A Test of Merit: The Locked Room Mystery

OoC: Here it is, the introductory piece for my newest character, Inspector Tracey de Carlo. This is the story of one of her first cases in Rubato, as told by her new partner of the police. This is also one of my first endeavors into writing mystery, and so please try to cut me some slack. ;P

IC:
“L-let me go!” a scumbag protested.

The little bulldog of a partner I’ve been newly assigned to didn’t back down. She was the dynamo: Inspector Tracey de Carlo, she introduced herself as, with great emphasis on the “Inspector” title. She’s a tallish, quirky lass of one-and-twenty, with a cloud of reddish hair tamed by a tan knit cap. For show, she wears around her Rochester Republic cloak which gives her an elongated, elegant silhouette, but looks ridiculous in the hot climates of Florheim and Rubato. This girl seems to do almost everything for show—even now, as we’re dealing with some crony of the Madrigals off the streets, she insists on making a scene of it and grabbing the girl forcefully and masterfully by the collar.

“Give me the whereabouts of the big dogs—the ones worthy of my time—and then I’ll let you go,” she said between clenched teeth, glaring down the wriggling street urchin trapped in her grip.

The girl’s yellow-tinted eyes fluttered in fear, but it seemed to be caused by something other than de Carlo. She scanned the alley behind us again and again, as if she was expecting something to emerge from it and do whatever unspeakable thing the Madrigals did to punish cronies who squeal to the police. “B-big dogs?” she stammered back. “Who…who do you mean?”

“You know perfectly well who I mean! Vivace, Cadenza—the big names of the family! Algretta, Luminari, Arietta, I’ll even take them! Give me somebody, kid, somebody to work with here! I’m sick of putting you small fries in jail!”

The lanky girl squirmed and panted and screamed, but it was all to no avail. The overzealous blustering of de Carlo wouldn’t come to an end until she caved. Only a short time away from Cernilia, working with her in this world-trip program, and I had learned that.

With a feeble, shaking bone of a finger, she pointed towards the south of town, out into the windswept expanse of desert. “T-there, across the d-desert, on the outskirts of the next town over: Santa Mariela. T-they live there, but…but you’ll never find them home. T-they know a guy though, who lives on the city limits in a shack. Y-you might be able to talk to him.”

Inspector de Carlo stared the scumbag down, as if her eyes alone could glean the truth from what we had been told from amongst what potentially could have been a stinking batch of lies. Finally satisfied, she dropped the girl to the dusty ground with a decidedly snobbish release of the hands, like some rich kid disposing of trash they could no longer stand sullying their precious fingers with. It was all an act, meant to impart some effect to me and any onlookers; intended to ingrain some impression of a detached and high-brow sleuth. Honestly, deep down Tracey must have felt sorry for the little thief, pitied her for the miserable state of her life, but that mercy wouldn’t shine through in public, because there was a reputation she desired, and an image she needed to project. I have an inkling that she may be a little too soft-hearted for this detective stuff, but it’s clearly her passion, and a little human sympathy won’t stop her from striving to become one of the greats.

And if someone wanted to be one of the greats, then the Madrigal case was certainly the means to get there. Ravishing, scheming, dangerous women, guilty of murders, theft, and treachery, about whom sensationalized and not so sensationalized stories were told between civilians and police in low whispers throughout city cantinas and alleyways. The leader’s filaments of influence were said to be threaded through each and every institution of Rubato, from the military, to the banks, to the government, and great rapport was rumored to have begun with the criminal side of the nation, stemming from a private contact in prison. But alas, there was the romantic, idealistic side to the whole case, the aspect that drew even the interest of a common housewife; the sisters were said to be working towards revenge, hoping to rescue their father from unjust incarceration. Here was presented the contradiction: the women were working in unlawful ways, but towards a supposedly righteous cause. Not only would a great deal of brilliant police plan-making and an unimaginable amount of footwork be involved in their capture, but also a lick of detective and law skills, in order to unravel the question of whether or not Galliard Madrigal, the patriarch, truly was guilty of the crime for which he was convicted.

Young de Carlo seemed enticed by the whole tangled mess, for reasons most of the boys at the station couldn’t see. Glory was to be had, I believe, and glory was what she would give her life and her all for. Sergeant Vicente Velhamar currently ran the case, but was making little headway. He was a highly competent young officer, and it was unlike him to make such little progress, and so there was a lot of speculation as to why this particular case was giving him so much trouble. Most of the guys, and I admittedly on occasion, joked that the twenty-six year old was infatuated with one of the five sisters, and didn’t have the “cohones”, as we phrased it, to bust her.

Captain Buffón assured de Carlo and I that we would be given the case, if, and only if, we first proved ourselves on another case beforehand. That very case was presented to us this morning.

“Inspectors Cruz and de Carlo,” he greeted us with a warm smile and an olive-colored hand, “thanks for coming in on such short notice. I’m glad to see such eager faces from my two newest officers.”

I, then de Carlo, took the proffered hand and shook it firmly, as we had learned the captain respected. Before we had done so, I had nearly bent at the knees for a curtsy; Tracey noticed this, and grinned.

“Another Cernilian habit I’ve observed, Daniela,” she whispered under her breath as her eyes fixed on Buffón.

“My fine officers, this day you two shall be undertaking the case of the Silva burglary. Invaluable gems, intended to be placed in Signora Silva’s safety-deposit box the next morning, were stolen from her bedroom at night whilst she slept. The peculiar fact of the matter was that the room had been locked from the inside, and that the only windows peering into her quarters are barred, with only very narrow gaps between the bars. There is no sign of forced entry from either the door or the window.”

“Ah,” Tracey exclaimed quietly to herself, “the quintessential locked-room mystery. Marvelous!”

“This isn’t a mystery novel, de Carlo,” I quipped back just as quietly, “there’s nothing marvelous about a real life theft.”

The girl rolled her eyes, but even as she did there was a sparkle in them at the prospect of our new case. “There are some unsavory aspects, yes, always,” she replied brusquely, and then she turned to the captain to ask in a louder voice: “So we get to do all of the detective work and everything ourselves, correct? No tag-alongs this time?”

Buffón shook his head. “No tag-alongs. This is all on you two. Prove to me that you earned those inspector ranks with some dazzling work and talent.”

Flashing a radiantly white smile, de Carlo saluted, and then marched out, and I followed less ceremoniously behind.

De Carlo insisted we take a carriage to the Silva house.

A carriage, in the middle of the damned desert. Again, this was all for show. It took two hours to find a carriage driver in Rancha Rosa, and even then she wasn't satisfied with the coat of the horses, so we had to wait for another and another until one finally met expectations. Standing there on the street corner, awaiting a service most would scoff at, I could see this partnership was about to become tedious.

We drew a lot of stares as we rode through the dusty streets, enshrouded by an ever-present veil of sand and gravel. Tracey sat chin-up, shoulders squared, completely undaunted by it all. The ride to Allegre continued like this for an hour, until we came to the first golden curve of the hills on the Silva estate, and the girl burst out of the carriage in the opposite direction. Tossing the driver a handful of zecca notes, I followed right after her--

--and found her tackling a dark-haired woman to the ground, knocking over an entire fruit stand. Oranges and pomegranates fell in a shower of wine-red and orange pulp, juice, and peels. The vendor began brandishing a short knife.

"You thought I wouldn't see you, huh, Arietta Madrigal! Nothing escapes my eye! You're coming with us!"

The woman lifted her face from the dirt, and turned it slightly to look at de Carlo, quivering as she said, "M-Madrigal? I'm not a Madrigal."

"What kind of fool do you take me for!? You look exactly like Arietta Madrigal--there's no way you're not her!"

"M-my name's Angelina Costa, I swear!"

Tracey chuckled. "Nice try, but everyone knows the Madrigals are skilled liars. You probably have a fake ID and everything. No, no, I'll be taking you down to the station."

At this, I shot the redhead a quizzical glance.

"I know, I know, we're on another case--but this is big! You go on ahead and survey the situation for me. I'll be back in a little while to pick up on the important details."
-----------------------------------------------------
Finally, I reached the house of Silva. One of the few rich families in all of Rubato, they escaped the grasp of my nation's emperor during the Blancwood-Cernilia war by actually physically moving their house from its grounds in beautiful Denadoro to where it stands now atop the golden hills of Allegre, in the eastern desert. Over the years, they have been the target of many a crime, but with their highly-trained security team, few criminals are successful in the end. My case that day was one of the rare instances where they were--and how they were baffled even the security forces living on the estate.

Tracey may have been more interested in other cases, but this one had more than enough mystery for me.

OoC: Short and blah, but it's revived!

I strolled up the brick-paved walk to the house, moving through the gates which I tried to take the care to examine before continuing on. They didn't seem like they could be easily climbed, and they had spikes at the top of each metal bar, so the question of how a crook could have entered the house became even cloudier.

The security team came outside to meet me at the front doors. A more capable group of men I had never seen; they were twenty in number, and probably even better equipped to protect than the guys back at the station with their guns and tasers. Many of them were tall, muscular, and intelligent--and the few without the first two of those qualities had roles to play too, as they were short, slim, and flexible, and could hide in places and keep an eye on rooms without being spotted like the others. The big men provided the secure, formidable-looking front to the security forces, and the little ones the all-encompassing back-up; it was an impressive set-up, and one I could hardly see being penetrated.

But it had been, and that's why we--or I, I guess I should say--were here.

Escorted by two of the security crew, I entered the mansion of a house and was awed by what I saw on the inside; a beautiful diamond chandelier cast glittering light on a foyer of gleaming blue floors and fine antique furniture; a finely-polished oak staircase winded down from a hall that looked out on the front room like a ship's deck out onto the sea, intricately-carved railings lining the edge, with bustling servants moving to and from up above. The only thing that distracted from the image of wealth were the windows--instead of sparkling, clear glass like one would usually see in this kind of house, they were cold, metal bars, serving as a sad and distrustful reminder of the state of affairs in the country where this house stood. Sometimes, when I saw things like that, I felt a little guilty about how my emperor of Cernilia had taken Rubato's most fruitful lands--but then I sighed and shrugged it off. It wasn't my fault, and I couldn't do anything to fix it. There wasn't a point to dwelling on it.

Signora Silva came down the stairs at that moment, flanked by a guard and a female servant, and glittering from head-to-toe in a lavish red gown and matching ruby-encrusted jewelry. The brightness of her outfit didn't match her expression, however; she looked terribly distraught and afraid, and her face was drawn in lines of worry.

She extended a shaking hand to me as a greeting. "Hola Inspector...thank you for coming so soon."

"Don't worry, Signora, we will get this matter cleared up as soon as possible. My partner should be here within the hour, and then--"

A loud cry outside cut my sentence short--both I and the guards rushed out to the yard where we heard the sound come from, guns in hand.

And there, on the ground rubbing her bottom near one of the side gates was Tracey, glaring at a spike on the top of the fence.

"This thing was a terrible pain to climb--I could only manage thanks to the grappling hook I had brought along. And with no footmarks around...it does not seem like a plausible entry point for the criminal. We need to look around more."