The woman was running. And someone who flees like that… ain't innocent.
"Don't let her get away!" Bazt shouted, leaping through the window.
"Bazt, be careful! That's too high!" Margaret screamed in panic as she saw the drop.
Jumping from there was practically suicide.
"Don't worry."
Bazt grabbed onto another window mid-fall, using it as a boost to launch himself toward a nearby tree. He landed on the ground with a thud.
Without wasting a second, he ran after the woman. He could've started the car—but he didn't want to.
The rush, the thrill of chasing prey… it was intoxicating. Just like back when he was a killer. That was what he loved most.
The victim's wife was still running, but her pace was slowing. Her body was giving up.
Bazt couldn't help but grin wickedly. Anyone watching would've thought he was the killer—not her.
She eventually collapsed from exhaustion, giving Bazt the perfect opening.
"No! Please! I don't have any more money! The debts were my husband's, not mine!" she screamed, clutching her purse tightly.
"Miss Lesly, under the authority of the city's police department, you are now under arrest."
"A detective? You're not debt collectors?" she asked, slightly calmer.
"Well, looks like we've got ourselves an interrogation to do. Let's bring her in," said Margaret as she pulled up in the car, ready to dig out the truth.
"The station? Nah… let's take her somewhere that'll jog her memory."
---
"So, Miss Pamela. You were married to the victim. Can you tell me what you know about his death?"
They were back at the woman's home, this time sitting in the living room.
Bazt originally planned to question her in the car, but Margaret insisted on doing it with proper flair.
Hence, the little table in the living room was perfect. According to Margaret, interrogations needed style.
"Yes, I was married to him… a decision I deeply regret."
She trembled as she spoke, taking several minutes to describe her relationship: physical abuse, verbal insults, constant financial problems due to his gambling addiction.
Bazt got bored of the same sad story and decided to explore the house while Margaret kept listening to the emotional mess.
"This must be his room. Just as expected."
Calling it a disaster was putting it mildly.
The bed was dirty and broken. The floor was covered in filth and scattered trash.
[On a small table: used syringes.]
[Empty bottles of cheap beer.]
Bazt opened the drawer in the closet.
[Shirts with the logo and name of a butcher shop.]
[Debt receipts, all stamped with the same butcher logo.]
[A photo of Lesly performing on stage.]
"I see… nothing here to indicate torture or criminal tools."
With everything in mind, Bazt went back downstairs.
He found Margaret sitting with a melancholic look, staring at the suspect.
"Oh, you're back. This woman… she's just a victim. Thought we were debt collectors, that's why she ran."
Bazt stared at Pamela, unable to hide a smirk. She had fooled Margaret.
"I see. I'll stay with her a while. Could you get us something to eat? I'm sure she's starving."
He handed Margaret his credit card, which she accepted without hesitation.
"Okay, I'll get food and check out the clothing store nearby. Don't be too hard on her."
Bazt was always amazed how easily that trick worked. Margaret couldn't resist shopping.
"Alright, Miss Humberman. You've already met me, so let me ask the real question. What are you hiding?"
"Your partner already told you. I… I regret marrying that bastard. I never should have."
Tears welled up in her eyes, but Bazt wasn't falling for it.
"I see. So let's play this little game."
His smile twisted into something darker. He drew his gun and aimed it at her.
"W-What? What's happening?" she stuttered, raising her hands.
"Nothing. I'm just about to put a bullet in your forehead."
He stepped closer, grabbing her firmly to prevent her from escaping.
"I thought you were a detective. Someone who fights for what's right."
Bazt fought for what was right—for him. He ignored her words and kept going.
"Your husband was addicted to gambling. And you... you're addicted to substances, aren't you?"
The syringes in the room, the beer. The victim's body showed signs of drug use.
"What? I… I admit it! But I didn't—"
"Shut up. I didn't give you permission to speak."
He pressed the gun barrel to the back of her neck. That twisted smile didn't fade.
"You were a stage actress. That's why you could fool Margaret. And now you say you know nothing—when it's obvious you do."
Tears streamed down her cheeks. Bazt had her cornered.
"Your husband funded your addiction. Then he got into debt. And when he couldn't pay anymore..."
"I… I don't know who did it, but I have a suspect."
Bazt leaned in, listening closely.
"Mark. He was my husband's boss. He works at a black-market liquor store down on the illegal gambling street."
"That's all I wanted to hear."
And just like that, Bazt's expression shifted—as if he'd taken off a mask.
It was a silent threat: if she said anything else about what happened, she'd be dead.
A few minutes later, Margaret returned with the food. They handed it to the woman and drove off to the address she gave them.
Bazt told Margaret that Lesly remembered a conflict between her husband and his boss.
***
The illegal gambling street. A place where the worst kind of people gather to lose what little they have.
There, tucked between shady buildings, was a liquor shop with a bright orange rooster on the sign.
Orange Chicken Drinks — the best place to ruin your liver for half the price.
The victim had several uniforms from this place. He worked here.
But as they stepped inside, Bazt felt someone behind them.
A bulky man with a beard pointed a gun straight at Margaret.
"Pamela told us everything. One more step, and I shoot the girl," the man warned.
He wasn't bluffing.
"Go ahead. Kill her," Bazt replied coldly.