to realise the snail hasn’t moved, hasn’t made a single sound. It isn’t even fully awake. Then his door bell chimes again.
‘DING-DONG!’
With a curse he tosses the receiver towards the snail, not even checking to see if it lands on the desk. He grabs his badge, holsters his weapon.
The buzzer sounds angry, like a nest of hornets preparing to attack. But when he opens the door, it’s not Sakazuki or any of his subordinates standing on his doormat.
It’s a stocky cat mink. His fur is short and pale, with a distinct purple sheen. Bright green almond-shaped eyes are set into a wedge-shaped face with large pointed ears and a tapered muzzle that ends in a dark triangular nose adorned with long, creamy whiskers. Draped over his shoulder is a long, fluffy looking tail. He’s dressed casually in a polo shirt and pair of Capri pants, flip-flops (or maybe zori) on his feet.
The mink, Burma Lilac, looks about as calm as Smoker feels: exhaustion and anxiety warring for dominance in a face, that nevertheless tries to give him a friendly smile.
“Garchu, Smoker. May I come in?”
Smoker’s jaw clenches, unclenches, but he steps aside. “Lilac. Wasn’t expectin’ you.”
“I’m sorry. I should have called ahead. You-gara probably have plans today?”
It’s not really a question and Smoker makes no effort to pretend otherwise. Burma Lilac, now very much a retired narcotics detective, is as sharp as ever, meaning few things, if any, get past him.
“Was expectin’ trouble, to be honest.” Smoker replies.
“Trouble may yet find you-gara,” the mink rumbles as he enters and closes the door behind himself.
Smoker takes half a step into the kitchen. “You want a cuppa? Or a soda?”
“Is actual tea available? Or only tar that masquerades as it?”
Smoker’s laugh is involuntary, but something in his chest that had been too tight, loosens. As he returns to the couch, where Lilac has made himself comfortable, a few minutes later with two mugs and a steaming kettle he offers his guest a slight smirk.
“It’s always been tea. Your furry ass is just too much of a snob to appreciate it.”
Lilac picks up the tea bag with two fluffy fingers extended, peers at the label at the end of the string with an expression of utter contempt and gives a long-suffering sigh.
“Pining’s? Really?”
“If you don’t like it, you can drink the hot water.” Smoker gruffs.
Lilac’s nose twitches disdainfully as he sniffs the bag. With a roll of his eyes, he lowers it into the mug of hot water.
“My wife will hear about this tragedy,” he informs Smoker. “We will send proper tea.”
“How is Suki? She doin’ alright?”
“Healthy as a horse, as you-gara would say.”
“That’s good to hear. Is she still doin’ that needle thing?” Smoker mimes moving his hands up and down in a vague approximation of what the media have told him ‘knitting’ should look like.
“Yes, but they renamed it. Now they call it a ‘Stitch & Bitch’. I believe the purpose is to get more people interested in needlework. And give them a safe space to talk about their woes.”
Smoker looks thoughtful for a moment. “What kind of needlework?”
“The crafting kind.”
“Ah.”
Lilac smiles. “And is young Tashigi still receiving mentorship from you, Smoker?”
“She is. Good moral compass. Not quite as observant as I’d like her to be. But if she keeps this up, she’ll be up for promotion, soon.”
“I always felt she had good instincts.”
“She does. But she doesn’t follow up on them nearly as often as she should. She clings to the playbook like it’s holy scripture.”
“Whereas you-gara have always considered the playbook a hindrance, if I recall correctly.”
There is no venom or condescension in Lilac’s voice, nor a playful reprimand. It sounds more like—someone testing the waters.
“Wouldn’t say hindrance. I’d call it a guideline. Written by people who’ve never stepped out from behind their desks. Hence why they’ve got no idea how stupid some of their guidelines are.”
Lilac chuckles wryly.
“It is a good thing you transferred to Homicides then. I am sure Kuzan appreciates that kind of thinking more than Sakazuki does.”
“Might’ve gotten myself into hot water with him either way,” Smoker mutters. “You’ve probably heard about it already. Sakazuki’s pullin’ every free man into his investigation. I’m just waitin’ for the moment they start reachin’ out to retired officers like yourself.”
Quiet settles over them as Lilac very carefully fishes the tea bag out of his mug and puts it onto a saucer. He takes a sip of his brew and grimaces.
“This only tastes fine to you-gara because your taste buds are desperate for something to cut through those vile cigars.”
Smoker chuckles, taking a sip of his tea. “Or maybe I just like the smokey aroma.”
And after a beat: “You want some cream for that?”
Lilac nods. A few moments later, a carton of heavy cream is placed in front of the mink.
“So, you wanna dance around the topic some more? Or rip off the band-aid?” Smoker challenges.
The sigh is deep and weary. Lilac shifts in his seat, as if steeling himself.
“Let’s rip it off,” he rumbles, turning to look at his former colleague. “You are investigating the death at Elm & Stone, the coffee shop on Poplar Avenue, correct?”
“No,” Smoker says calmly. “We’re investigating the murder at Elm & Stone. Which is a coffee shop. On Poplar Avenue.”
Something in Lilac’s demeanour shifts. “Murder? Is that confirmed?”
“Yeah.”
Another silence stretches between them. Long and uncomfortable like a cheap plastic bench.
“I only found out yesterday,” Lilac admits. “She came to me and told me everything. Apparently her work friend was convinced she’d be in danger. Told her to hide. Then told her to speak to some regular of theirs. Or you-gara.”
Smoker nods, then guesses: “She’s scared.”
“Very,” Lilac confirms.
“She should’ve come to you straight away. That friend—human, by the name of Juno?”
Lilac nods.
“Fuckin’ meddlin’ kids,” Smoker grumbles. Then, softer, he asks: “You realise that there’s an APB out for the girl?”
A feline rumble that could be a chuckle acknowledges the statement. “I thought there might.”
“Only thing that’s making her suspicious is her disappearance when we tried to get her statement. But I’m guessin’ she’s willin’ to talk if you’re here. She tell you what happened?”
Another nod. “She did. He choked her for no apparent reason. Or none she is aware of. She shocked him and ran. It was self-defence.”
Smoker growls. It’s equal parts disgust, anger and frustration. “Please tell me she went to a doctor,” he begs quietly. Documented injuries would make his job that much easier.
“She didn’t. Too scared they’d call law enforcement. And then she heard he was dead.”
A multitude of curses is trying to escape him, but out loud, Smoker says: “Of course she didn’t. She willin’ to come down to the precinct and give a statement?”
“No,” Lilac says. “She’s scared you’ll lock her up. She doesn’t know you-gara. But she knows that regular of hers. He told her work friend that he works with you. She’s willing to talk to him. In Little Zou. I tried to tell her that the Marines don’t work with random coffee shop regulars, but she insists.”
Smoker’s first reaction is to scoff. Of course he doesn’t work with random coffee shop regulars. But then a memory resurfaces.
(“We had an interesting encounter with Juno, for starters,” Trafalgar says, meticulously cleaning the crumbs off his end of the table.
“Yes. She was trying to break into Elm & Stone—don’t choke—and she had the most interesting story,” Nami chimes in, pushing a bottle of water towards the coughing Tashigi.)
“Trafalgar!” Smoker barks. “Him? She knows him? And will talk to him?”
“No, a Doctor Law, I think,” Lilac says, sounding uncertain.
“That’s him. Law’s his first name.”
Lilac is still doubtful. “And did he say the truth? Is he working for you-gara?”
“He is. He’s a civilian consultant on the case. Performed the autopsy himself,” Smoker confirms.
The mink blinks, his ears twitching slightly. “Since when do you employ civilian consultants?”
“Since Sakazuki’s been hoggin’ the entire force including forensics to get a grip on his drug case.”
“Is it that bad?”
The short laugh that escapes Smoker is a bitter, brittle thing. “No. It’s worse. Without Trafalgar’s help, we wouldn’t know anything about the deceased except his shoe size.”
“Trafalgar… why does that name sound familiar?” Lilac asks contemplatively.
“Because he’s the one who found out that King Nefertari was poisoned. He also helped nail down those marine killers a couple years back,” Smoker slowly explains. “Hate his guts. But he’s… competent. And thorough. Not interested in the easy answer. Always lookin’ for the right answer.”
Lilac’s muzzle curls. “You appreciate competent and thorough people looking for the right answer.”
“Yeah well, I don’t appreciate him,” Smoker reiterates, taking another sip from his mug.
Then, too casual to be a mere afterthought, adds: “You still got those contacts to the Zouvian embassy?”
Lilac’s ears flatten against his head. “I do. Why?”
“Probably won’t be the worst thing if a rep was there to ensure everything’s as it should be.”
“You-gara have a feeling they won’t be?” Worry creeps into the mink’s voice.
Smoker shakes his head briefly. “No, but the right people need to know that procedure was followed. Before things get ugly. And they will.”
There is no need for either of them to say it again, or even out loud. Between the two of them, they’ve seen enough cases go sideways, enough innocents get blamed for running scared.
“She didn’t do it,” both men say at the same time. Shock and disbelief chase each other in circles on Lilac’s features.
“Carrot,” Smoker clarifies. “She didn’t do it. Autopsy cleared her.”
Lilac grips his mug tighter and takes a long drag. Like he wished, the cup contained something stronger than tea and cream.
“Monday, 10 AM. My place,” the cat mink finally says.
Smoker nods. “I’ll be there.”