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[Trese] Ultimo Adios for luckychan
The following is an excerpt of a story set in the Trese universe. I hope you enjoy it!
(Trese is owned by Budjette Tan and Kajo Baldisimo)
Ultimo Adios
“Captain Guerrero,” Alexandra Trese said, taking a sip of The Diabolical's famous barako coffee. “You know I try to avoid the political ones.”
Guerrero, a colleague of her late father and chief of the 5th Precinct of the Manila Police Department, had requested an early morning meeting. This, she knew, was as much due to the nature of their schedules as it was due to the quality of Hank's morning brew. Hank, expert coffee-brewer by day and bartender by night, was polishing shot glasses behind the counter, which pretty much meant he was listening to every word being said. Trese did not mind; she was certain of Hank's discretion.
Guerrero nodded. “I know.”
He looked noticeably more ragged since the time they last met. Crime was an ageing business, it seemed. Anton Trese and Guerrero would have been the same age, had the former survived. Alexandra briefly wondered what her father would've looked like at this age, before pushing away the thought as inappropriate for the occasion. “I don't understand how the fifth is involved in this,” she said. “I haven't heard of any recent murders from my sources.”
“I'm not doing this as a cop,” he said. He took out a letter envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket, handing it to Trese. “But as a friend. We were classmates in high school.”
Trese flipped over the envelope and read the sender's name and postmark. The sender was a high-profile army general and former Defense Secretary who had made news some months ago when he had committed suicide at the foot of his mother's grave. She hoped her face did not betray too much surprise as she took in the information. “He was dead by the time this was sent,” she said.
“People in our profession tend to be paranoid,” Guerrero explained. “He probably held this letter in reserve, to be sent in the event of his death.”
Trese slid the letter across the table. “I shouldn't read this.”
Guerrero groaned. “Why not? Is there a family curse against knowing the country's state of affairs? Tell me, young lady, did you even vote in the last election?” His speech devolved into a muted grumbling about 'young people these days'. Trese hid a smile behind her hair.
“Too busy to register,” she said, relishing the captain's reaction. “And besides,” she said, “I don't want you to get in trouble for divulging national secrets. Cliff notes, please.”
Captain Guerrero put the letter back in his pocket. “Very well, Alex. Here's what you need to know. Before he died--.” He cleared his throat before continuing in a softer voice. “My friend had been investigating a series of political deaths, dating back decades. All of them were deemed to be natural deaths, so I don't know if there's even anything to investigate.” He shrugged. “That's why I ignored contents of the letter, at first.”
Trese nodded. “What made you change your mind?”
“Aside from hinting that he was hot on the trail of a secret group of assassins responsible for changing the course of our country's history, he listed down a list of political figures that would be the next targets. One of them is ex-president Lolita.”
“LCA?” Trese raised an eyebrow. “Sounds like a Clancy novel. And I still don't understand why you've come to see me.”
Guerrero looked down at the table. She could almost swear that he looked embarrassed. “He said that he was almost certain that the group was composed of supernatural beings. Of aswangs.”
“That's pretty thin, Captain,” she said, speaking kindly to soften the blow.
“I know. That's why I've decided to look into it as a private citizen.” He sighed. “People have been saying that Tony had gone crazy towards the end. But he was my friend, you understand. I could never accept that without proof. When LCA got sick, it was as if it was on cue. I knew I had to do something.”
Trese nodded. “Someone had to believe in him.” She stood up. “Okay, captain. I agree.”
Guerrero looked surprised. “Thank you, Alexandra. But don't you want to think about it?”
“I've thought about it.” Trese turned to the bartender, who had moved on to polishing the whisky bottles. “Hank, you can take care of things on this end.”
Hank put down the bottle. “Sure, boss.”
“Let's go, captain,” Trese said, putting on her coat. “We've got an ex-president to catch.”
* * *
When Trese and Captain Guerrero arrived at the hospital, Basilio was already there. He had been shopping for suits on High Street, so telling him to meet up at the back entrance of St. Mark's Medical Plaza (Where your health is number one) had been a simple matter. The front entrance was clogged with reporters eager to catch the latest scoop on the deposed president's attempted escape from the country. Pundits on all the local television channels were speculating as to whether her illness was real, or if she only wanted to flee from what would surely be a mountain of criminal charges the current administration was poised to charge her with. Trese supposed that what the three of them were doing was not all that much different from what the media was doing. It was a strange feeling.
“Hey, boss.” Basilio said, handing her a white cloth bundle. He himself was wearing blue medical scrubs. “I hear we've got an interesting one.”
“Basilio,” Guerrero said. “Have you changed your mind yet about joining the force?”
The mischievous twin stuck out his tongue. “Nah. This gig is more fun.” He turned to Trese. “This had better be good. I almost got Christine Reyes's number back there.”
Trese smiled. “I'm sure you did.” She unfolded the bundle, revealing a white lab coat, a stethoscope, and a St. Mark's ID. “Pretty good for short notice.” She frowned at the ID card. “Something's missing, though.”
From her belt, she unhooked Sinag, the kris that had been hers since birth, and pointed the tip at the ID card. “Linlang,” she whispered. The air shimmered faintly for a moment.
“They recently installed an RF ID reader,” she explained, latching Sinag back to her belt. She put on the lab coat, and hooked the stethoscope around her neck. “Does it look convincing?”
“Doctor cosplay,” Basilio said grinning. “Crispin is going to be so pissed that he missed this.”
After asking Captain Guerrero to stay behind, which did not please him in the slightest, Trese and Basilio took a secure elevator to the top level, where the penthouse suites were located. St. Mark's was well-known around the city as a luxury hospital, where the rich could get medical treatment in a five-star hotel environment. The penthouse rooms supposedly ran in the tens of thousands per night.
The elevator doors opened, revealing interiors much more luxurious than that of the lower floors. Basilio whistled. “And this is just the lobby.”
Trese stepped out of the elevator. “This is the difference between the haves and have-nots. Let's go.”
“It's hard to figure out,” Basilio shook his head. “How could a public official afford all this?”
They walked along the carpeted hallway, scanning the nameplates.
“If this is what it means to be a public official though,” Basilio said, “I may have to rethink the captain's offer.”
They stopped in front of an unlabeled door.
“Basilio.”
“Yes, boss?”
“Do you vote?”
“What?”
“It's nothing.” Trese looked around, her brow furrowed. “Where are the bodyguards?”
Basilio's face changed into the happy mask from the Theater of Doom, a sign of his native bloodlust unleashed towards a purpose. “Stand back, boss,” he said, moving in front of her.
Trese drew Sinag once again. Her body tensed, preparing for combat. Basilio turned the knob, then kicked open the door.
The room was barely lit, with the only illumination coming from the open window. The curtain was flapping in the wind. Trese could make out the outlines of a woman seated on a chair in the middle of the large room. Her head was lolling to the side. The neckbrace that she had taken to wearing in public had been partly undone, revealing a part of her neck.
Trese stepped into the room. “Madam Lolita?” she said. “Are you alright?”
Basilio turned on the lights and did a quick sweep of the room.
Trese moved closer to the seated woman. Now that she could see the woman more clearly, she saw that her eyes had rolled up, revealing only the whites. She touched the ex-president's arm; the skin was ice-cold.
“Boss,” Basilio said. “Whoever was here has just left. Through there.” He pointed at the open window.
“And he left traces,” Trese said. She removed the brace from the ex-president's neck, revealing sets of twin punctures near her jugular.
“Are those—?”
“Yes,” Trese said, looking at him. It seemed to him that her expression was a strange mixture of curiosity, dread and delight. It was the delight that was the most charming, and frightening, thing.
“Looks like we've got ourselves a foreigner,” she said.
[to be continued]
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