After three years, I'm back! Honestly, when I finished "An Uncommon Witness" I was not seriously considering a sequel. I had trouble bringing AUW to completion, and with only a few nebulous concepts floating around in my head for a sequel, the thought of doing it all over again was just too stressful. But while working on my Sailor Moon fan comic, ideas for this sequel kept bubbling up, so I decided to let my Muse chew on it while I continued with the comic. Luckily the "wait and see" approach worked, and within a few months of finishing my Sailor Moon fan comic, I had drafted a complete outline for the AUW sequel. With this in hand, I felt much more confident that I would have a cohesive plotline and can avoid some of the pitfalls I had with AUW. And speaking of AUW, eagle-eyed readers may notice a few changes have been made to that story since its completion in 2016. Part of this was to update the text after I did some additional research on certain topics. The other reason for the edits is to better align the sequel with its prequel so that everything is consistent.

With that being said, this sequel will be a different beast from its predecessor in terms of scope and focus. Fakir and Duck will still be the central characters, but I am sad to say that, except for passing mentions in conversation, Rue and Mytho will not be featured in this story. As far as my Muse is concerned, Rue and Mytho's story is done; they've literally sailed into the sunset, and there is nothing more to say about them. For Fakir and Duck on the other hand, my Muse has plenty to say. This sequel will address one of the main disappointments(?) readers expressed about the ending to AUW, and that is the lack of romantic resolution to their relationship (to be fair, I had head-canons for Fakir and Duck's relationship beyond AUW when I was still writing that story, so this just gives me an excuse to finally put those ideas down on paper). You can expect a lot more Fakiru moments, as well as more rom-com elements, with some nods to the second season of the original anime. The mystery and crime element of the original setup will remain, as readers will discover by the end of this first chapter, but will take more of a backseat to their relationship development.

Now, without further ado, read on and enjoy! ;)

Chapter 1

Countless raindrops battered the pavement, replacing the usual din of car horns and pedestrian chatter, as a torrential downpour drenched the city of New York in the heat of a summer night. A single street lamp illuminated a small empty lot, gleaming on its wet pavement.

Beneath the lonely lamplight, a group of huddled figures shuffled about in the gloom, the beams of their flashlights flitting to-and-fro. A lucky few stood in the open with umbrellas unfurled, while the remaining unfortunate souls braved the rain's full brunt.

The majority talked and gestured under the meager cover of a nearby tree. No matter where they stood, be it beneath an umbrella or the tree, everyone's attention was centered on the single motionless body that lay before them, soaked and lifeless on the crumbling brick pavement.

Police Sergeant Fakir Romeiras was one of the unfortunate figures standing in the pouring rain. Stepping away from his examination of the body, Fakir tilted his head back to have one last look at the crime scene.

This small action inadvertently sent a rivulet of water from the rim of his hat down into his coat, and soaked the back of his shirt. Fakir cringed at the sensation of wet clothes against his skin. It was made worse by the summer humidity and heat, which stubbornly refused to dissipate despite the rain or the time of night. Fakir grumbled mentally at his lack of weather foresight.

Four responding units and only three umbrellas between a dozen men. This makes no sense!

Making a mental note to recommend stocking umbrellas in every police car at the next departmental meeting, it was not so much the discomfort of being wet that irritated the detective. Rather, the lack of rain cover made it difficult to take notes and collect evidence. The rain was slowly but steadily eroding the crime scene, which was far more infuriating for Fakir than standing in the rain with sodden shoes and drenched trouser legs.

Turning to one of the figures lucky enough to possess an umbrella, Fakir shouted impatiently, "Alex, anything?"

A young man with short brunette hair hurried over and handed Fakir a small paper bag, its edges darkened by water. "Two bullets, Sarge. Jerry's got the photos of where they were found. There might be more embedded in the victim, but we probably won't know 'til the coroner gets to have a look. I expect the wagon will be here soon to pick up the body."

"Good. Make sure you hold onto to those," Fakir said, handing the bag back to Alex after taking a quick look inside. "Charon mentioned that Colonel Goddard now has a working prototype of his comparison microscope. If we ever recover a gun, we'll be able to give the colonel something to compare these to."*

As Alex dutifully tucked the paper bag into a pocket, Fakir looked back at the body that was still being examined by the police team and said, "Based on the level of rigor mortis and lividity the victim has been deceased for no more than four hours. It's now 9:50pm. My guess is the victim was killed around 7 to 6pm, at the earliest."

The lack of an identifier in his sentences reminded Fakir of his next question. Wiping away the rain on his face, Fakir turned back to Alex, "Speaking of that, do we have a name for the man yet?"

The young officer nodded, and after fumbling with his umbrella, managed to pull his notebook out of a breast pocket. "We do. Actually, one of the local patrol officers who responded to the call recognized him," Alex said, pointing his chin at the group of uniformed officers huddling under the nearby tree. "Let's see… his name is Marco Corioli. 42 years-old. Plasterer by trade. Lives a few blocks from here, in unit 3-2 of 493 Tiber Street."

The young man paused to flip a page, and continued, "Also, according to the boys, he has a bit of a record. No felonies, though he had been picked up for bootlegging a couple times in the last two years, and before that he was mostly involved in some petty thefts and handling of stolen goods – that kind of thing. One thing worth mentioning, though," Alex added, pausing as he cast a quick glance at Fakir, "is that the boys say Marco occasionally used to do business for the Corvos."

At this, Fakir's eyes shot up sharply. Alex seemed to anticipate Fakir's reaction and gave his senior officer an uneasy look before looking back down at his notes. "Er, again nothing big. Just the rum-running I mentioned, that's all," he concluded weakly.

Fakir didn't respond. Instead, his lips drew into a scowl.

It had been less a year since Domenico Corvo was found dead inside a burnt-out garage in South Chicago. Many of the senior Corvo gang members who traveled there with him either died in the gun fight with the Chicago gangs or were swiftly picked up by the local police. As a result, the Corvo organization had effectively collapsed overnight.

However, that did not account for the small-time crooks and thugs who worked for the Corvos, people whom Don Corvo had no personal interest in, and for the most part, no personal contact with. These soldiers and minions were left to seek other means of employment—and in some cases, protection—for the Corvos had not been without their own enemies in the city of New York.

Looking at the dead man lying face down on the pavement, which was a sign that he had been killed while running away from his assailant, Fakir wondered if Marco Corioli's demise had anything to do with his connections to that nefarious organization, or if he was robbed of his life by some other ill means.

"Sarge?"

The sound of his partner's voice snapped Fakir out of his thoughts, and he turned back to the young office, who was holding the umbrella out to him. "Take the umbrella, Sarge. I'm done taking notes for now."

Fakir pushed the umbrella back towards his junior and shrugged. "Don't worry about me. It's too late for that anyway," he sighed under his breath, feeling the damp shirt clinging to his back. "We'll leave the boys to finish up. Now that we have the victim's name, we ought to notify the next of kin. Do you know how to get to Tiber Street?"

Alex nodded mutely.

"Good. You drive, then." In so saying, Fakir turned towards a patrol car.

But before he stepped away, Fakir looked back at his unmoving partner, and saw that the young detective's lips were drawn thin.

"Have you done a death notification before?" the dark-haired detective inquired, to which Alex frowned and shook his head.

"I suppose this will have to be your first, then,' Fakir mused quietly as he led Alex to their vehicle. "This is one of the worst parts of this job, but it's also one of the most important." Inside the car, with the windows and doors closed, the drumming of the rain was reduced to a dull drone of pitter-patter.

Alex climbed into the driver's seat next to Fakir, and as the car's engine stirred to life, he turned to the more seasoned detective and asked hesitantly, "So…what do we tell the family, Sarge? Everything? Parts of what we know?"

For a long moment, Fakir did not move or make a sound. Alex, his fingers tapping nervously on the steering wheel, waited for Fakir's response.

What he could not see was the flash of memories behind Fakir's eyes, a vision of a heavily bandaged little boy lying in a hospital bed. With his only surviving family members standing quietly to one side, a police officer gently took the boy's hand and spoke the words that boy would never forget.

When Fakir spoke, his voice was somber, but resolute. "We tell them the truth."

By the time Fakir and Alex had parked in front of the tenement building on 493 Tiber Street, the rain had tapered off into a drizzle. The two men made their way up the narrow staircases, using their flashlights to illuminate the steps in the poorly lit hallways.

Once they reached the third floor, Fakir's flashlight beam landed on a simple wooden door, with the number "2" painted in black on the top of the wooden panel.

After knocking twice in succession with no one answering, Fakir and Alex looked at each other, mutually wondering if anyone was home. Then Fakir had an idea.

"You speak Italian, right? Try calling out in Italian instead."

"Er, sure," Alex said with a small nod. Clearing his throat, he knocked again and shouted, "Ciao? Qualcuno è a casa? Questa è la polizia."

After a long moment, the door creaked open and a middle-aged woman peeked out warily from behind the door jam at the two men. "Come posso aiutarti, signori?"

Alex glanced at Fakir for assurance, and after the sergeant nodded, Alex replied quietly, "Riguarda tuo marito, Marco."

A brief expression of surprise flashed across the woman's face before a look of resignation took its place, as though she had been through similar situations before. Pushing the door open, they were led into a stuffy little room, lit only by the light of a kerosene lamp.

It was evident at a glance that this single room doubled as the family's dining, living, and kitchen area, with pots and pans piled somewhat haphazardly next to the blackened coal stove. Sheets of laundered diapers and clothing, which would normally be drying outside, were hanging over a jury-rigged garment line due to the rain, leaving barely enough space for the occupants to move about without running into something or another.

Within this cramped space, three children—two older teenage girls and one middle-school age boy—sat around a wooden table piled high with bundles of half-finished coats and dress shirts. Both girls were in the middle of sewing buttons onto the shirts when the officers entered the room, causing the needles in their hands to pause.

Their brother, who was also the youngest of the three, stood up from his chair and complained loudly to his mother in English, "Ma, why did you let the coppers in?"

The mother quickly shushed her son with a raised finger. "Non così forte! I bambini stanno dormendo." Lowering her voice, she glanced at the officers and whispered something to the boy and motioned toward the officers.

"Why do I have to go talk to 'em? One of them speaks Italian. Just talk to him yourself!" The boy protested, but was met with a quick smack on his backside and a stern look from his mother. Grudgingly, the boy took a step forward.

By now, the boy's sisters had put their work down, and four sets of distrustful and apprehensive eyes rested on the two policemen. Tilting up his chin to look tough, the dark-haired boy asked, "What did my old man get into this time?"

Alex swallowed thickly, his nervous eyes darting to Fakir. In contrast to that of the junior detective, Fakir's expression was calm. He said to the boy in a quiet voice, "What is your name?"

The boy rolled his eyes in annoyance. "Edmondo Corioli. But everyone calls me Eddie."

"And may I ask what are your mother and sisters' names?"

"Ma's name is Sofia. My eldest sister's name is Elisa, and my second older sister's name is Angelica, but they go by Eli and Angie." Eddie finished with a shrug.

Fakir nodded in acknowledgment. Looking up briefly at the women of the household, he said to the boy, "Please ask your mother and sisters to have a seat, Eddie."

Eddie opened his mouth as though he was going to object, then thought better of it and repeated Fakir's request to his mother and sisters in Italian.

Once everyone, save for the boy and the two officers, had occupied the available chairs in the room, Fakir took a deep breath. "My name is Sergeant Fakir Romeiras of the New York City Police Department," he said in a measured and solemn voice. "Two hours ago, at 8:45pm, an officer discovered an unconscious male subject in the empty lot behind Volci Street. Upon closer inspection, it was determined the subject had been killed due to multiple gunshot wounds."

Fakir paused briefly and watched as Eddie's eyes grew wide. The detective's brows wrinkled momentarily, but he continued, and to the family softly said, "Uniformed officers on the scene identified the victim as Marco Corioli. I am sorry, Mrs. Corioli, Eddie, Eli, and Angie, but Marco is gone."

The girls raised their hands to their mouth to muffle their cries, evidence that despite their silence they had understood Fakir's every word. Seeing her daughters' reaction, a confused and agitated Sofia shook her son's shoulder. "Edmondo, cosa è successo? Cosa ha detto la polizia?"

Eddie said nothing for a moment, then barely audibly, "Ma… Pops, he's… lui è morto."

Angie inhaled sharply and turned away from the room while her older sister embraced her as the two girls began to quietly weep.

Eddie's mother did not move at first. Finally, she let go of her son's shoulder and her eyes drifting to the floor. When her eyes looked up again they were quivering with disbelief.

"È vero? Come? Non ci credo! Non è possibile… non… non è possibile…" Repeating that same phrase to herself, Sofia buried her face in her hands and cried.

Alex watched the family with a mix of sympathy and self-consciousness, not sure if he should speak up and comfort them or allow them to express their grief.

Looking to Fakir for guidance, he saw that his senior's face was stoic and unreadable. Even so, Fakir never looked away from the young boy standing in front of him, a boy who had not shed a single tear upon hearing of his father's death, but whose balled-up fists and clenched jaw spoke volumes of his emotional state.

"Who killed him?" Eddie asked simply, his eyes locking with Fakir's.

Fakir shook his head. "We don't know yet. But we believe you can help us find out who did. Do you, or anyone else in your family, know if your father had any enemies? Anyone who would want to harm him?"

Here, Eli spoke for the first time. Wiping her tear stained cheeks with the sleeve of her worn linen frock, the eldest of the Corioli children said in accented English, "No, no one! Papà gets into trouble some times, but nothing big or very serious."

"Papà likes horse racing and often go to the race track," Angie added, sniffling as she held tightly onto her sister. "Papà rarely gets work, so Mamma, Eli and I finish clothes to earn some money.* But last month Papà, without telling us, took the money we had saved and lost it all on horse races. Mamma was furious with him because we won't have enough money for rent next month. He said he would borrow money from some friends, but did not say anything else to us."

"I see." Fakir turned to Alex, who seem to wake from his earlier stupor, and said, "Alex, make a note of that."

To the girls, Fakir asked, "Do you know which of your father's friends he might've approached for money?"

Angie shook her head as her sister rose and knelt down next to their mother to comfort her. "We don't ask about Papà's business. He gets angry when people pry. Even Mamma doesn't ask much."

"What about his activities today? Do you know when he left the house?"

The girls again shook their heads, but Eddie spoke up. "I saw him leave today. It was around 6pm, when Ma was making supper. The babies—my two younger sisters, Rose and Lucia—were throwing a fit, so Eli and Angie were in the backroom, taking care of them. Someone knocked on the door and the old man went to open it right away. He usually only does that if someone he knows is coming to visit. They talked for a little bit at the door, then the two of them left together." Here, Eddie pursed his lips. "That is the last I ever saw him."

"Do you know who the man is or what he looks like?" Alex asked, his pen flying across the pages of his notebook.

But Eddie shook his head. "It was too dark for me to see his face. I just know he's real tall. Almost a foot taller than Pops. After Pops answered the door, I heard him asking Pops if he was ready to go."

"They didn't mention where they were going?"

Again, another shake of the head from Eddie. After some additional questions about Marco Corioli's background, employment, and living habits, the two officers had finally exhausted their inquiries. However, they still had precious little in the way of answers.

By now, Sofia's cries had diminished to a series of low, shuddering breaths, and from the dark shadows under the children's eyes, it was clear they were all physically and emotionally exhausted.

Realizing there was no other information to glean from them tonight, Fakir frowned. He had hoped Marco's family would be able to shed more light on how he ended up in that empty lot, but it seemed that—like many other men involved with organized crime—Marco was very protective of what he considered his "business".

The identity of the person Eddie saw Marco leave with will be the key. Fakir's eyes narrowed. The challenge of course will be how to figure that out...

Shifting his attention back to the grieving family, Fakir reached out and placed his hand on Eddie's shoulder. "We will do our utmost to find the person or persons who did this to your father."

He reached into a pocket and produced a card. "Here is my card. If you or your family have any questions, or hear anything of interest, let me know."

Fakir wanted to say more, but seeing the closed off expression on Eddie's face, the detective knew his words were falling on deaf ears. Sighing softly, he placed the card on the table, then he and Alex turned towards the door.

Before taking his leave, Fakir turned back one last time, and in a voice that sounded inadequately sincere even to his own ears, said, "Again, I am sorry for your loss. Take care."

Outside the rain had stopped and the night air was warm and muggy. Alex, once back in the driver seat, said guiltily to Fakir, "Sorry I wasn't much help back there, Sarge…" Looking self-consciously at the steering wheel, the young officer admitted, "I just didn't know what to say to them. But you handled it really well back there."

To his surprise, Fakir only gave a shake of his head. Mystified, Alex look at him questioningly, to which Fakir explained, "I wanted to give them answers, Alex. I don't count that as a well-handled notification."

"But we don't even know who killed Marco. How could we give them answers when we…?" Alex began, but Fakir stopped him with a hand on Alex's arm.

"You'll understand someday. Let's get back to the precinct. We still have a lot of work ahead of us."

By the time Fakir made it back to his desk at the 53rd precinct, it was almost midnight. With nary a break, Fakir had a quick change of clothes and went straight back to work, checking the report for the items and evidence recovered at the scene, as well as typing up a transcript of what he and Alex had learned from the Corioli family.

Alex had wanted to press on and help with the paperwork, but after nearly 16 hours on the clock, fatigue was catching up with him, and the junior officer could not stop yawning. Upon Fakir's urging, Alex finally conceded to go home for the night after Fakir promised him he would be leaving soon as well.

Now alone, with just the quiet hum of his electric desk fan for company, the dark-haired detective did not bother to conceal his frustration with the case at hand. Fakir tapped his cigarette over a metal ashtray full of used stubs. Taking a long puff, he exhaled and let out the deep sigh of exasperation and helplessness that had plagued him all night.

The crime scene report had found little physical evidence, owing to either the rain or the lack of visibility. While an attempt would be made in the morning to recanvas the area, it was difficult to say if anything new would be found even then. Fakir slapped the report down on his desk, running his hand into his still damp hair.

Try as he might to focus on the investigation, Fakir's thoughts kept drifting back to Eddie, the boy who had glimpsed the man likely responsible for his father's death. Fakir could not help but be reminded of himself as a child, back when he tried desperately, yet in vain, to recall the faces of the two men who had killed his parents before his eyes. Even after two decades, the memory of the powerlessness he'd felt as a child still sent pangs of anguish and anger through his chest.

But those men are dead now, Fakir reminded himself sternly as he attempted to redirect his mind back to the present. Fate saw to it that retribution was brought against those responsible for his parents' death.

As desperately as Fakir had wanted proper justice to be carried out, he had come to accept that there was nothing more to be done. The only thing he could do now was to walk, slowly but steadily, out of the trauma that had haunted him for most of his life.

But what about Eddie? Fakir took another puff on his cigarette. Would that boy ever have the closure of knowing his father's killer was brought to justice? Or would this become another cold case festering like an open wound, causing more pain and suffering as the years went by?

With his head resting in one hand, Fakir's tired eyes drifted toward the reports on his desk. As fervently as Fakir wanted to believe he would one day bring those responsible for Marco Corioli's murder to justice, there were no good leads for him to follow. If only he could find out who had gone to see Marco that evening, then it would throw the case wide open…

Suddenly, the telephone on Fakir's desk buzzed to life, startling the detective from his daze. Wondering who on earth would call him at this godforsaken hour, Fakir quickly rubbed out the nearly spent cigarette and picked up the receiver.

"Sergeant Romeiras, Mr. Autor Brahms is on the line for you," said the sleepy voice of the nightshift switchboard operator, and added, "This the third time he's called in tonight."

Fakir's brows furrowed. The only reason he can foresee for Autor to be this persistent was if the journalist wanted something… and wanted it badly. Great, what does he want now? Fakir groaned internally.

Leaning tiredly into his chair, Fakir pinched the bridge of his nose said to the operator, "Put him through."

With the Corioli case still on his mind, Fakir decided to cut to the chase of whatever this was about. When the line cracked back to life, he said tersely, "What do you want, Autor? I've told you to stop calling me at the precinct. If you want to pester me, then call the line in my apartment. I had it installed for a reason!"

Autor, though, was not to be outdone, so he replied in an equally indignant tone, "I highly doubt the police force would installed a phone line at your home just for me to call you with, Fakir. And I did call your home number just now—twice, in fact—but no one answered! Knowing you, you would more likely be at work anyway. But even with this number it took me three attempts before you actually answered!"

"That's because I'm working, Autor!" Fakir said through clinched teeth. "I have better things to do than sit at my desk and wait for unsolicited calls from newshawks all day! What do you need from me so badly that you can't wait until morning or send a telegram?"

From the other end, Autor blustered, "That's very presumptuous of you! In fact, I don't need anything from you!"

Fakir's brow cocked up. "Then why on earth do you bother wasting your time and money trying to reach me at 1am?" The detective retorted.

Autor sighed, and in a more composed but no less aggravated tone, responded, "Because I need to warn you about something, you dolt. And it's not just you, but your neighbor as well."

At those words, Fakir leaned forward sharply, pressing the earpiece flat against his head, his earlier concern about the Coriolli case momentarily forgotten. "What? What do you mean?"

Clearing his throat, Autor continued, "Before you get too jumpy, know that it's still possible what I am about to tell you may turn out to be of no consequence in the end. Nevertheless, I thought the sooner you knew, the better.

"This afternoon, I overheard an interesting bit of gossip at the World. One of the boys in the bureau, Ricky, was telling another boy here about his recent visit to a taxi dance hall.* Seems like a girl he fancied told him she knows someone who's looking to rub out the copper and witness reported in the Corvo exposés. Initially I thought it was just talk, but then your name came up, Fakir."

Here Autor paused. "You've read those exposés, Fakir, and you know neither you nor Duck's name were ever mentioned in those articles."

Fakir's eyes narrowed. He knew Autor was right. Instead of any one individual, the New York City Police Department as a whole had been credited with the investigation and dismantling of the Corvo organization.

For someone to know he was involved would mean whoever had made those threats know more than what the papers have printed, and may have even been present in the warehouse in Chicago, where Fakir had been recognized before all hell broke loose. The fact that Duck's involvement, though not mentioned specifically by her name, was also brought up made Fakir's heart begin to race.

"Can you tell me exactly what the taxi dancer said, in as much detail as you can remember?"

Autor paused to collect his thoughts, then answered, "It was something to the effect of, 'I know a former Corvo boy who's itching to get some payback for what happened to his boss. He's out to bump off that Fakir detective fellow and the witness who set the boss up.' Something along those lines.

"Keep in mind though, Fakir, this is third-hand information. My guess is Ricky was trying to sweet-talk this girl, but she was not having it. She probably said all of this to get him off her back, which I think did the trick, because he made no mention of going back to see her again. However, it is concerning that this taxi dancer, whom I am almost certain has no existing connection to you or Duck, is able to specifically identify your role in the Corvo affair.

"I'll try to ask around to see if I can dig up the name of the taxi dance hall. Unfortunately, Ricky will be out of the office on an assignment for a few weeks. But if all else fails, I'll press him for details when he returns. If I find out anything more, I will let you know."

"Than—I mean, that will be good," Fakir said briskly, catching himself before he allowed himself to thank the journalist. As much as Fakir appreciated the warning from Autor, his pride and his personal annoyance with the reporter held him back from expressing outright gratitude.

Perhaps it was due to the late hours, but Autor appeared to be oblivious of Fakir's change in wording, and so continued, "I doubt the taxi dancer or the supposed Corvo man knows who the witness actually is. Duck's name wasn't mentioned after all, and it's quite the memorable name otherwise. Nonetheless, it might not be a bad idea to keep a closer eye on her and her surroundings for the time being. Are you still walking her home after work?"

"I… I, um, no, not recently," Fakir cleared his throat awkwardly and looked away from his desk for no particular reason.

The truth was, he wanted to—but crime rates, like the temperature, soared during the summer, so most days he was home by the time Duck had already gone to bed. Though, Fakir would rather be dead before he admitted that to anyone, least of all to Autor.

Fakir's hesitation appeared to be enough of an answer for the journalist, who, rather sardonically, quipped, "Let me guess: you still haven't told her anything, have you?"

"T-Told her about what? I-I don't know what you're talking about!" Fakir proclaimed defensively, his face beginning to feel hot. Not for the last time that night, Fakir was glad he was alone in the office.

Autor sighed heavily, and with the tone of someone throwing up his hands in exasperation, said, "As much as it amuses me how you turn into a stammering idiot any time her name is mentioned in conversation, it becomes tiresome after a while, Fakir. For someone so impetuous and brash, you become timid like a mouse when it comes to any sort of acknowledgment of your feelings for her."

Hearing that, Fakir's cheeks were now completely flushed with embarrassment. "What I do with my personal life is none of your damn business, Autor!" he yelled far more loudly than he meant to, his voice echoing in the empty floor of the precinct.

Luckily for him, Autor was not interested in pursuing the topic and scoffed, "Hmph! As much as I would prefer for you to sort out your own personal affairs, it is—as you said—none of my business."

"Good," Fakir replied tersely. "If there's nothing else, then goodnight!" He slammed the earpiece back onto the stand. Huffing, he leaned back into his chair, arms crossed petulantly across his chest.

Fakir willed himself to focus on the work he had at hand before Autor called, but even as the heat in his cheeks ebbed away and his breathing grew steady again, Fakir could not stop thinking about the information Autor had just told him.

It was possible the taxi dancer knew a journalist or police officer who was familiar with Fakir's connection to the Corvo case, and had told the dancer about him. It was also possible that the taxi dancer had made the connection herself. After all, although Autor's piece did not mention Fakir by name, the dramatic kidnapping and assault on him and Autor by unidentified criminals a few months back had been plastered all over the news. It wasn't inconceivable that someone made the connection between their kidnapping and the fall of the Corvo clan.

If that's the case, this might be just a false alarm in the end, Fakir reasoned as the clock on the wall ticked towards 2am. But, if one were to assume a taxi dancer could make that connection, then who is to say that that a former Corvo member couldn't also make the same connection?

Fakir frowned. But why would a mobster tell a taxi dancer of his plans? Was it something the dancer overheard, or is she involved in the plot as well? If she were, it would be very foolish for this girl to be chatting about their plan to others. That makes it more likely that this was all a story cooked up to put off this Ricky fellow, as Autor also posited.

Still, why such an elaborate story? Did she just read Autor's article and put two-and-two together, or is there something to this after all?

At this point Fakir uncrossed his arms and rubbed his face with his hands. "Damn it, this is getting nowhere!" he groaned into his palms.

Quite simply, not enough information existed for him to draw a reasonable conclusion. The best thing he could do was to wait for Autor to give him more information, and in the meantime, keep his eyes and ears open. He stood up and turned off his desk lamp.

Doffing his hat and picking up his still-damp coat, a rush of warm evening air greeted Fakir when he stepped outside the precinct, in which the tart scent of the recent downpour still lingered. By now, there was barely a soul on the street, and save for the occasional dog bark and distant engine noises the night was quiet.

In this strangely peaceful hour, Fakir began making his way home on foot, as the trams had long stopped running for the night and would not resume again for yet some hours more.

Fatigue was catching up with Fakir as well, and he found it difficult to keep his eyes open as he navigated the dark streets. From around a corner, a truck rumbled slowly toward him. As it approached, Fakir tried to muster his concentration and followed its movements guardedly, until it drove past him.

It was only after it disappeared around the corner a block away that Fakir relaxed, while he scowled at his own paranoia.

Continuing on the same route he had been using for almost a year, Fakir walked past the Kotin Pointe Shoe Shop. The store was dark and shuttered for the night, of course. Still, Fakir could not help but pause briefly, if only to catch a mental vision of the vivacious red-haired girl who worked there, before moving on.

When was the last time I talked to Duck? Fakir couldn't help silently asking that question to himself.

Fakir's feet guided him back to the building he shared with the shop girl. Has it been a week? Two weeks? Was it the time she waved when she came back with the mail?

Though he was too mortified to ever admit it to anyone, it always brightened his day a little when Duck was around. Whether it was to gently tease her, or just talk about inane things such as the weather or the new movie she saw with her friends, her smile and upbeat attitude never failed to rub off on him and lighten his mood.

Though he knew it was selfish and irresponsible of him to feel this way, given the potential gravity of the threat, a part of Fakir was glad Autor had given him an excuse to spend a little more time with Duck.

Standing outside their apartment building, Fakir looked up and spotted Duck's window. It was dark inside and the curtains were drawn, as was to be expected at this time of night. Although Fakir knew he would not see her tonight, the knowledge that she was safe and warm inside her home reassured him, even as Autor's news remained in the back of his mind.

Fakir entered the building, his footsteps clunking on the creaky wooden stairs. As he walked up to the floor he shared with Duck, Fakir recalled a conversation he, Duck, and Charon had in the captain's office several months earlier.

Duck and himself had just returned from Chicago back then, bedraggled and tired from their train ride, but there was an air of eager anticipation in Duck's footsteps as she disembarked from the passenger car. She had never felt more relieved to return home after being kidnapped into the most unforgettable journey of her life.

After welcoming them and checking on Duck's wellbeing, Charon had given them a briefing on the status of the Corvo case. Since Domenico Corvo was now deceased and Mytho officially MIA, the police captain explained to Duck that unless Mytho was found and apprehended, there was very little chance she would ever have to testify in court.

"However, I must warn you, Miss Stannus," Charon said with creased brows, "that your likeness was revealed to a great number of Corvo members. We suspect most of those who survived the shootout are currently in custody. But while you were brought before those men for a very short amount of time, there remains the small possibility that one of them might have slipped through the cracks, and will eventually recognize you if you choose to continue living here in New York."

Holding Duck's anxious gaze, the captain said solemnly, "Knowing that, are you certain you do not wish to take up the Marshall's offer and relocate elsewhere?"

Duck chewed her bottom lip for a moment, before answering, "Fakir talked to me about the risks on our trip back. And… the truth is, I still really want to come home to New York. Everyone I know—everything I know—is here in the Bronx, Captain. It's risky, but like you said, it's a small risk, right? Also," Duck added, glancing at Fakir for reassurance, "I live next to Fakir, and he'll look out for me."

"You are certain?" the captain asked once again quietly.

Duck answered with a firm nod. "Yes."

Duck and Fakir stood up as Charon walked around his desk and shook hands with the young woman. "Very well then," he said with a supportive smile. "I will call the Marshalls and let them know of your final decision. In the meantime, I will have someone arrange a hotel for you until your belongings can be moved and returned to you."

Charon then turned to Fakir. "Fakir, there is something I wish to speak to you privately about. Do you have some time?"

Fakir and Duck glanced at each other before Fakir looked back at Charon. "Certainly," he answered.

Wondering what the captain wanted to see him about, Fakir watched with masked unease as a police matron came and escorted Duck away.

Returning to his office, Charon closed the door behind them. After retaking his seat, the captain said, "Commissioner Enright came to speak with me yesterday.* Firstly, he informed me that the deputy commissioner who transferred you out of Homicide did so without his approval, and has consequently been suspended. In addition, that individual is now under investigation for bribery and conspiracy."

Hearing this, Fakir huffed. "About time! I knew from the moment I got the transfer letter that the Corvos probably had their hands in the man's pockets."

"I said as much to Commissioner Enright myself. The aftermath of the Corvo's downfall will have significant consequences for the city government, and I would not be surprised if more cases of corruption are unearthed in the coming months," Charon said, frowning at his hand on top of his desk. "But beyond that, there was something else he wanted to discuss with me. He told me that the police commissioner in Rochester, New York, is a friend of his, and if you are willing," the captain's eyes flitted up to Fakir, "he could work out a transfer for you."

Fakir, startled by the offer, was struck silent for a moment. But just before he opened his mouth to respond, Charon held up a hand and explained, "Let me finish, Fakir. Commissioner Enright made a good point during our discussion. Given your role in the Corvo case, and the fact that the Corvos knew who you were and already made an attempt on your life, it is not inconceivable you would be a prime target for reprisals in the future. That is why the commissioner is offering you a transfer to Rochester. He assured me he could work something out with his counterpart there. In the end, though, the decision is yours to make, Fakir."

As much as the prideful side of Fakir wanted to brush off the commissioner's concerns, after everything that had happened in the past few months, he could see and understand the reasoning behind the commissioner's gesture. After all, he knew only too well the level of violence the Corvos were capable of, and now had multiple sets of scars to show for it.

But things had changed dramatically in the last few weeks. He had seen with his own eyes the swift collapse of the Corvo organization. Duck was getting her life back, and a small, selfish part of Fakir looked forward to the thought of them continuing to live side-by-side, without the shadow of the Corvos looming over them.

"I understand Commissioner Enright's concerns..." Fakir began thoughtfully, "but, given what we now know about the state of the Corvo organization, I think the risk of reprisal is quite low. The Corvos were very much a top-down organization, with Domenico Corvo—and to an extent, Mytho—making all of the executive decisions. With both their leaders gone, what's left of the organization is now fractured and in disarray.

"More importantly, most of the capos, or anyone with real influence in the mob, were killed or arrested that day in Chicago. If there were any capos or high-ranking soldiers that slipped through the cracks, their primary concern right now would be to lay low and avoid the attentions of law enforcement and rival gangs. Over time, I think most—if not all—of the surviving Corvo soldiers and capos would be absorbed by other groups. By then, their allegiances would have shifted, and the Corvo organization would be nothing but a memory to them."

This thorough analysis had Charon nodding in agreement. "Very good, Fakir. To be honest, I felt the same way, but to hear it from you as well puts me at ease," the captain said, smiling broadly. He reached his hand across the table. "As captain of this precinct, I am delighted and proud to have a dedicated officer like you back with us, Sergeant Fakir Romeiras. Welcome home."

Fakir leaned forward, and with a rare warm smile on his face, reached out and shook the captain's hand firmly. "Thank you, sir. It is a pleasure to be back."

Once Fakir had unlocked his apartment and shut the door behind him, he tossed his jacket onto the back of a chair, not bothering to turn on the lights. Pulling open the bedroom window, Fakir plopped down onto his bed, too exhausted to change clothes or even washing up. A warm summer breeze drifted into the stuffy apartment and stirred the curtains, making dim shadows dance across the ceiling.

Though his body begged for sleep, the cloying humidity and Fakir's own thoughts kept him from fully drifting off. Instead, he allowed his half-lidded eyes to wander up to the ceiling where the shadows from the curtains continued to dance.

In that moment within Charon's office, Fakir had felt so sure of his assessment, and Charon's agreement seemed to enforce that it was the correct assertion to make. But now Fakir wondered if he was wrong, that he had been foolhardy to assume life would return to normal once Don Corvo was dead.

Rolling his head to the side, Fakir's gaze drifted to the far wall of his bedroom, which formed the partition that at once divided and connected his apartment to Duck's.

Regardless of his justification, Fakir knew he wanted to stay by Duck's side for as long as possible. No matter what happened, he would do everything in his power to protect her, without question. However, what if even that wasn't enough? What if, by staying with her, he had put her in danger again instead?

Fakir covered his face with his hand. On this matter, the detective was certain: he would never, ever forgive himself for that.

A/N

*Colonel Calvin Hooker Goddard was one of the founding fathers of modern forensic ballistics and invented the comparison microscope in 1925, the year this story is set in. His invention allowed the user to compare two bullets side-by-side and determine, based on the marks left on the bullets, whether they were fired from the same weapon. One of the most famous cases he worked on was the 1929 Chicago St. Valentine's Day massacre, in which seven North Side Gang associates were gunned down in a plot masterminded by the mobster Al Capone. Two of Capone's men were disguised as police officers, and after the massacre, it was thought that the Chicago Police Department had a hand in the murders. Col. Goddard was able to absolve Chicago PD of any involvement in the killings after he linked bullets recovered from the massacre to machine guns recovered from a house owned by one of Capone's men.

*Marco Corioli is named after the historical figure that served as the inspiration for the "Coriolan Overture" by Ludwig van Beethoven. The overture is based on the tragic story of the 5th century BC Roman general Gaius Marcius Coriolanus, who, in addition to the overture, is also the main character in Shakespeare's eponymous play. In the play "Coriolanus", the general was murdered in a conspiracy organized by his enemy, Tullus Aufidius. The location of Coriolanus' murder is in the city of Volci, in present day central Italy. "Coriolan Overture" also happens to be one of a number of musical pieces associated with Fakir in the anime canon. Another piece associated with Fakir is "Egmont Overture", also composed by Beethoven. "Egmont Overture" was written for the play "Egmont" by the famous German writer Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, and chronicles the tragic but heroic story of the 16th century Flemish statesman called Lamoral, Count of Egmont. "Egmont Overture" is alluded to in this story in the name of Marco's son, Edmondo.

*While everyone is familiar with the homework we were given as students, in the 19th and early 20th century, "home work" was also the paid, piecemeal work that women and children (both boys and girls) did in their own homes to supplement the family's income. Often these would be articles of clothing outsourced from factories that needed to be finished by having buttons and other trimmings sewn onto them, but could also include other cheap, mass-produced commodities, such as paper flowers. Most home workers in that era were recent immigrants from Europe, as the job required no English language skills and could be done by people with little to no formal education or training. However, this type of work was effectively no different from that of a factory sweatshop. The women and children were severely underpaid, and worked long hours in cramped, ill-lit conditions common in tenement apartments of the time. Sanitation and child labor were major concerns. New York City passed a law in the early 20th century prohibiting children under 14 from working in factories, and required houses performing home work to be licensed and inspected for cleanliness. Even so, authorities could not stop children from spending their entire after-school hours working at home to help the family make ends meet.

*Dance halls, which provided a dance floor and often offered live musical performances, were very popular in the first half of the 20th century. Taxi dance halls are a subset of dance halls in which young female dancers called taxi dancers would dance with a patron in exchange for a ticket, with each ticket being worth a commission set forth by the dance hall operator. Taxi dance halls first appeared in San Francisco during the gold rush of the mid-19th century, but soon spread across the rest of the country, and by 1931 there were over 100 taxi dance halls in New York City alone. What attracted many male patrons to taxi dance halls was that they were generally open to all ages, ethnicities, and social classes, and every patron could find a willing female partner to dance with, irrespective of their background or appearance. Taxi dance halls were romanticized in film, novels, and songs, but I can only imagine the number of unwanted advances and harassment incidents the dancers must have had to deal with.

*Richard Edward Enright was the NYPD's Police Commissioner from 1918 to 1925. He was the first police officer to be appointed to the position of Police Commissioner (the job is more commonly filled by civilians). During his time as a police lieutenant, he was very well liked and highly regarded by his fellow police officers for his advocacy of law enforcement personnel and their working conditions. Knowing this, I felt that he would be someone who would take an interest in the safety and welfare of a regular police detective like Fakir, even though the two of them had never met. His tenure as police commissioner was unfortunately marred by numerous corruption and graft scandals within the department, and he faced a lot of resistance when he tried to root out corrupt and inefficient officers. He resigned out of frustration from the post of police commissioner on December 30th, 1925.

Italian translation was provided by Google Translate.

Once again, many thanks to my friend Tomoyo Ichijouji for editing and proofreading!