Tracking Evil: Bucharest Pt. 01

Authors note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, events and incidents are the products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Tracking Evil - Bucharest

Note: While some characters in this tale appear in the series Tracking Evil: a Podcast. It isn't necessary to have read that in order to enjoy this story. This story is set a few months after the events in the final chapter of Tracking Evil: a Podcast.

Chapter One: "On Earth, everything that exists needs to cry from time to time " - Nichita Stănescu

Denisa Teodoroiu rocked her neck from side to side, working the kinks out of it as she stood, impatiently, in line to present her passport for inspection. Bucharest's Henri Coanda International Airport was quiet, thankfully, Denisa not being in the mood to queue behind a host of unwashed, tired travellers. The line shuffled forward slowly and silently, the young woman taking the opportunity to reflect on her need to return home.

Since moving to the US to join her estranged father in his bounty hunter enterprise, Denisa hadn't ever felt the pangs of homesickness that might be expected in a person yet to see her twentieth birthday. In fact, she'd rarely thought of the people and places she'd left behind, with one notable exception. Life had been too busy. Her father's training, her discovery of her talent for both the procedural aspect of hunting down criminals and the violence that was often required to bring a target to justice. Additionally, after temporarily joining Arlene, Erica and Sondra in their quest against the serial killer they had been tracking, Denisa had found her 'lessons' weren't over yet.

Her father had hired Arlene, a former Deputy Sheriff, to train Denisa in law enforcement methods and detective skills. Erica, an investigative reporter, had added her own lessons to the young woman's schedule, teaching her to look beyond the obvious, to burrow deeper for the truth of a story. All this had made the fiery young woman tired and more irritable than usual, yet she had stuck with it, determined as always to make her father proud. Still a part of her kept wishing for something to happen, to give her a break.

Sometimes it's true to say, 'be careful what you wish for.'

She had returned back to her father's office to find the company secretary had taken a message for her. A simple note to say that a Ioana Gheorghiu had rung and had left a message that Maria had died.

Her first reaction was predictable.

Anger channelled into a violent outburst.

The knife she routinely carried on her belt was suddenly in her hand, the brass tipped pommel sent crashing onto the handwritten note, fast blows that left dents in the wooden desk on which it rested but weren't enough to obliterate the words, that awful message. She twirled the knife effortlessly in her hand, now sending the razor-edged blade sweeping against the paper, scoring long lines in it and the wood beneath. Through tears of rage and frustration Denisa could still see those two damning words.

Maria.

Dead.

Denisa had sat down so suddenly that she'd missed the chair, landing with a thump on the office floor. Her father had rushed over to see what was wrong. Ex Romanian special forces, he had a tendency towards tough love but that didn't mean he wasn't incapable of compassion, especially to his only child.

Maria Gheorghiu had been Denisa's childhood friend. When her father and mother had divorced, Denisa had been devastated that her beloved father was leaving not just the family home but the country as well. Her mother hadn't handled it well, not at all. Their next-door neighbour, Mrs Ioana Gheorghiu, had taken care of them both. Offering Denisa's mother a shoulder to cry on, providing Denisa with home cooked meals when her own mother's depression had left her listless on the couch. Maria had been Ioana's granddaughter, the older neighbour bringing both children together, pleased by their instant friendship.

As the years passed, the blonde, bubbly, beautiful Maria and the dark haired, sombre, sullen Denisa remained the best of friends, inseparable until Maria had left for college, Denisa for America. They had talked daily at first, then weekly as time passed. At the worst, no more than ten days would pass without a text or a call. Despite the distance, they kept their friendship alive. Maria the only connection to her former life that Denisa kept up.

Now she was dead.

Denisa had tried calling Maria's grandmother back but there was no answer to the apartment's landline and Denisa didn't have another number for her. An online search revealed that Maria was indeed dead, no other information available. Denisa was devastated. Maria was twenty. How could she be dead?

The door to the office she was seated in, laptop in front of her, opened up. Her father walked in; harsh features softened now by the distress of seeing his beloved daughter in pain. He slid her passport onto the desktop beside her, a roll of cash beside it.

"Go," he said simply. Denisa had risen quickly to her feet, throwing her arms around her father. They embraced deeply but fleetingly, breaking apart, both slightly embarrassed by their out of character display of affection.

"Next." The call from the uniformed figure sat in a glass walled cubicle broke Denisa from her reverie. She stepped forward, presenting her passport for inspection.

The bleakness of the city's architecture was striking to Denisa as she gazed out of the taxi window. She could not believe how she'd failed to notice the grey, almost soulless uniformity of the communist era buildings before this. Was it because of her time abroad or was it the sadness that gripped her heart now?

She already knew she'd missed the burial; Maria having been laid to rest the day before. Part of her wanted to go straight to Ioana, to comfort the old woman as she had once comforted her. But she couldn't, not yet. Not until she'd visited Maria first.

The taxi pulled up beside the cemetery gates and Denisa slipped the driver something extra to wait for her return. Her mother was in the same cemetery, and she decided to visit her first. It wasn't that Denisa was filled with a need to stand over her mother's grave, she'd loved her dearly but in her last years, her mental issues had strained their relationship to near breaking point. No, visiting her mother's grave was just a delaying action, putting off standing before Maria's.

Her mother's grave was in better condition than she'd imagined. Denisa had supposed she'd need to spend some time pulling away weeds, removing long dead flowers. Instead, the small headstone was clear of any moss or mildew and the gravel strewn length of the grave itself clear of unwanted vegetation. She felt Maria's or her grandmother's hand in this, the fact that they had tended her mother's grave moving her more than the act of visiting her dead mother did. With no more delaying tactics at hand, Denisa slumped off to where she knew Maria had been laid to rest.

There was no headstone yet, just a mound of freshly turned earth, the rich loamy smell of it tickling her nostrils. The number of flowers that were heaped there didn't surprise Denisa in the least. Maria had possessed such a winning nature, light where Denisa had been shadow. That someone with such a beautiful spirit and so much to offer the world was dead, it was just so unfair. With the amount of scum that she met in her job, the knowledge that so much evil existed in the world, it seemed a terrible imbalance that Maria couldn't live past twenty while parasites on society managed to survive for decades more. A knot of cold fury rose in her throat and Denisa swallowed it down, her hands balled into two impotent fists. She tried to say a prayer for her best friend, the words though, they wouldn't come. Denisa opened her mouth, thinking that by speaking out loud, some inspiration would strike.

Instead of inspiration, hot bile filled her mouth and she had to hurry away to the low stone wall at the edge of the cemetery, leaning over it as she vomited uncontrollably. Sorrow and helpless anger had soured her stomach and after spitting away the last dregs from her lips, Denisa slunk back to the graveyards entrance, not able to face Maria again. Not yet.

The taxi was still there, and she rasped out her old home address, throat still raw from the acidic bite of her vomit. Denisa pulled out a half-drunk bottle of water from her backpack, sipping slowly. Her backpack was the entirety of her luggage. Not only did she tend to pack light, she also didn't see herself staying more than a couple of days. Now that her friend was gone, there was little to hold her here. Except of course to make sure Ioana was being taken care of.

"Denisa!" Her name was called out, each letter filled to the brim with unutterable sorrow. Ioana stood in her doorway, her arms folded around Denisa in a hug that comforted Denisa with the strength of the old woman's arms even as she worried about how frantic the embrace was, driven by such emotion.

Ioana looked sprightly for a woman in her seventies, bustling Denisa into her apartment, fussing over her as she pushed the young bounty hunter into a chair at the kitchen table, fixing them tea and food as she moved between joy at seeing her and choked off sobs from her misery.

"Grandmother," Denisa began. She'd taken to calling Ioana that as a youngster, the old woman fulfilling the role of mother, grandmother and father at times. She'd stopped out of embarrassment in her late teens but now, it seemed right to fall back on it.

"Grandmother... what happened? Was it an accident? She wasn't sick, I know she'd have told me if she was sick." Denisa didn't really want to know, not really, but the inexplicable state of Maria being gone, it needed answering regardless of the pain it would bring.

"Thank God you came. I prayed my sweet Denisa, I prayed for you to come," Ioana said, sitting now at the table. She gripped one of Denisa's hands, kissing it. Denisa could feel hot, wet tears from the old lady dropping onto her skin as the thin bony hand gripped her own with desperate strength.

"Of course I came. I loved her. I love you. You're both family, you know this."

"You were always such a good girl, such a good, caring girl," Ioana said, finally raising her tear-streaked face. The anguish in the older woman's care worn features caused a fresh tendril of acid to surge into her throat, Denisa swallowing it back, knowing it was born of the hopeless fury inside of her.

"What happened?" She asked again, more urgently now, anger inside her. Not directed at Ioana, just a red rage born from this injustice, seeking an outlet.

"The police, oh, they are useless. Corrupt, like when Ceausescu ruled here. Such lies they told me, filthy, filthy lies."

"What the fu-, what did they say?" Denisa pressed, biting back on her habit of swearing, not wanting to derail Ioana from the important topic.

"They said she used drugs! Can you believe it?" Ioana turned her head and spat contemptuously on her immaculately clean kitchen floor. To Denisa, that spoke volumes as regards the disgust Ioana felt for that explanation.

"They come here. Detectives. Baah... they were just sheep, hiding as wolves, but still sheep. They said to me, 'your Granddaughter, she is an addict. Heroin. She overdosed on heroin'. Liars! I told them no; it wasn't possible but of course nobody listens to an old woman."

"I do," Denisa answered, patting the wrinkled hand that lay trembling on the kitchen table. "So that was it. No investigation?"

"None." Ioana stopped for a second, a sly twinkle appearing in her eyes. "But you can investigate. I know you can. Maria, she told me what you do now with your father. You can find out the truth."

"Come on. That's not what we, what I do. We catch criminals but ones whose crimes have already been identified. I am a hunter, not a detective. I am sorry Grandmother, I can't help." Denisa wished at that moment that Erica or Arlene was here. This was what they were born to do. Unravelling secrets, chasing down clues. That wasn't her, she was muscle, a gun hand and happy for it. Except for now.

"Of course, of course," Ioana said, standing up to tidy away some dishes, turning her back on Denisa as she did so. "My Maria is dead, but you can't bring her back. I know this. She was scared of needles all her life, but the police, they say she was addict. So, they say it, it must be true. Okay, okay... you go now. I need some rest, need some sleep. I am getting old, old and tired. Soon I will join my Maria and those that kill her, they will walk on, free."

"Jesus," Denisa muttered.

"Did you sneeze Denisa?" Ioana turned around, a patently false expression of naïve innocence on her face.

"You're still able to make me eat my vegetables aren't you, cunning old fox," Denisa said ruefully.

"I told you child. You're a good girl. Now find those responsible and do what must be done."

Chapter Two: " You are done for - a living dead man - not when you stop loving but stop hating. Hatred preserves: in it, in its chemistry, resides the mystery of life. " Emil Cioran

Denisa stepped out of the apartment block feeling none of the confidence the Ioana had in her. Everything seemed the same and yet unfamiliar as well. She'd been gone a few years but that might as well have been a lifetime. When she'd left here, she'd been a young teenager, reuniting with her father after the death of her mother. She had no contacts with underworld figures or law enforcement, not like she had back in America. For the first time since discovering her own mother's dead body, Denisa felt alone and helpless.

She made a forlorn figure at that moment, standing there cloaked in misery and despair. She was still in the clothes that she had worn for the flight over, a black hoodie over a plain black t-shirt and black jeans. Her boots were her favourite, her 'shit kickers', heavy leather boots that were almost knee length. Five foot three inches in height, slender but with an elegant strength in her muscles thanks to hours spent in both the gym and the pool. Her breasts were small and firm, her ass pleasantly full. To the casual observer she looked as far from a bounty hunter as one might imagine. Still there were hints suggesting all was not as it seemed should one choose to look closer. Brown eyes that could lock stares with the most vicious of criminals with nary a waver, her straight black hair kept a no-nonsense length, the almost total absence of jewellery.

Phone in hand, Denisa wavered about what to do next. Her father wouldn't be pleased at her opening an investigation that the authorities had closed, regardless of the victim's ties to her. He was all about protecting Denisa. Likewise, Erica and Arlene couldn't do much for her. Erica was pregnant and the idea of having Arlene fly out here just because a pensioner had a hunch... if Denisa was proved wrong, she'd never hear the end of it. She stuffed the phone back into the pocket of her jeans, inspiration striking her as she did so. She might not have the same level of contacts here as she did in the US, but she still had friends.

Another quick taxi trip brought her to a gym in the north of the city. It might have been a while, but she knew that her friend Vlad wouldn't have changed so much as to not be working out. He treated the gym as a church, his body a temple. About a year before Denisa had left Bucharest, Vlad had taken up MMA as a hobby. According to Maria when they spoke, the young man had stuck to it, training every single day of the week without fail.

She pushed open the doors, the gym was bright and pleasingly airy. As it was still early in the day, there were relatively few people there so she spotted Vlad immediately, working a large punching bag with a fast series of punches and kicks, a combination he was obviously mastering as he ran through the same series twice in the time it took her to walk to him.

"You're getting better, pussy," she said. The young man whirled around, the scowl melting from his face as he recognised her. He threw his arms around her, pulling her into a fierce, sweaty embrace.

"Fuck's sake, you fucking stink!" Denisa said in mock horror, squirming free.

"Same old Denisa, charming and friendly as ever," Vlad said grinning. The grin faded then as he realised why she was back in the city of her birth.

"I'm sorry about Maria. I was at the funeral. There were so many there, she would have loved seeing all her friends together," he said, offering Denisa a brief pat on the shoulder.

"I know, I am sorry I missed it. Can we... can we talk, maybe get a coffee?"

"Sure, let me have a quick shower and change. Meet you outside in ten minutes, okay?" Denisa smiled her thanks and Vlad hurried towards the locker rooms.

True to his word he joined her inside ten minutes, hair damp from the shower. Arm in arm they strolled down the street, grabbing a table outside a café. The place was quiet, the street half deserted and Denisa felt it was as close to private as she was likely to find anywhere. Wasting no more time, she launched into Ioana's theory while Vlad listened, throwing three heaped spoons of sugar into his black coffee, stirring it in an unfocused fashion, intent instead on Denisa's words.

"Well, I have to say, it makes sense," Vlad said finally. "Look, not many junkies hanging out at the gym but I knew the people Maria was hanging with and... well nobody is squeaky clean but drugs, nah, not the people she hung out with."

"Fuck, I was hoping it was that. Too good to be true that it'd be that simple," Denisa cursed, racking her brains as to where else she could turn next. What had Erica taught her again, three elements to explore. Dig into the victim, their friends and family was the first element, but that was a dead end. Second, look at how they died, the weapon. Well heroin wasn't a good choice as a murder weapon, but it wasn't the worst either. Without access to the cop's investigation and resources, that was pretty much a dead end, chasing down every dealer in the city wasn't an option especially since she knew Maria wasn't a user. Third, where was the victim killed?

"Vlad, do you know where they found her?"

"Yeah, well kind of. Some alleyway, lying on her side in plain view. Can't tell you exactly. I do know where she was that night though because I was pissed about not managing to get inside."

"What are you talking about? Getting in? You mean a club?"

"Yeah, Bass Instincts. It's a new place, only open in the last year. Strictly for the rich or the beautiful. Naturally Maria just strolled in, half of her friends making the cut, the rest didn't. I saw her, I was still in the queue, but I didn't make it through the door either."

"Why'd you think to mention it?" Denisa felt an itch, the same that Erica and Arlene often described that they'd get when they sensed something worth knowing was about to be revealed.

"It's probably nothing, you know how rumours get started. But, okay, I heard it's owned by some criminal gang, supposed to be foreigners or something. Look it's probably bullshit. The guy I heard it from hadn't even been in the club."

It wasn't much, but it was a place to start.

"Is it open tonight? Got an address?" Denisa fished out her phone and paused at his grinning stare.

"What's the problem?" Denisa threw him a hard stare which only made Vlad's smile broaden.

"Nothing only... I hope you got something better than that shit to wear..."

After leaving Vlad, promising to catch up with him properly before she headed back to the States, Denisa had taken his advice and gone shopping. Afterwards, she'd booked into a hotel, she needed a few hours' sleep, a shower and somewhere to change.