Blood on the Tracks: Part 1
Detective Hank Angelone is called to investigate the mysterious death of Eddie "Blue" Rivers, a renowned jazz musician found dead on a maglev train.
This is a two-part sci-fi/detective noir short story.
Read part 2 here.
The harsh glow of neon seeped through the gaps in Hank Angelone’s blinds, illuminating his cluttered apartment with a red haze. He sat at his desk, surrounded by stacks of old case files and jazz records, a half-empty bottle of whiskey within arm’s reach.
Hank rubbed his eyes. He lived in Metro Heights. The city had changed so much, yet the stench of corruption remained as pungent as ever.
He stood and made his way to the window. With a swift motion, he yanked the blinds open. The sprawling metropolis before him was a jarring mix of gleaming skyscrapers and crumbling relics of the past.
Maglev trains zipped between buildings, leaving trails of light in their wake. Holographic billboards flickered, advertising the latest synthetic drugs and virtual reality escapes. But beneath the veneer of progress, Hank knew the city's dark underbelly festered.
“Damn city.”
Hank turned back to his desk, eyes landing on a framed photo. It showed a younger version of himself smiling beside a woman with kind eyes. He picked it up, thumb tracing the edge of the frame.
“You wouldn’t recognize the place now, Lucy.”
He set the photo down and reached for his overcoat. As he shrugged it on, his gaze fell on the case file that had dragged him out of early retirement. Eddie “Blue” Rivers, jazz prodigy turned crime lord. The name alone made Hank’s jaw clench. He sighed, grabbed his old-fashioned notepad—a rarity in this digital age—and headed for the door.
As he stepped out, the sounds and smells of Metro Heights assaulted his senses. The sharp odor of smog clashed with the smell of street vendor food. Hover cars whizzed overhead, their engines a constant drone.
Hank made his way down the crowded sidewalk. He felt out of place in this brave new world. But if there was one thing he knew, it was that some things never changed. Crime, greed, and the darkness lurking in men’s hearts.
When Hank arrived at the crime scene, he placed his hand on the biometric scanner at the entrance. The device confirmed his identity before the invisible force field parted, allowing him to enter. The air inside carried a metallic tang that made Hank’s stomach churn. He’d smelled it a thousand times before—the unmistakable scent of death.
“Angelone.” Captain Sara Chen’s clipped tone cut through the noise of the forensics team. “You're late.”
Hank turned to see the imposing figure of his former superior striding towards him. Eyes narrowed behind thin-framed glasses. Sara Chen rose quickly through the ranks, her ambition and by-the-book mentality earning her respect and resentment.
“Nice to see you too, Captain,” Hank said, matching her steely gaze. “What've we got?”
Chen nodded towards the rear car. “See for yourself.”
As they approached, Hank noticed the thick smears of crimson streaking the aisle of the train. He stepped inside, the plush carpet squelching underfoot. There, slumped in one of the luxury seats, was the body of Eddie “Blue” Rivers.
The jazz legend’s trademark blue suit was shredded, stained with more blood than Hank cared to quantify. Bullet holes poked his torso in a tight cluster. Blue’s face wore an expression of stunned disbelief as if he couldn’t fathom his own mortality.
Hank knelt beside the body, his practiced eye scanning every detail. The lack of defensive wounds suggested an ambush executed with cold precision.
“Damn...” he muttered under his breath.
“We know Rivers had ties to organized crime,” Chen said, crossing her arms. “But to be taken out like this, in such a public place? It’s brazen, even for the Heights.”
Hank knew there was more to this than a simple gang hit. He could feel it in his gut.
“This was a message,” he said, standing up. “And I’ll bet my pension it has something to do with that underground jazz club he was tied to.”
Chen arched an eyebrow. “You’ve been out of the game for a while, Angelone. What makes you so sure?”
Hank didn’t answer. Instead, he crouched beside the body once more, eyes narrowing as they settled on a small, metallic object clenched in Blue’s fist.
He stared at the object in Blue’s hand—a vintage harmonica, its metal casing dulled by years of use. It was Blue’s signature instrument, the one he always kept close. Clenching his jaw, Hank slipped it into an evidence capsule.
“I want in on this case,” he said, rising to his feet. “There’s more going on here than a simple hit.”
Chen’s expression hardened. “You’re too close to this, Hank. Your history with the Heights music scene clouds your judgment.”
Hank opened his mouth to protest, but Chen held up a hand, cutting him off.
“All right! You’re officially reinstated and assigned to the Rivers murder. Don’t make me regret this decision.”
As they exited the train car, Hank recalled he hadn’t set foot in this part of the Heights for five long years, not since his world was shattered. Memories threatened to surface—the screech of tires, the shattering of glass—his wife’s lifeless eyes.
He shoved them back down, locking them away. This case would reopen old wounds, and he knew that. But Blue had been more than just a client all those years ago. He was a friend, one of the few Hank had left.
At the precinct, Hank settled into his old haunt—a worn chair in the corner of the bullpen that had once been his home. The bustle of activity around him was both comforting and unsettling. This world was familiar, but it belonged to a different Hank.
Chen approached. “We’ll need to start interviews immediately. Rivers kept some unsavory company.”
Hank nodded, rubbing a hand over his stubbled jaw. “Let’s start with the jazz scene. Blue was up to his neck in that underground circuit.”
The words felt like ash in his mouth. Returning to that dark underbelly—the world that had ultimately cost him everything—terrified him more than he cared to admit.
But he would do it, for Blue's sake, if nothing else. He was in too deep to back out now.
Hank stepped out of his car onto the rain-slicked streets. He tugged the collar of his jacket up against the chill and walked to the lounge.
The bouncer at the entrance eyed him warily as he approached. “You’re not on the list, pal.”
Hank flashed his badge. “Detective Angelone. I’ve got some questions about a mutual friend.”
The big man’s eyes widened, and he stepped aside without another word. Hank brushed past, entering the underground jazz scene.
The lounge oozed style and exclusivity, all deep red lighting and plush velvet accents. A holographic stage dominated the center of the room, projecting a hypnotic array of lights that swirled in time with the sultry jazz number filling the air. Well-dressed patrons lounged in the booths that lined the perimeter, sipping artisanal cocktails and puffing on expensive cigars.
Hank scanned the crowd, his gaze finally settling on a familiar figure near the bar—Caz Delano, Blue’s longtime bandmate and closest confidant in his final years. The wiry saxophonist nursed a drink, his eyes downcast.
“Caz.” Hank placed a hand on the man’s shoulder. “We need to talk.”
Delano turned, and surprise flickered across his weathered features for a moment before resignation set in. “Damn... I had a feeling you’d come sniffing around after what happened to Blue.”
He motioned for Hank to join him. “Get yourself a drink, detective. You’re gonna need it.”
As they settled into the secluded booth, Caz drained the last of his glass and fixed Hank with a haunted look.
“Things got messy towards the end,” he began, his voice hushed. “The underground scene brought in good money, but it attracted the wrong kind of crowd, too. Dangerous people.”
Hank leaned forward. “You talking about the cartels? The entertainment-drug pipeline?”
Caz nodded grimly. “They wanted a bigger cut than Blue was willing to give. Said he was getting too big for his own good.” He paused, glancing over his shoulder before continuing in a whisper. “Word was, he was trying to get out, go legit again before it was too late.”
“That must’ve ruffled some feathers,” Hank murmured.
“You don’t know half of it.” Caz’s eyes were pained. “This went higher up than any of us could've imagined—”
Before he could elaborate, a sharp cry cut through the lounge. Heads turned as a well-dressed patron collapsed to the floor, convulsing violently as blood trickled from his nose and mouth.
In an instant, the room descended into chaos.
Hank’s gaze snapped to the spasming man on the floor, his detective’s instincts kicking in. He pushed through the panicked crowd, dropping to one knee beside the victim.
“Call an ambulance!” he barked at the nearest server, who stood frozen in shock.
Up close, Hank could see the man’s eyes rolled back, froth bubbling at his lips as his body contorted unnaturally. Some kind of overdose or poisoning, but from what? His brow furrowed as he noticed a slight shimmer on the man’s face—almost imperceptible patterns dancing across his skin.
A sonic drug, distorting the senses.
“What's going on here?” a gruff voice demanded.
Hank glanced up to see a pair of burly security guards shoving their way forward, shock batons at the ready. One of them aimed the crackling rod at Hank menacingly.
“Back off. This is a private matter.”
Flashing his badge, Hank rose to his feet, hands spread in a placating gesture. “Easy, fellas. I’m just trying to help.”
“We don’t need your kind of help,” the guard sneered. “This was just a bad trip, nothing more.”
But Hank knew better. As the paramedics arrived to whisk the man away, he couldn’t shake the feeling that this was no accidental overdose. Something more insidious was at play.
His gaze landed on Caz, still huddled in the booth with his head in his hands. The saxophonist had seen too much, gotten pulled into depths he never could have imagined when he first joined Blue’s band all those years ago.
Crossing the lounge, Hank slid into the seat opposite Caz. “You were right. This goes deeper than a few cartel thugs shaking down a jazz singer.”
He leaned forward, keeping his voice low. “Tell me everything you know about these designer drugs they’ve been pushing. The ones that alter your perception of music.”
Caz lifted his haunted gaze to meet Hank’s. “You don’t want to go down that rabbit hole, my friend. Believe me.”
But the detective’s jaw was set, his expression resolute. He’d unravel this mystery, no matter how dark the truth.
“Try me.”
Hank studied Caz’s face, noting the trepidation in the saxophonist’s eyes. The older man took a swig from his glass, steeling himself.
“Those designer drugs you mentioned? They’re not just a side hustle for the cartels. They’re at the heart of this whole operation.”
Caz leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “You ever hear of neurological phase-coding? Embedding hypnotic frequencies directly into audio and visuals to alter brain patterns?”
Hank’s brow furrowed as he processed the implications. “You’re saying these drugs are designed to interact with the holographic shows? To manipulate people’s perceptions?”
Caz nodded grimly. “Bingo. The cartels have been experimenting with new ways to distribute their product and maximize profits. What better delivery system than the entertainment people crave?”
Realization dawned on Hank as pieces began to fall into place. “The overdose victim... he was tripping on more than just a bad batch.”
“Exactly.” Caz’s expression was grave. “Those holographic light shows aren’t just eye candy. They’re laced with the same mind-bending frequencies as the drugs.”
Hank scanned the oblivious crowd, swaying to the hypnotic pulses of sound and light emanating from the stage. “So anyone who buys a ticket or orders a drink is being dosed, whether they know it or not.”
Caz gave a solemn nod. “This isn’t just about getting people hooked, detective. It’s about complete control over their perceptions, their reality.”
A flicker of movement from the corner of his eye caught Hank’s attention. A sharply dressed figure was making his way through the crowd, eyes concealed behind opaque lenses as he headed toward a secluded door beside the stage.
Hank’s instincts prickled with suspicion. “Who’s our friend in the shades?”
Caz followed his gaze. “That’s Marco Vega. Big shot in the Phoenix Cartel’s distribution wing.”
“Looks like he’s got a private meeting.” Hank rose from the booth, jaw set with determination.
Caz grabbed his arm urgently. “Hank, don’t. These guys make the Syndicate look like kittens. If they catch you snooping around—”
But the detective was already shrugging off Caz’s warning, his focus locked on the disappearing figure of Vega.
“Then I’d better not get caught.”
With those parting words, Hank melted into the crowd, tracking the cartel lieutenant’s movements as he slipped through the unmarked door and into parts unknown.
He reached for the handle, but the metal was searing hot to the touch. Hank grimaced, yanking his hand back as the door’s surface shimmered with a faint energy field.
“A coded lock keyed to a specific biosignature. This was no ordinary VIP area.”
As Hank studied the pulsing patterns flickering across the door, realization struck like a bolt of lightning. This door was keyed to the same hypnotic frequencies currently bathing the entire lounge.
Hank focused his senses on the undulating pulses of light and sound surrounding him, allowing the vibrations to sync with his neural pathways. For a brief, disorienting moment, his vision blurred and his head swam with vertigo.
Then, with a soft click, the energy field deactivated, and the door slid open.
Hank steadied himself, peering into the corridor beyond as a slow smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Whatever secrets were concealed in the depths of this place, he was going to unravel every last one of them.
No matter how twisted the truth.
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Read part 2.