Work Text
DEA Special Agent Erik Lehnsherr strolls down the concrete sidewalks, cracked and littered with cigarettes as a cold wind blows; he walks past a man that adds his own burnt out, tan-colored filter to the horde, blowing out the sickly smoke on the October breeze like a storybook dragon; his own nose wrinkles, and he thinks,‘Lucky for you it wasn't a joint that time.’He wants to ask him if he indeed does smoke other substances, it’s habit, but like arresting people, things are not so simple; there are no white knights, nor fair maidens, or even dragons to slay. There are the cops, the ones who haven’t succumbed to bribery and thievery; there are the femme fatales and the college girls moonlighting as hookers; there are the dogfights and drug deals and black market exchanges where humans are sold to the highest bidder. But above all, at least, right now to Erik, there is a murderer on the loose; a mob boss, some say a drug lord ordering the snuffing of now over twenty different prostitutes, escorts, and strippers; male, female, it doesn't seem to matter; there’s no MO, no specific tag to link them all together, if you don’t look at their former occupations.Something about the scenes wiggles uncomfortably in his head, teasing, just out of reach, like the trailing fingers of cold seaweed across skin. No matter; he aims to bring this scum fuck to justice, and his aim is very, very good. Trash of society, sluts or no, Erik can’t stand to look at the bodies of dead women and sometimes men on the street, thrown into a filthy gutter or alleyway; it reminds him too much of what could've been.He’s headed to the most upscale brothel in the downtown area, an elitist pearl surrounded by seedy peepshow theaters, pawnshops, and abandoned warehouses down by the docks. It’s advertised as a masseur's office, yet everyone knows the truth. However, the chief of police can’t, after all, get caught with his pants down. Wedged between an apartment complex and an abandoned, crumbling townhouse, Erik reaches the innocuous yet massive gothic building with its chipping stone and cherub statue guards at the stairs. Their blank, grey eyes don’t see him; neither do the windows. They’re curtained in deep red cloth. Knocking with gloved hands, he is answered by a short, burly man in a NYPD uniform, dark brown sideburns wild as the rest of his hair, sky blue eyes narrowed.“'Bout time you got here bub.”“Sorry, I had some papers to take care of at the office.”The large man lets out a feral bark of laughter as Erik ducks like a dancer under the screaming yellow tape printed with ‘CRIME SCENE DO NOT CROSS.’“I smell bullshit, boss. Everyone knows from Manhattan to Quantico you ain't got a paper-pushing bone in your body.”Since Der Fluch, it’s been established that Erik is Boss.“Logan, just get me inside.”“That’s Sergeant Logan ta you Lehnsherr.”“Special Agent Lehnsherr, asshole.”“Midtown South represent!”Erik face-palms. At least there isn't blood all over the walls, like the last case he had to visit in some cheap Motel 6. He gazes nonchalantly at the expensive wallpaper and crisp white marble tile, clean and smelling of lemons, the crystal chandeliers and antique furniture upholstered in bright red and black silk. It all manages to be very elegant, not at all tacky as some retro-brothels he has seen. Doors line the foyer, and polished stone stairs curve into the second floor. As they make their way up, Erik spots paintings and flowers, more pretty lights and Persian rugs that, if original, could cost a fortune. He looks around warily at each closed doorway.“Business around here still running, Logan?”“As far as I know, there’s just the witness in the office downstairs; the rest of the building’s empty. Nobody was willin’ to come back until Ms. Dead-in-bed left the building.” “Think this witness will be any more willing to talk than the last ones?”The partner of the last girl was not forthcoming, and Erik had to almost threaten her to keep her from bolting long enough to get a statement.“You’ll find out, I guess.”“Not going to help me?”“Nah, you don’t need the help; besides, you’re better at talkin’ to people.”The upstairs hall is lined in doors too, but one is special; it’s got a yellow tape on it, as if to say surprise, Agent, here I am. They slowly approach, Erik’s green-grey eyes focused and hard.“What’s the details with this one?”“Name’s Angel Salvadore, twenty-three years old, Latino, murdered ‘round midnight yesterday, or so the M.E.s tell me, ya know how they are. She was a college student, moonlightin’ as a stripper here at the Alder Club for some quick dough, is my guess. Tech and CSU haven’t done analysis yet, but they gave her a quick once over after the evidence was collected.”“Cause of death, evidence, presence of drugs?”“Strangulation most likely; you’ll see her in a minute. Evidence was some blood from under her nails, hand prints on her neck, but that won’t do ‘em much good; I could smell the bleach on her skin from five feet away. Anyway, they did a rape kit too, if only to do it, and found some syringes stuck in her purse, used and rusty, no way she’d use ‘em. Heroin’s missing; that’s why we called you in. So’s some cash and a credit card, but I also doubt this was a mugging-gone-wrong. Poor gal was in on something she shouldn’t have been. Fuck… She was a fighter though.”Putting on a set of latex gloves from his pocket, Logan opens the door for them, lifting the ribbon of yellow; inside, it’s lush and beautiful, snowy carpet with wing-back chairs and a coffee table, a four-poster bed with gauzy red curtains, candles scattred about. It’d be the perfect getaway, if not for the half-naked woman lying stone-cold on the silk sheets with a body bag and gurney beside it. Erik walks up to the body, and shakes his head as he looks at her bloodless face and staring, glassy brown eyes. Her dark hair is whichaway, makeup frozen forever. She did it well, he can see; her killer had recognized that too, and hadn't smeared it.Her slender neck bears the bruises of strangulation, no doubt, and Erik mourns her, staring into her blank eyes, like the cherubs, crying out to him for help. He looks at a copy of her driver’s license. Even in a shitty photo, she was beautiful. He examines her neck gingerly, rigor mortis long since set in, and it’s difficult moving her into a body bag after they’re done making notes.Erik shivers as Logan zips it up with her inside, Angel Salvadore in her orange silk-blend teddy just trying to earn a living…“You need to stop getting so involved,” a voice whispered. Erik froze, unable to speak.“Just look what happened to me.” From the corner of his eye, he sees dark brown hair, smeared red lipstick, and when he blinks it’s gone, his pulse quick and startled like a shoal of fish.“Boss?”“Y-Yeah?”“Did you see her again?”“Yeah. I’m fine. Really. You got the body?”“Got it, no problemo. You should probably go talk to the witness now, get a statement, some leads if you can.”“Right, right. I’ll see you after.”“Take care of yourself, boss.”“I will.”Leaving Logan to take care of Angel, Erik walks out, takes off his leather gloves and rubs his face, nearly stumbling down the stairs while doing so. Finding the office, he knocks once and enters. To his surprise, he sees sitting in a black leather armchair a young man, boyish with brown, glossy curls, porcelain skin with hints of pink, and the reddest lips he’s ever seen on someone with no makeup. And his eyes!He’s got to be careful; he always did have a thing for blue eyes and dark hair. She had…‘That’s enough!’ he thinks sharply. Smiling slightly, he looks about the office, the young man smiling back just as brightly, shapely legs crossed in tight blue jeans, ending in worn boots. His sweater has a raven on it.“So, uh, where do I find the witness?”“Oh, that’s me, sir,” replies the man smartly, wide, lively eyes glittering. Erik counts to ten.“Alright, then, state your name and occupation, please.”“Charles Xavier; I’m a dancer here at the Alder Club.”