The hotel rose like a glass bone. Thirty stories of mirrored steel. It caught the sun. Threw it back. A blinding, cold light.
Kenji stood across the street. Neck craned. His cab was parked illegally. He didn't care.
This was the place. The address. The lot where their building stood. Where the rusty door led to the roof. Where the gravel bit into their knees.
Gone.
Swallowed by this… thing.
His stomach turned. A sour, hot swirl. He lit a cigarette. The smoke was weak in the wind.
He crossed the street. Pushed through the spinning door. The lobby air was a slap. Conditioned. Scented. Something floral and fake. It coated his tongue.
Marble floor. Shiny. His shoes squeaked. Echoed. A woman at a desk looked up. Smiled. A perfect, empty curve of lips. "Welcome, sir. Checking in?"
"No." His voice was too loud. He cleared his throat. "The roof. Is there… access?"
Her smile didn't change. "The rooftop bar is for guests and reservations only, I'm afraid." Her eyes flicked over him. His worn jacket. His five o'clock shadow. Calculating. "May I inquire as to the nature of your visit?"
I'm looking for a ghost. "Just wanted to see the view."
"I understand. The view is quite spectacular. Perhaps you'd like to make a reservation for the bar? We do require a dress code." She said it nicely. A knife wrapped in silk.
He shook his head. Backed away. "Another time."
He stood in the center of the lobby. A stain on the marble. People moved around him. Suits. Leather bags. The smell of money and cologne.
He remembered the smell of the old stairwell. Concrete dust. Mildew. The sharp, cold bite of outside air when the roof door opened.
He walked. Down a hallway. Plush carpet. Silent. He saw a sign for restrooms. Pushed the door. Male. More marble. Gleaming sinks. Quiet jazz from a hidden speaker.
He went to the window. A wall of glass. Looked out. The city grid. The river. A gray smear.
This was wrong. All wrong.
The investigation was a joke. There was nothing to find. The past wasn't buried here. It was paved over. Sterilized. Turned into a fucking bathroom with ambient jazz.
He left the bathroom. Took the elevator. Not to the roof. To the second floor. A conference level. Empty. He walked out onto a terrace. A smoking area. A few fancy benches. A sleek metal ashtray.
He stepped to the edge. A low glass barrier. He looked down. The street was a canyon. People were ants.
This wasn't the height. Their roof was four stories. This was twenty. The perspective was all wrong. The city looked like a model. Tiny. Manageable. From their roof, the city felt close. A living, breathing thing you could touch.
He could smell the hotel's perfume. He could smell his own cigarette. He could not smell the cold. Or the diesel from the street below. Or the mint.
He stubbed the cigarette out. The ashtray was cold metal.
Retracing steps. A stupid idea. You can't retrace steps when the ground has been replaced.
He went back inside. Took the elevator down. The doors opened to the lobby. The woman at the desk glanced at him. No smile this time.
He walked out. The real air hit him. Exhaust. Grease from a food cart. Real smells.
He got in his cab. Sat for a minute. Hands on the wheel.
He'd come looking for a fingerprint. A scratch on the wall. A piece of gravel that remembered them.
There was nothing. The luxury hotel had no memory. It only had reservations and dress codes.
He started the engine. The cab coughed. A real sound.
He'd investigated. He'd found the truth.
The past wasn't a place you could visit. It was a country that didn't exist anymore. The map was obsolete. The landmarks were gone.
He drove away. Didn't look back.
The investigation was over. It ended in a lobby smelling of fake flowers. With a polite refusal.
Some searches don't end with a clue. They end with a locked door. And the understanding that you lost the key a long, long time ago.