Fast walks had been his friend in the past.

A fast walk would reduce the time it took to reach Ishimoro's house by seven minutes exactly. But the steps--angry, impatient beats on the treadmill of life--could not keep her away.

He wanted to have a reason to be angry with that girl. He wanted to latch onto a strong emotion outside of his past, located other than the rotting bug-crawling mess of his family disaster.

And she had given him one.

Roxie Bedelia. Who adopts an alias like that? He could see the wink, loathe, the defiance of her station in life in the selection of this name. Challenging someone to deduce the deal with her.

And what the hell was she doing in the cabinet where he usually hid the blue file when in a hurry? The hair he had found there coiled around a splinter was too long. It was the same length as her hair and same color too: jet black.

Shiny and silky, curving sensually under his touch…

He wanted to kiss it first then pull the hair out of her head in a rage.

Despite the burns, he had willed himself to clean the mess he had created before he left to fetch Brian. Guerro had texted him about Jorge's funeral and Harry wanted Brian to attend as well. As soon as he plunged under the sink to reach the cleaning supplies stowed away in the farthest cabinet, he found the lone black strand.

He put off the cleaning, compulsively checked every nook and corner where anything of value was stored--mostly the locked chambers among the shelves.

Nothing seemed out of the order. But he had a feeling Brian's papers had been rearranged. And his laptop was not exactly aligned to the side panel the way he did, every freaking time.

Good thing he had replaced Timothy Ross's label with an anagram. What the hell could she have been nosing around for?

He needed to come up with a plan.

***

They looked into each other's eyes across the gathering.

Sheila's held a lingering plea, ever since Harry had approached her and hugged her in consolation, before letting Brian extend his greeting. It was a refusal to let go of the soothe she once found in the arms of this young, vivacious, unofficial ward of her late husband. Harry's eyes, in response, held a firmness, a strength he wanted to bequeath unto the widow by calmly signaling his rejection.

He had grown up and just lost his beacon. He may once have been the ignorant predator that feeds on carrion after stabbing the honorable dead. But now he had to uphold a multitude of dignities. The dignity of the departed, of the never-acquired promise to look after the bereaved, of his own character, self-respect, and maturity.

The park was nice; it was a local church. Jorge's friends had some trouble securing a grave here as the church relied on donations from big patrons hard on the issue of homelessness. Then Guerro shamed them into acquiescence with Jorge's volunteering credentials as a caretaker for local veterans in his better decades.

Ceremonially, things were going smooth. Lifeless clay had been usurped by live soil in the lap of mother earth. Condolences were being traded across like not too sweet, not too salty pastries, when the mood of the congregation is benevolent. Harry looked around the gathering - Kingfisher hadn't bothered to show up. Not that he had expected the recluse to be here.

Or, had no one bothered informing him yet? Harry certainly hadn't.

Harry bided his time until he saw the widow's brothers leave her free to mingle again. Brian was surrounded by children from the shelter who knew Harry well enough and had heard a ton about the new kid with disfigured legs. But they had a friendly spirit, so encouraging Brian to make more friends, Harry weaved his way between the guests.

Reaching Sheila, he took baby Maya off her hands and raised her up high. The tiny princess smiled into his eyes and giggled when he wiggled his tongue. He held onto her and hid his face against her frock when a fresh sentiment threatened to swim across his face and hit his tear ducts. Resting his forehead against hers, he whispered, loud enough so her mother could hear as well.

“I was a bad son to your father before. But I have no intention of being one now. You're my sister. And I promise: you'll never have to worry about anything.”

***

The wet texture of the day had turned the roads into water slides and the bike wheels were slipping. The soothing element of the hour was laced with a heady blast of cool air cutting through Harry's senses.

It was invigorating.

Harry was riding on luck today. The smooth Honda under him was the best exchange he had ever found on the Swappable App's Exchange point that had only recently opened in Estero. The cost was the same as a bus commute to Fort Myers took but the savings in time were humongous.

Harry had decided against visiting the coroner just yet. The body had only been discovered last night, and released hours ago to the family. It was better to wait till tomorrow.

Harry took to the east side of Fort Myers and arrived at a boxy, Type 5 co-op building of seven storeys from the 'affordable housing' boom of the earlier decades. Paint was peeling at some spots with mossy bricks exposed. He strode to the better half of the building and took the stairs down to the lower level. A small, square lobby led to four entrance doors and he pushed the weight of his finger onto the bell button by the one to his left. From what he understood of the arbitrary sleep-wake cycle of Kingfisher's routine, the man could well be in deep sleep at this moment.

Harry took the finger off only when the door opened three long minutes later.

"Seriously, Harry?" came out the wheeze, taut with irritation, from the floppy guy, plump face muffled in sleep.

"I told you I was coming, Kingfisher." Harry lightly pushed his friend, making room for himself to slip past that bulk.

He shouldn't probably think of this man as his friend. The guy had some mysterious connection to the Bureau and it was him who had led Harry on in the belief that the lad could end up carving a bright future for himself by starting at the Bureau.

Kingfisher's slippers shuffled unwillingly as he closed the door behind Harry.

It was a one room-unit with an open kitchen plan. The place was spacious, but the walls seemed to be closing in on each side. Hardly any vertical surface could be seen as all was covered with shelves, frames, charts or maps.

The horizontals were similarly covered with books, globes, clocks telling different international times and more. There were remarkable models of houses everywhere: domes, desert rolls, container-welds. Several models of self-contained cities occupied low tables arranged around the room: high-rise webs, arcologies, underground pyramids, and oceanic globes.

There were several climate charts and predictive maps: temperatures, hurricanes, earthquakes to mention a few. There were urban maps: current dichotomies and future visions for the United States, other socioeconomic and political representations from the major regions of the world, and corporate hegemonies. Every item reflected on the hive nature of Kingfisher's head, sucking info from all over the world and regurgitating it in coherent modules.

Harry, never not awed by the displays, picked the turns of the carpet maze shy between the tables. He flipped the switch to the kitchen's centre light, a narrow lattice of helical tubes hanging well above the island. Instantly, the whole place was hit by a blinding white laser chandelier. Harry's arm shot up to shield his eyes until Kingfisher turned the power knob to Low with an irritated grunt.

Harry climbed a stool, sitting on the edge, hands loosely clasped on the countertop, legs fidgeting. With a rueful sigh, his older friend flopped opposite him.

Harry looked tremulously at the dangling lattice. "How can you even afford such atrocities in such a crappy place?"

Kingfisher chuckled. "I built it."

"Where even?" Harry whined.

Another chuckle. "Do you have a warrant, my boy? Another few minutes and the chill would hit my system racking up the wheeze."

Harry had only been stalling what was at the forefront of his mind. In a flash he'd adjusted the heat dial and back on stool.

"I buried Jorge today. He died last night." Harry pictured his quiet statements like leaves come off a naked branch in fall.

"That man would be hard to kill." There was awe and surprise in Kingfisher's retort. "What happened?"

Kingfisher looked attentively at Harry as he waited for an answer. He had been to two tours of duty with Jorge. Later, had taken an instant liking to this boy with spunk when the Puerto Rican veteran had unofficially taken him in his charge.

"All I know is … it wasn't natural," Harry said fiddling with his thumbs.

"Yeah. Like I said, that man would be hard to kill off. I've seen him in active duty. Woof." After a deep sigh but no other response from Harry, Kingfisher prodded him again. "Sounds like you seen him."

"I found the body! It was piled up behind the junction, like a bale of wool! Had been dead for a few hours the least. I know it wasn't natural. I knew him like … like … "

Kingfisher knew the word family won't rise to the tip of the boy's tongue. "Dellany office would be seeing him, unless he was under treatment for something."

"That's what Timothy said. He didn't see a doctor for two years at least. I gotta go tomorrow though. Gotta take the boy to Rockwell first."

"Sure."

Kingfisher waited with a suppressed smile. This conversation was far from over.

Fixing Kingfisher with a determined gaze, Harry switched gears with confidence: "Laundry Town."

Kingfisher chuckled. "What you gonna do?"

"This funky business is not a one-time job. I can't go in and out. I have to have access. If this deal, whatever it is, is to go down in these parts, it gotta be through that rumored accounts service."

"Why do you believe it will be in these parts?" Kingfisher raised an eyebrow.

"Actually, there's next to zero chance."

"And yet you look hell-bent …"

"Because I wanna make something of myself! Isn't that why you led me to the Bureau?"

Kingfisher smiled at the sight of Harry's feverish eyes. His type of lad.

"The path you are choosing is dangerous. But so is your favored line of work. You badly want to be noticed by someone high up, to recruit you into the big leagues - I can see as much. But are you truly ready?"

"What else do I got? Look at me. A rat in the gutters is better than me. You know why? It doesn't have to look in the mirror everyday." Harry pierced his older friend again with those burning eyes.

The legs of Kingfisher's stool scraped the floor as he got up decisively. In two languid steps, his girth was beside Harry and a warm hand on the boy's shoulder. Then he uttered two words.

"Volatile Books."

Harry's eyes widened and struggled with the gallops his mind was making.

Where did he knew Volatile Books from? Monk's Finger. A pair of maternal brothers - local legends - had opened that shop in the neighborhood after a painstakingly acquired education. Within five years, they left the shop to the care of their apprentices and took to Sarasota or so they said. People started labeling them as geniuses after they bought plots surrounding their humble abode in the middle of Monk's Finger and erected a mansion.

The way into Laundry Town was right under the bridge to the highway that allegedly took them up north. Harry's eyes began to sparkle with the deliciousness of the coincidences. Don't believe in them.

Like a telegraphic message directly imparted from Kingfisher's eyes, Harry knew what he was supposed to do.

"Tell me if Jorge's family needs help." Kingfisher's voice floated from somewhere, then the door of his bedroom opened and shut with a dismissive thunk. The door to the apartment would lock itself and the smart alarm would reconfigure after Harry saw himself out.