"Look around you."

"I've got an eye for a particular painting, Mr. Marques, a real one." Dale took the last pull from the cigarette before flicking it into a rusted can covered in dried dabs every shade of sorrow. "I couldn't care less about your racket of fake Monets."

"Careful doing that, a lot of shit in here's flammable," the haggard young man said, not looking away from the window he traced a finger over, alternating slow and fast. He was every stitch the image of a starving artist but there was something else behind the glazed eyes.

"Best get me out of your hair, then. Haven't had the pleasure of meeting her myself yet but word around town, there's a woman trying to off load some rare merchandise." Dale started up the next smoke with a cupped hand against the drafty apartment. "Real desperate, might owe someone big. You'd be doing her a favor letting me know."

He lazily flicked through the stack of canvases leaned against the brick wall while he waited for a response.

The young man had pulled a Polaroid from his pocket holding it like a knife pointed at his heart.

"One last treasure yet remained, the glorious, dynastic crown." Mr. Marques offered as he opened the window.

Dale did not feel like chasing someone down a fire escape, his back felt like it even less.

"To never lose was so ingrained, the king saw fit to join it down." The young man licked his lips and bit before bolting.

Dale hurried after just in time to see him not running down the stairs, but sailing along a faster shortcut to the asphalt. His neck met the metal side the dumpster with a resonating thud cutting through the quiet city night.

A distant dog began barking as Dale looked down at the sprawled artist. There was no growing pool of blood but by the angle of his head, he had certainly made his last counterfeit.

"Shit, what have I stumbled onto this time? First the art professor, now this."

The Polaroid was tucked between the window panes. Dale had to grab the grating to avoid joining Mr. Marques in his midnight dive as he looked closer.

Unmistakably, Gina stared back at him from the photo, that mocking haunt she could flick on in her eyes. A smear of blue paint marred her cheek.

The woman he had given 6 years of his life to, the woman that disappeared 6 months pregnant 6 years ago, was the art thief he was after. The engagement ring still sat in his dresser, never given.

He had seen some curious luck in his time but this seemed too much, like a crescendo of coincidences building towards almost feeling supernatural.

He took a draw on the cigarette before carefully picking up the Polaroid and laying it flat in his notebook.

He looked at the last work of art of the now late painter, medium of finger oil on glass.

It was a rather striking portrait of Dale himself. "Poor kid had some real talent," he said to the empty apartment. A white bird squawked from a cage in the corner. Maybe not empty.

Beneath the likeness were the neat lines of a message.

'Look around you. This is the last book in your series, detective. Spoiler: you die at the end.'

"Most suicide notes don't have a threat." But this all did seem very pulp fiction, didn't it? Too bad he couldn't get a follow-up question answered.

Dale looked to see the bird was watching him, big eyed like a watcher from another world.

"You tell me, Tweety. Is this all a detective story? One noir plot contrivance after another? Be a lot more meaningful than a high saddled drunk just trying to pay the bills, eh?"

In way of response, the bird plopped a white token to the newspapers below. Strewn below the cage were various slips of discarded mail. The cupid curve of a lipstick kiss stood out from the pile.

Dale picked it up, not surprised to see a address on it not matching the others. A love letter never sent. The convenient clue, framed and delivered as always.

He would have to be careful, he decided, only half joking. "If this is a story, my avian friend, it plans on killing me before it's done. We're probably already a third of the way along, too. Like any good thriller, the contract's signed, the clock's ticking, and the crucible's waiting somewhere ahead."

He tossed his cigarette into another can. With a woof of air, it caught in greenish flame, quickly spreading to the canvases nearby. He chuckled.

"The kid did warn me," he said as he fiddled with the hook to the cage. "Guess you're coming with me, Tweety."

/r/surinical