Crimson Ties

Cosy Coffee

The bell above the door jingled as Vince Kane stepped in, the familiar scent of freshly brewed coffee wrapping around him like a comforting blanket.

Behind the counter, Bob Hardy stood in his usual spot, wiping down the counter. He looked up as Vince entered, his weathered face breaking into a grin. Bob was a burly man, his thick arms and wide frame giving him the appearance of someone who could handle himself in a fight. But there was a softness to him, too—something Vince had come to know well over the years.

"Well, look who finally decided to show up," Bob called, tossing the rag over his shoulder. "Thought you'd forgotten about this place."

Vince smirked as he approached the counter, leaning one arm casually against it. "It was just one day. You old man with your memory."

Bob chuckled, shaking his head. "Yeah, right. Your usual?"

"You know it."

Bob busied himself behind the counter, and Vince found his usual corner booth near the window. The soft afternoon light filtered through the glass, casting a golden hue across the room. It was peaceful here, the kind of peace he rarely found in his line of work.

A few moments later, Bob appeared with a steaming mug of coffee and a few sandwiches, sliding them onto the table before sitting across from Vince. "So, what's the case this time? You've got that look again."

Vince raised an eyebrow. "What look?"

"The one that says you're in deep but don't want to talk about it," Bob replied, crossing his arms over his chest. "Same damn look you had when we first met."

Vince chuckled lightly, shaking his head. "That was a long time ago."

"Not long enough to forget," Bob said, his tone softening. "You, Simon, the whole team—saved my ass back then."

Vince took a sip of his coffee, letting the memory drift back. 2 years ago. Bob had been just another name on the precinct's case docket—a local shopkeeper who'd come forward after months of being extorted by a gang. They'd called it a "protection fee," but everyone knew what it really was: pure intimidation.

"You were in over your head," Vince said, his voice laced with a faint hint of humor. "I remember walking into your shop, seeing you trying to stand your ground against those thugs."

Bob snorted. "Yeah, that went about as well as you'd expect. They had me by the throat, figuratively and almost literally." He leaned back in his chair, his gaze distant. "If it weren't for Simon and the rest of you showing up when you did…"

Vince nodded, recalling the operation vividly. Simon, the captain of their team even back then, had orchestrated everything with his usual precision. He'd been the one to insist on a sting operation, catching the gang in the act as they came to collect their weekly "fee."

"Simon had a way of knowing exactly when to step in," Vince said, his tone thoughtful. "He wasn't just good at strategy; he had a way of reading people, too. He knew you weren't just some scared shopkeeper. He saw the fight in you."

Bob smiled faintly. "I don't know about that. All I remember is Simon walking in, calm as anything, and telling those bastards to back off. They didn't, of course."

Vince chuckled, the image of Simon standing tall, his commanding presence filling the room, flashing in his mind. "Yeah, they didn't. Until he put one of them through the counter."

Bob laughed, the sound deep and hearty. "You should've seen the look on that guy's face. Here's this guy—your captain—cool as a cucumber one second, then flipping a guy like he's a sack of flour the next."

"That was Simon," Vince said, a hint of nostalgia creeping into his voice. "He didn't just talk about protecting people—he did it. No hesitation."

The laughter faded into a comfortable silence, both men lost in their memories.

"You stayed in touch after that," Vince said after a moment, looking at Bob.

"Couldn't help it," Bob admitted, his voice quieter. "You guys didn't just solve a case; you gave me my life back. After the gang was taken down, I didn't have to look over my shoulder anymore. I could focus on building this place." He gestured around the café.

"And Simon?" Vince asked.

Bob's expression grew somber. "He came by every now and then, usually to check in. Said it was 'routine,' but I think he just wanted to make sure I was okay. He cared about people. Not just on paper, but for real."

Vince nodded, his thoughts drifting to Simon's steady leadership and unshakable resolve. "He was the glue that held us together," he said quietly.

"Still is, isn't he?" Bob asked, tilting his head.

Vince smiled faintly. "Yeah. Even now."

Bob clapped a hand on Vince's shoulder as he stood. "Well, you've still got that fire in you, Kane. Don't let it burn you out, though. Simon wouldn't want that."

Vince looked up, his expression softening. "I'll try." Finishing his meal, he stood up and paid, brushed off his jacket, then headed to BBPD to check on the blood sample results.

"I hope they've figured out whose blood it is," he muttered as he slipped into his car.

BBPD

The precinct was as lively as ever, officers moving purposefully while conversations buzzed in the background. As Vince approached the hallway leading to the crime lab, he spotted an older officer struggling with a stack of heavy cardboard boxes.

The officer, stocky and slightly hunched, had a weathered face partially obscured by a low-brimmed cap. His uniform seemed oddly pristine, almost too neat for someone hauling boxes through a busy precinct.

"Need a hand with that?" Vince offered, stepping closer.

The officer stiffened slightly, glancing at Vince with a faint smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "No, I've got it. Thanks, though." His voice was calm, but there was an unusual edge to it.

Vince hesitated for a moment, noting the faint sheen of sweat on the man's brow despite the cool air inside.

"Alright," Vince said slowly, stepping aside as the officer adjusted his grip and shuffled toward a supply closet. "Take it easy, though. Those boxes look like they weigh a ton."

The officer nodded quickly, not meeting Vince's eyes. "Will do."

As the man disappeared around the corner, Vince shrugged off and continued to the crime lab.

the crime lab, greeted by the familiar hum of equipment and the faint smell of chemicals. Reed and Nate stood by a workstation, the tree bark with dried blood sitting on the counter between them.

"Vince," Reed nodded, holding up the analysis report. "Got the results. The blood isn't human. It's animal—most likely from birds. As for the tree, it's maple. Pretty common for the area."

Nate chimed in, arms crossed. "Looks like your lead was just nature doing its thing."

Vince let out a quiet sigh, his hand brushing through his hair. "Well, there goes that lead. Back to square one."

As his eyes lingered on the bark, something caught his attention. He stepped closer, narrowing his gaze. The bark didn't look quite the same as when he had handed it over.

"Wait," Vince said, pointing at it. "This isn't how it looked when I gave it to you."

Reed blinked, confused. "What do you mean? That's how we received it."

Vince picked up the bark, turning it carefully in his hands. His sharp eyes scanned its surface, noting the subtle difference—a faint smudge near the edges, as if someone had handled it more than necessary.

"See here?" Vince said, pointing to the edge of the bark. "There's an indentation on this side that wasn't there before. And the blood smear is... different, spread wider than it was when I collected it."

Nate frowned, leaning closer. "You sure?"

"Positive," Vince replied firmly. He placed the bark back on the counter. "Run a fingerprint check on it. Just in case someone else handled it after me. It's a long shot, but we might catch something."

Reed and Nate exchanged a look before nodding. They ran the test, but the results came back with only two sets of prints: Vince's and another officer's—William Johnson.

"Johnson? Of course, i gave him the evidence" Vince said, straightening up.

Nate shrugged, gesturing toward the cafeteria. "Well, he's probably on his break. Should be there now."

"Thanks," Vince said, quickly heading toward the break room.

Pushing the door open, he saw three officers lounging around the table, their plates pushed aside, clearly finished with lunch. Among them was William Johnson, his voice the loudest as he leaned back in his chair, laughing.

"...and then he started crying before the cuffs even came out," Johnson said, grinning broadly. "These fuckers are all tough until you turn up the heat."

The others chuckled, nodding in agreement, their laughter mingling with fragments of stories about bloody interrogations. Vince's brows furrowed slightly as he stepped inside, the air growing quieter as they noticed him.

"Johnson," Vince called, his voice calm but edged with authority as he approached the group of officers. His sharp eyes locked onto Johnson, who paused mid-conversation with his colleagues.

"Yeah?" Johnson replied, standing up. The faint buzz of their chatter died down as the other officers exchanged curious glances, their unspoken questions hanging in the air.

Vince motioned toward the corner by the coffee machine, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Need a word."

Johnson followed without hesitation, his easy demeanor shifting into something more serious. Vince leaned against the counter, his piercing gaze locking onto the younger officer. "The bark evidence," Vince began, voice low but firm. "You handled it earlier, right?"

"Yeah," Johnson said, scratching the back of his neck. "I boxed it up with the other pieces of evidence. Had someone deliver it to the lab. Standard procedure, you know."

"Who took it?" Vince asked, his voice tightening just enough to show this wasn't a casual inquiry.

Johnson's brow furrowed as he thought. "Uh, some old guy. Looked like he worked here. Didn't say much, though—just signed for it and walked off."

"Old guy?" Vince repeated, leaning forward slightly. His tone was measured, but there was a flicker of urgency beneath the calm surface.

"Yeah," Johnson confirmed, his face thoughtful now. "I remember because he was kind of… weird. Kept looking down, like he was avoiding eye contact or something. Honestly, I thought it was just some clerk in a rush."

Vince's eyes narrowed, the pieces falling into place in his mind. "Did he have a badge? A name? Anything that stood out?"

Johnson hesitated, his frown deepening. "Now that you mention it... no, no badge. Just a generic uniform. I didn't think twice at the time; he moved like he belonged. Figured he was from evidence processing or something."

Vince let the silence hang for a moment, his jaw clenching slightly. "Anything else you remember? Details, Johnson. This is important."

The younger officer shook his head, the lines of confusion and regret creasing his forehead. "Nothing, man. He was older, quiet, and… now that I'm thinking about it, yeah, maybe a little too quiet. Sorry, Vince."

Vince stood still for a moment, his thoughts racing. The description matched the man he'd seen earlier. The heavy boxes, the polished boots, the smell of sea air… it wasn't just coincidence. The bark wasn't just misplaced—it was deliberately swapped.

"Alright," Vince said finally, his voice steady but laced with frustration. He pushed off the counter and nodded. "Thanks, Johnson."

"Anytime," Johnson replied, his tone uneasy as he watched Vince stride off.

Vince's mind worked furiously as he left the break room. As he turned to leave, his fists clutched white. That "older guy" sounded all too familiar.