The Ace of Spaces Murders-2nd Part

Chapter 2: The Ace of Spades

The rain had started by the time James and Sarah reached Marcus Doyle’s apartment. A cramped, third-floor walk-up in the kind of building where the wallpaper peeled in long, sad strips and the air smelled of mildew and stale coffee.

The bathroom door was ajar, the flickering fluorescent light casting jagged shadows across the tiles. Marcus Doyle lay slumped in the bathtub, his face submerged, his fingers curled into stiff claws against the porcelain. The water had long gone cold, tinged pink from the blood seeping from a gash on his temple.

Drowned. But not without a fight.

Sarah crouched beside the tub, examining the wound. “Blunt force trauma first, then held under. Overkill.”

James’s gaze drifted to the desk in the corner. A mess of papers, a half-empty whiskey bottle, and—

There.

A playing card.

King of Hearts.

His jaw tightened. Two bodies. Two cards.

This wasn’t a coincidence.

Marcus Doyle had been working on something big. His desk was a hurricane of scribbled notes, newspaper clippings, and a map of the city with certain locations circled in red.

James picked up a notepad, flipping through the pages.

• "Eleanor Voss—why was she at the docks that night?"

• "Obsidian Circle—still active?"

• "Grayson’s name keeps coming up. Who is he protecting?"

Sarah whistled low. “This guy was digging into Eleanor’s life. And now they’re both dead.”

James’s fingers brushed against a folded photograph tucked between the papers. He opened it.

Eleanor Voss, standing with a group of people in front of an old, gated building. The Blackwood Historical Society. But one face had been scratched out—violently, as if someone had tried to erase them from existence.

Who were you hiding, Eleanor?

Back at the precinct, James spread Marcus’s notes across his desk.

“The Obsidian Circle,” Sarah read aloud. “Sounds like a bad gothic novel.”

James tapped a newspaper clipping from 20 years ago. “Not a novel. A secret society. Wealthy elites, politicians, law enforcement—all tied to old money and darker secrets.”

The article mentioned a scandal—an investigation into the Circle’s alleged involvement in corruption, even murder. But the case had been abruptly closed. No arrests. No further questions.

And the lead detective on that case?

Thomas Callahan.

James’s father.

His chest tightened.

Sarah caught his expression. “You okay?”

“Fine.” He shoved the thought aside. “We need to find out why Marcus was looking into this.”

A name kept appearing in Marcus’s notes: Lena Crowe.

A historian. Specialized in Blackwood’s underground history. According to his scribbles, she had information on the Obsidian Circle—information someone might kill to keep buried.

James found her address in the university’s faculty directory. An old brownstone on the edge of the city, the kind of place with ivy crawling up the bricks and a wrought-iron gate that creaked ominously when he pushed it open.

Lena Crowe answered on the second knock.

She was younger than he expected—mid-thirties, sharp green eyes, dark hair pulled into a messy bun. She took one look at his badge and sighed.

“Let me guess. Marcus Doyle talked to you about me.”

James raised an eyebrow. “You knew him?”

“He came by last week. Asked about the Obsidian Circle.” She stepped aside, gesturing for them to enter. “I told him to drop it. Guess he didn’t listen.”

Lena’s apartment was a labyrinth of books, stacked in precarious towers on every available surface. Maps of the city from different eras were pinned to the walls, marked with notes in red ink.

“The Obsidian Circle wasn’t just some social club,” she said, pulling a leather-bound journal from a shelf. “They were puppeteers. Controlled everything from behind the scenes—politicians, judges, even cops.”

James flipped through the journal. Names. Dates. Payments.

And then, a familiar face.

Eleanor Voss.

“She was part of it?” Sarah asked.

Lena nodded. “Until she tried to leave.”

As James turned to leave, Lena grabbed his arm.

“You should stop digging, Detective.”

“Why?”

Her grip tightened. “Because the last cop who looked into the Obsidian Circle ended up dead.”

James went very still.

His father.

Before he could respond, a sound from outside—a scrape of metal, a shifting shadow.

Lena’s eyes widened. “They’re watching me.”

James barely had time to react before the window shattered.

A figure in black lunged through, knife glinting. Sarah yanked Lena back as James drew his gun.

“Police! Drop it!”

The assailant hesitated—then bolted back out the window. James sprinted after them, but by the time he reached the fire escape, they were gone.

Only one thing left behind.

A playing card, fluttering to the ground.

Queen of Diamonds.

Back inside, Lena was shaken but unharmed. Sarah called for backup, but James’s mind was elsewhere.

Three cards now.

Ace of Spades. King of Hearts. Queen of Diamonds.

A pattern. A message.

But what?

Lena pressed something into his hand—a faded photograph.

Eleanor, Marcus, and others at a gathering. And in the corner, barely visible—

Deputy Commissioner Grayson.

The man who’d closed the original Obsidian Circle investigation.

James’s blood ran cold.

This went deeper than he’d imagined.

Chapter 3: The Journalist’s Secret

The morgue’s fluorescent lights hummed like a trapped wasp as James Callahan stared down at Marcus Doyle’s water-bloated corpse. The reporter’s skin had taken on a sickly blue pallor, his lips parted in a silent scream.

Dr. Eli Greene adjusted his glasses, pointing to the deep bruising around Marcus’s wrists.

"He was restrained before drowning. See these marks? Someone held him under until the fight left him."

Sarah Reyes leaned against the autopsy table, arms crossed. "Professional. Or practiced."

James’s gaze drifted to the Y-incision on Marcus’s chest. "Anything else?"

Eli hesitated, then lifted Marcus’s right hand. A raw, circular burn marred the palm.

"Branded. With this."

He handed James a photograph—a close-up of the wound. The shape was unmistakable.

A circle with a dagger through it.

The Obsidian Circle’s symbol.

Back at the precinct, James spread Marcus’s recovered files across his desk. Most were water-damaged, ink bleeding into obscurity—except for one.

A black leather ledger, its edges charred as if someone had tried to burn it.

Sarah flipped through the brittle pages. "Payments. Dates. Initials. This is a record of bribes."

James’s finger stopped on an entry from six months prior:

"E.V. — $250,000 — Dock 17 — Silence on H.M. incident."

Eleanor Voss. Paying someone off.

But for what?

Sarah exhaled sharply. "H.M. That’s got to be Harold Mercer. The judge who dismissed the Montclair drug case last year."

James’s mind raced. If Eleanor was bribing judges, what else was the Obsidian Circle covering up?

Then he saw it.

On the last page, scribbled in frantic handwriting:

"Grayson knows. If I die, look for the box under the floorboards."

Marcus’s apartment had been ransacked—drawers overturned, cushions slashed, even the wallpaper peeled back in places.

Someone was searching for something.

James dropped to his knees beside the bed, running his fingers along the warped wooden planks until—

A creak. A loose board.

Beneath it lay a rusted metal box.

Inside:

• A key labeled "St. Agnes Storage — Unit 47"

• A photograph of Eleanor Voss handing an envelope to a hooded figure at Dock 17

• A newspaper clipping from 20 years ago: "Detective Thomas Callahan Killed in Line of Duty"

James’s throat tightened.

His father’s case file.

The clipping detailed the "official" story—his father, shot during a routine traffic stop.

But James had always known better.

Thomas had been investigating the Obsidian Circle. And now, history was repeating itself.

Sarah studied the Dock 17 photo. "That’s not just any envelope. Look at the wax seal."

James squinted.

The same circle-and-dagger symbol from Marcus’s brand.

"They marked their deals," Sarah muttered. "Arrogant bastards."

A knock at the door startled them.

Officer Ruiz stood in the doorway, face grim.

"We just got a call. Judge Harold Mercer was found dead in his study. Stabbed through the heart."

James’s pulse spiked.

"And the card?"

Ruiz swallowed.

"Queen of Diamonds."

Judge Mercer’s mansion was a monument to old money—marble floors, oil portraits, and now, a spreading pool of blood staining the Persian rug.

The judge sat slumped in his leather chair, a letter opener protruding from his chest. His other hand clutched a single sheet of paper.

James carefully pried it free.

A handwritten confession:

"I took the money. I buried the truth. But the Circle always collects its debts."

Sarah cursed under her breath. "Suicide?"

James shook his head, pointing to the judge’s shoes. "Scuff marks. He was dragged back to the chair after the stab."

Then he saw it.

On the desk, propped against a whiskey decanter:

The Queen of Diamonds.

And scrawled across it in blood:

"Three down."

St. Agnes Storage was a graveyard of forgotten things, its corrugated metal doors pocked with rust.

Unit 47’s padlock yielded to Marcus’s key with a screech.

Inside: stacks of file boxes, a dusty typewriter, and—

A tape recorder.

James pressed play.

Marcus’s voice crackled to life:

"If you’re hearing this, I’m dead. The Obsidian Circle never disbanded. They just got smarter. Grayson runs it now. Eleanor was their banker, moving money through shell companies. Judge Mercer? Their puppet. But the worst part—"

A gunshot echoed on the tape.

Then a new voice, smooth as poisoned honey:

"Poor Marcus. Should’ve stuck to weather reports."

James’s blood turned to ice.

He knew that voice.

Deputy Commissioner Grayson.

As they left the storage unit, James’s phone buzzed.

An unknown number. A single image:

A Jack of Clubs lying on a hospital gurney.

Then a text:

"Dr. Eli Greene talks too much. Pick him up before I do."

James and Sarah broke into a sprint for the car.

Too late.

As they skidded into the hospital parking lot, an explosion rocked the morgue wing, flames licking the night sky.

Somewhere in the inferno, the coroner’s body burned with it.

And the killer’s tally grew.

Chapter 4: The Woman in Red

The morgue fire lit up the night, painting the hospital parking lot in hellish orange. James Callahan sprinted through the chaos—screaming orderlies, gurneys being wheeled to safety, the acrid stench of burning flesh.

Eli Greene was in there.

A firefighter blocked his path. "No one goes in! The whole wing’s coming down!"

James shoved past him.

Sarah Reyes grabbed his arm, nails digging in. "James! You go in there, you die!"

He wrenched free.

Then—a thunderous crack as the roof collapsed inward, sparks spiraling into the smoke-choked sky.

Eli was gone.

And with him, every piece of evidence he’d examined.

Back at the precinct, Captain Vasquez slammed the crime scene photos onto the table.

"Three murders in 48 hours. A coroner burned alive. And now this."

She flipped open a evidence bag—inside, the Jack of Clubs, its edges singed.

Scrawled across it in what looked like blood:

"Four down. One to go."

Sarah’s voice was razor-thin. "Five victims. Just like the note in Eleanor’s locket."

James’s phone buzzed. An unknown number. A single word:

"Lena."

Lena Crowe’s apartment had been torn apart—books gutted, furniture overturned, the same symbol from Marcus’s brand carved into the wall.

The Obsidian Circle’s mark.

But no body.

She’s alive.

James traced the knife grooves in the plaster. "They took her. Grayson’s cleaning house."

Sarah scrolled through Lena’s laptop—left behind in the rush. "She was tracking Circle members. Look."

The screen showed a map with five red pins:

1. Eleanor Voss (Ace of Spades)

2. Marcus Doyle (King of Hearts)

3. Judge Mercer (Queen of Diamonds)

4. Dr. Greene (Jack of Clubs)

5. Unmarked pin—Dock 17.

James’s pulse spiked. "That’s where Eleanor made the payoff. Where the last victim dies."

A noise from the hallway—the creak of a floorboard.

James drew his gun.

"Someone’s here."

The figure moved like smoke—a shadow detaching itself from the darkness.

Tall. Male. A knife glinting in his sleeve.

James fired.

The bullet punched through drywall as the man lunged, blade flashing toward Sarah’s throat.

She ducked, elbow jamming into his ribs. The attacker grunted—then smiled.

"Callahan. Just like your father. Too slow."

James froze.

He knew his name.

The man kicked Sarah into the bookshelf and bolted.

James gave chase, bursting onto the fire escape just in time to see him vanish into a waiting black sedan.

But not before spotting the emblem on the license plate:

"OC-7."

Obsidian Circle.

Dock 17 loomed ahead, its skeletal cranes silhouetted against the storm clouds. Abandoned shipping containers formed a maze of rusted steel, the air thick with salt and rotting fish.

Sarah checked her clip. "This is a trap."

James adjusted his vest. "Then we spring it."

They moved in tandem, clearing each container until—

A muffled thud.

A woman’s whimper.

Lena.

Container B-42’s door was chained shut. James severed the lock with bolt cutters.

Inside:

Lena Crowe, bound to a chair, her face a mask of blood. And above her, dangling from the ceiling—

A noose.

"Detectives. So predictable."

The voice echoed from a speaker hidden in the shadows.

Grayson.

James cut Lena’s bonds as Sarah scanned for exits.

"You’re surrounded," Grayson crooned. "But I’ll make you a deal. Walk away now, and I let Reyes live."

Lena gasped. "He’s lying! He killed your father—"

A gunshot rang out.

Lena jerked, a red bloom spreading across her chest.

James caught her as she fell.

"The... ledger..." she choked out. "Bank... vault..."

Then her eyes went still.

Sarah dragged James behind a container as bullets peppered the metal.

"We need to move!"

James didn’t hear her.

His fingers brushed the playing card tucked into Lena’s pocket.

Ten of Spades.

The fifth victim.

Complete.

Then—a new sound.

Footsteps.

Lots of them.

James peered around the corner.

Six armed men in tactical gear, advancing.

And at the back, watching with a cigar clenched between his teeth—

Deputy Commissioner Grayson.

Sarah racked her slide. "We can’t take them all."

James’s thumb hovered over his phone’s emergency beacon.

Call for backup, and Grayson’s cops show up.

Run, and the Circle wins.

Grayson’s laughter rolled across the dock.

"Tick-tock, Callahan."

James made his decision.

He raised his gun.

And fired.

Chapter 5: The Obsidian Circle

Bullets screamed through the air as James and Sarah dove behind a stack of rusted shipping containers. Sparks exploded off the metal as Grayson’s men advanced—boots crunching on gravel, radios crackling with cold efficiency.

"Flank left."

"Cut off the dock."

"Take Callahan alive. Kill the woman."

Sarah ejected her spent magazine, slamming in a fresh one. "We’re pinned!"

James risked a glance around the corner—six armed mercenaries in tactical gear, moving like a single organism. Professional. Ex-military. Grayson’s private death squad.

A grenade clinked against the concrete, rolling to a stop at their feet.

"Down!"

The explosion shredded the night, concussive force slamming James into the container. His ears rang, vision swimming. Through the smoke, he saw Sarah coughing blood, her sleeve torn from shrapnel.

Grayson’s voice boomed over a megaphone:

"Last chance, Callahan! Drop your weapons, and I’ll make it quick!"

James’s fingers tightened around his gun.

Like hell.

A shadow moved in the smoke—one of Grayson’s men, creeping up on Sarah’s blind spot.

James fired.

The man dropped, but the shot gave away their position. Gunfire erupted, forcing them deeper into the maze of containers.

Sarah wiped blood from her lip. "We need an exit!"

James spotted it—a rusted maintenance ladder leading to the roof of a warehouse. "There! Go!"

They sprinted, bullets kicking up concrete at their heels. Sarah scaled the ladder first, James covering her with rapid shots.

Then—a searing pain in his shoulder.

He stumbled, gripping the wound. Blood seeped through his fingers.

Sarah reached down, hauling him up as a bullet pinged off the rung where his head had been.

The warehouse roof offered a temporary reprieve—but no way out. Below, Grayson’s men fanned out, flashlights cutting through the dark.

Sarah tore her sleeve, tying it around James’s bleeding shoulder. "You’re hit bad."

He gritted his teeth. "I’ll live."

Then—a click behind them.

A figure emerged from a rooftop access door, pistol raised.

James whipped his gun up—

"Wait!"

The man stepped into the moonlight.

Richard Voss.

Eleanor’s husband.

His tailored suit was smeared with grease, his eyes hollow. In his free hand, he clutched a burned ledger—just like Marcus’s.

"You want Grayson? I’ll take you to him."

Richard led them through a network of service tunnels beneath the docks, his flashlight cutting a frail path through the darkness.

"Eleanor found out what Grayson was doing," he whispered. "Not just bribes. Human trafficking. Girls shipped in through Dock 17, sold to the highest bidder."

Sarah’s jaw clenched. "And she was helping him?"

"No." Richard’s voice broke. "She was gathering evidence. That’s why he killed her."

He handed James the ledger.

Inside:

• Names. Politicians. Cops. Judges.

• Dates. Shipments. Payments.

• And one circled in red—

"Final shipment: 12 girls. $5M. Buyer: 'The Mayor.'"

James’s stomach turned.

The mayor was involved.

The tunnel opened into a hidden underground port—a cavernous space where luxury yachts docked beside cargo ships.

At the far end, under a canopy of string lights, stood Grayson.

Surrounded by armed men.

And on his knees before him—

Captain Vasquez.

Their boss.

Grayson pressed a gun to her temple.

"Ah, Callahan. Right on time."

James stepped into the light, gun raised. Sarah and Richard flanked him.

Grayson smirked. "Three against twenty. Bad odds."

"Try me," James growled.

Grayson sighed, then nodded to a henchman, who dragged forward a terrified young girl—no older than sixteen. One of the "shipments."

"Here’s the deal," Grayson said. "You drop the ledgers, walk away, and I let the girl live."

Vasquez’s eyes locked onto James’s. A silent plea.

Sarah whispered, "He’s lying."

James knew it.

But the girl was sobbing.

"Tick-tock, Detective," Grayson sang.

James lowered his gun—then tossed the ledger into the water.

Grayson’s face twisted in rage. "You idiot! That was your only leverage!"

James smiled.

"No. It wasn’t."

A click echoed through the dock.

Every phone in the room buzzed simultaneously.

Grayson looked down at his.

A live broadcast.

Of this moment.

Millions watching as the Obsidian Circle’s crimes were exposed in real time.

James tapped his lapel—where a tiny camera had been transmitting everything.

"Meet my leverage."

Chaos erupted.

Grayson roared, shoving the girl aside as his men opened fire.

James dragged Vasquez to cover while Sarah laid down suppressing fire.

Richard sprinted for the girl—

"No!"

A bullet caught him in the chest. He crumpled, the girl screaming as he shoved her behind a crate.

James returned fire, picking off two mercenaries.

Then—a new sound.

Sirens.

Real cops.

Grayson’s men faltered, realizing the tide had turned.

Their leader didn’t hesitate.

He bolted for a speedboat.

James gave chase, bullets whizzing past as Grayson’s boat roared to life.

He leapt—

And missed.

The boat sped away, Grayson’s laughter fading into the night.

But as James stood, dripping and furious, he spotted something in the water.

Floating beside the dock.

A playing card.

The fifth and final one.

The Joker.

Scrawled across it:

"Game over?"