46_The witness

Mike

The rumble of my old Harley roared through the deserted underpass as I slowed, parking behind a graffiti-splattered pillar just across from Lombard & Fifth, the glass-fronted café where Jennifer’s fixer liked to operate. The early morning mist curled around the city streets, fogging the traffic lights and half-burying the skyline beyond grey.

I killed the engine, the sudden silence broken only by the tick-tick of cooling metal. My fingers tightened around the worn ...