Crime Stories

Luc Devereaux

The dish towel is pink at the knuckles. Fabien doesn’t look at his hand. He looks at the envelope. Manila, A4, sealed with a strip of packing tape that’s alread…

Yuki Kazehara

The umbrella had no owner. That was the first thing Kenji Matsuda noticed when he knelt to collect it from the waiting area at Namba Station. Rainwater pooled i…

Luc Devereaux

Cold rain drips from my eyebrows. The flickering neon sign of the *Café de la Nuit* reflected in the rain-slicked cobblestones. An ornate key, discarded, glints…

Luc Devereaux

Cold seeps through my soles. Sofia's rain-kissed cobblestones shine like black ice under the neon beer sign. A black rook lies beside a soggy newspaper, its hea…

Luc Devereaux

Cold nips at my nose as I sit on the park bench, collar turned up against the Berlin chill. The pigeon with the missing left claw always waits on the fountain's…

Luc Devereaux

Cold bites my cheeks as I step off the bus. Ahead, the wreckage of the Prague-Vienna train sprawls under harsh floodlights. Snowflakes dance in the harsh artifi…

Luc Devereaux

Rain slaps against my fedora. The Grand Palais looms, a dark giant awakened by the storm. I'm not here for the view. I'm here for the glove. It's a single, blac…

Luc Devereaux

Cobblestones dig into my knees. Prague at 3 am is all shadows and echoes. The alley smells of old rain and newer piss. I'm looking for something that shouldn't …

Yuki Kazehara

The ink was still wet. Satomi touched it, almost without thinking, then regretted the smudge blossoming on her fingertip. Beside the scroll, the renowned callig…

Yuki Kazehara

The clocks had stopped, of course. That was how she found him. Ms. Ishikawa, whose floral arrangements graced the lobby of the Seishin Municipal Police Station …

Luc Devereaux

The key is cold in my palm. Too cold for Prague in May. I should know. I've been working the Charles Bridge for three weeks now, lifting wallets from tourists w…