More with Sal...

Word count: 9014
How far I am ahead of this time 3 years ago: 4253
How sick I feel: pretty
How I feel about this excerpt: pretty good

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So alright, another clue. I tell my stomach to calm down and take a closer look at the photo. It's a corpse alright. Dead as they come. Judging by the way the blood is pooling, it looks like she (for it was a woman) has been shot at least twice. It also looks like she's in the same room I was occupying just an hour or two ago. There are no shortage of anonymous empty rooms in Chicago, but fair is fair and I'm going to make this assumption. Besides, it seems like I'm lying right there next to her in the picture. So that's how her blood got on my hands. That's one mystery solved. I'm almost ready to call it a night.
But then I remember that the question remains: Who is she? It's tough to say as the photograph isn't an example of the finest work I've ever seen. She's dressed as if she were going out somewhere nice -- an evening gown, high heels, expensive jewelry. Her face is blurred, though, almost as if on purpose. Still, I can tell that we make a dashing couple. Too bad she's not my type. I prefer my women alive. It's just one of those little things that I decided long ago. I have my standards.
I turn the picture over. Written on the back, in the same hand that wrote the note on the door back in that loft (albeit much smaller and not with blood -- I'm guessing it was a Papermate Flexigrip Elite. Not my first choice in writing instruments, but not terrible by any means) is written the date and the now familiar words, "Her blood is on your hands."
"I knew that already," I say to the photo. "It's all over my clothes, too. Tell me something new, god dammit. Tell me something I don't know already."
I shake the picture for good measure. It's a technique that sometimes works with humans, occasionally with cats, but rarely, if ever, with inanimate objects such as the photograph in my hand. Oh well. I return it to my wallet for later examination.
"Who you talking to, Bonnet?" asks a voice from the darkness. I turn to find Sal approaching warily. His face registers shock when he sees me. "Holy shit! What happened to you?"
"What do you mean?" I ask innocently.
"You don't look so good," Sal says.
"Well, I'm sorry I woke you up," I reply. "But that's no reason to be insulting."
"Okay, okay," Sal says, reaching for his keys. He actually keeps what looks like a hundred different keys on one of those retractable keyrings janitors always have. I don't know what else Sal does, but I know he only manages this one building. What could those other keys be for? His heart? His dreams? "I get it, top secret private dick stuff, right?"
"Sal, please, I've asked you not to call me that."
"Oh yeah. Sorry. You prefer public dick?" Sal laughs at his own joke. I am certain nobody else will. Remember when I mentioned that Chicago has its fair share of assholes? Sal here is one of them. Remember when I said that Sal was a swell guy? Well, I was fucking kidding.
I roll my eyes, take a deep breath, count to ten, attempt to find my peaceful center and remember my place in the universe. All this results in me not popping him one. I actually manage a somewhat convincing polite chuckle.
"Good one, Sal." I am happy to report that my voice does not betray a single trace of the hatred and animosity that I feel towards this man. "Never heard that one before."
Sal shoulders me aside and approaches the door, flipping through his keys. He begins trying various of them in the door seemingly at random.
"Is this going to take long?" I ask.
"Never know which key this building is," he replies gruffly.
"Perhaps, after you find it, you should label it," I suggest.
"Hey, I don't tell you how to do your job, dick."
I decide to let the matter rest. Oh sure, I know fifty different ways to kill him without even breaking a sweat (honest, I do) but I imagine I'm in enough potential trouble for one night as it is without having a dead building superintendant on my hands. I'm not going to say that it wouldn't be worth the trouble (because it would be) but I'm just not in the mood.