The Murder of Jack Haze Or Kosmic Expression
an excerpt

It's always been easy for me to find Jack. Or at least know when he is around. Ever since that first night in the Metro, he has stood out in my thoughts. Maybe all that junk about psychics is true, maybe I can actually feel his presence with my mind. Of course what comes next sort of disproves that theory. The Brand Street Hall was packed tonight, seats almost four hundred, not that I could see them with the house lights up. Not that I would have wanted to either. The band played beautifully as always and everyone clapped afterwards. Nice and polite. Then a quick smile, some congratulatory words and a few snaps with the press before I leave. They love to get that last shot of me, my dress hanging in just the right way, my leg half exposed, as I climb into the back of the car. One last wave before I close the door. The drive from the concert hall isn't terribly daunting. A jaunt, even. And the champaign helps. It'll help a lot more before the night is out. My car glides to a stop in front of his odd little building. Four store fronts and his offices up top. Slip out of my heels, pad up to the door. The Owl is still busy, but its a Thursday, what else are folks going to do? Leanna is spaced out, chatting more to herself then her customers. Her teashop is the only one of Jack's tenants that has translucent windows. The other three fronts are used as offices, I think. Jack's door, right next to the Owl's, is unlocked. Opens to stairs, tight and narrow with a double switch back. Be nice if he'd move to a building with an elevator. His is the only door on the second floor, but it still has his name written in big block type on frosted glass. Well it looks like glass, but it's probably more solid then the door and walls around. I know the receptionist's desk beyond will be empty, because he doesn't have one. Theres Zippy, but he is even less of a secretary then I am. The desk lamp is on, playing odd light on the frost, giving a sense of welcoming to the room beyond. Very traditional. More so then I'd like, and Jack even claims the place came like this. I hold the door nob that extra second for it to really feel my warmth. The locks slide out of place and the door eases open. The permanently absent receptionist's desk planted square in the room forces you to move around it if Jack's office is your goal. The phone starts pulsating. And it isn't the landline, I can tell by the delay. The words are almost formed in my mind as I push open his door and my mouth starts to speak. But no sounds tumble out, not even a cry or a whimper.