The following morning in a holding cell in the local police precinct
"Okay, Stone. Let's go." Jones says looking at directly at Stone.
Stone stands, smoothing down his jacket. "About time. The company was starting to get on my nerves. That guy in the next cell kept whistling show tunes." He replies
"We checked out your alibi. Miss Marlene at the Blue Moon confirmed you were there 'til closing." Jones informs him.
"I told you I didn't kill him. What'd I tell ya?" Stone replies with a hint of sarcasm in his voice
"I know you did. Still had to check the facts. Look, Stone, Monroe wasn’t exactly Mr. Congeniality. Plenty of people wanted him six feet under." Jones tells him.
"So I take I'm free to go track down the real killer, the one who’s sloppy enough to leave a clue," Stone says.
"Don't get cute, Stone. You're free to go but don't leave town. We may need to talk to you again. Things change, evidence surfaces… you know how it goes." Jones replies
"So much for friendship, huh, Jones? Back in the war, we shared foxholes, dodged bullets… I thought we were tighter than this. Stone says as he turns to face Jones, a sardonic smile playing on his lips.
"Just doing my job, Stone. That's all. Just doing my job. You understand." Jones tried to avoid Stone's gaze.
Stone stops at the exit door "Thanks for the hospitality, Jones. The cot was surprisingly comfortable and then leaves the building.
After making sure that Stone has left picks up a nearby phone. "Get me, Riley… Yeah, Riley, it's Jones... Listen, I want you to follow Stone. He’s just leaving the precinct... Yeah, Stone, the P.I. ... And Riley, I want this done discreetly. You understand? ... Stone always manages to get himself into trouble, and that… trouble might just be our killer. Don't let him know you're there, understand? Be a shadow... Alright. Get going." He slams the phone down with a resounding thud. He runs a hand through his already disheveled hair and leaves the holding cells.
I need a drink. And to pick up my spare .38. Those boys in blue were kind enough to confiscate my Colt. Friendly of them. I swear, sometimes I think Jones secretly wants me locked up just to save himself the paperwork I apparently cause. Stone thinks to himself.
He glances around, his eyes scanning the faces in the crowd. He is that Jones put a tail on him. He doesn't see anything obvious, but the feeling won't go away.
Paranoid? Maybe. But paranoia keeps you alive in this business. Especially when someone like Monroe turns up belly-up in his own office.
He continues walking, but he quickens his pace. He reaches a nondescript building with a faded sign that reads "Stone - Private Investigations." He unlocks the door and enters. The office is dimly lit, cluttered with stacks of files, and overflowing ashtrays, he reaches for a half-empty bottle of whiskey and sits on his desk next to a flickering desk lamp.
Home sweet home. Well, almost home. Maybe he could get Jannie to give this place a good cleaning. But who am I kidding? She would probably tell me where I could put my filing cabinet. He thinks
He puts the bottle down crosses to a filing cabinet and opens a drawer. He rummages through it, finally pulling out a small, black .38 revolver. He checks the cylinder, spins it, and slides it into his shoulder holster.
Better. Now, let's figure out who wanted Monroe silenced. And why.
He takes a swig from the bottle of whiskey, grimacing slightly. The whiskey burns, but it's a familiar burn. He sets the bottle down and sits at his desk, pulling a file from the stack. It's Monroe's file, filled with notes and photographs.
Outside, Riley, a burly, unassuming man in a fedora, watches the building from across the street. He leans against a lamppost, unsuccessfully trying to blend in, but his eyes are fixed on Stone's office window.
Let’s see what you know, Stone…and who you’re planning on telling. Jones wants answers, and I'm just the man to get them. Riley thinks.
