The following morning, after only a few precious hours of much-needed sleep, Rarity awoke. She gathered her things and, careful not to rouse Spike, snuck out of her half-apartment-half-headquarters. She intended to make good on her resolution to investigate the lead of a possible hitpony at Clover’s Bar that Jeweler Joe had told her of. She descended the stairs of her building, walked across the tiled floor, and exited out onto the streets where she then began to head West towards the ocean or, more specifically, the dank and smelly docks where she would find Clover’s.
As she walked through the oddly quiet streets at a moderate pace, Rarity pondered question after question and played over possible solution after possible solution in her mind. Aside from the rather obvious one of money, she thought deeply on all possible motives, scanned through her vast mental database of mugshots and rap sheets, tried to place a familiar name with a record and a face, and even imagined some of the possible conversations that might have occurred between Joe and this mysterious “Vittore”. She used this all merely as a pre-investigative tactic of course, so as to brace herself for whatever she may or may not learn.
“Any novice detective can tell you that your imagination has no place in the investigative world, but it’s the good detectives that will tell you to use it as a tool. It can be either very dangerous or very helpful,” she commented quietly as she wrote down a few statements and observations in a small ledger, light brown in color, that served as her personal diary. She felt that writing down her personal feelings over subjects served as a good outlet and excellent stress reliever. After she finished her writing and pondering over all that she could possibly ponder over, she stashed the small book back inside of her saddlebags, which themselves were hidden under her casual, yet fashionable, disguise.
As much as she tried to not be vain about herself, it was hard to deny that she was indeed a famed detective, and having done cases for the police department, it was no surprise at all that certain ponies would peg her as an actual police officer herself, and not a simple, temporary, but above all else, fully independent extension of that agency. Granted, she was a law enforcement officer in every sense of the word, though just not one rooted to any particular desk with any particular police agency. Still though, that fame and mindset could create certain difficulties with the information-gathering process, and sometimes Rarity would find it necessary to give herself a disguise or just throw on something a little more suitable for the task at hoof than her trademark trench coat and hat. In the times that she had found it necessary to venture to Clover’s Bar, she had done a careful and excellent job at not being marked as suspicious or being discovered as a law enforcement officer, and she knew it would be in her best interests to keep it that way.
For this particular locale, she opted to go for a bit of a “damsely” look, as she liked to call it. She wore a black dress coat over a white shirt, a matching black bowtie, a short black veil that could be pulled down just enough to give her that “troubled” look while also sparing her vision, some rather sultry black shoes, all of which was topped off with a freshly picked rose that was tucked into her mane and secured on top of the veil. While it certainly wasn’t her skimpiest outfit, it was sure to get the job done. She was sure to be a sight for the sore and femininely starved eyes of the sailors and generally unsavory characters there, and while some might think it a death wish for a lady to venture into such a nefarious locale all alone and in such an attractive getup, she knew it was good for it would only pull them close to her or, if push came to shove, rush to her side when she desired attention. Still, Rarity always came prepared for the worst, so she kept her badge hidden but within easy reach, equipped herself with a few sets of cuffs, among other means of protection and, most importantly, came ready to make the decision to fight or fly.
After some time of walking on in silence and pondering the quietness of the city around her, Rarity found herself to be closing in on the waterfront. She knew this because the light morning fog that she had been walking through morphed into a dense and eerie fog that surrounded her and was just shy of totally blinding her. The smell, too, became stronger and all the more intolerable with each step that she took. The awful scent was a far cry from that of the crisp ocean air on Las Pegasus’ idyllic beaches and instead smelled of rusting metal, rotting fish, and murky water. She wasn’t sure how somepony would be able to simply sit down and enjoy a drink in such filthy conditions, yet she couldn’t help but briefly reflect on the fact that she had seen and smelled worse, and all the same she couldn’t help but to crack a smile at that. She heard the groan of a ship’s horn as it departed to the sea, or perhaps as it came into port and knew that she was close to where she needed to be.
At the climax of it all, where the fog seemed the worst and where the scent was borderline unbearable, and so close to port that Rarity could make out the haunting and hulking silhouettes of docked liners, freighters, and tugs, a green neon sign shaped in the form of a four-leafed clover flickered and revealed the location of Clover’s Bar. With not but a few more steps, she approached the old two-story building and came to a stop in front of it. She scaled the grimy and weather-beaten building up, not for the first time and certainly not for the last. It never ceased to surprise her how the place seemed to get filthier and filthier each time she found herself staring it down. Sickly looking moss and mold, likely growing out from the wooden boardwalk beneath her hooves, had snaked its way up the front and sides of the building, and it looked to have been battened down and preserved with sea salt, which in turn left the building with an ancient appearance. While the building was hardly ancient, it didn’t help matters to see that the building was so old that it still had saloon style doors.
Rarity heaved a sigh, observed her appearance in a demolished mirror off to the side and put herself into character. Without the slightest hesitation in her movements or thought process she then stepped forward and entered into the bar. Once inside, she saw the familiar interior of Clover’s that was no more or less special than other traditional bars. She walked across a wooden floor and occasionally glanced up at the once seafaring items, such as the helms of ships and taxidermied fish, that adorned and decorated the otherwise vacant brick walls. The overwhelming scent of cigar and cigarette smoke, combined with the slightly less-overwhelming scent of stale beer, pierced her lungs and only reminded her to keep her breaths short and shallow, and to give her garments a serious wash when she returned home.
At almost the exact moment she entered into the bar, she could feel countless sets of eyes moving over her body and scaling her up from every direction. It was nothing new to her, and it was certainly no excuse to break character. She kept her head and eyes low, though she occasionally glanced about with fright and worry in them, and she made slow, even, and dainty steps as she approached the bar counter at the far wall. It was an unnerving walk that was made even more uncomfortable when the otherwise loud and obnoxious sound of intoxicated sailors telling tales and making jokes quieted down when they saw this mysterious, beautiful, and extremely out of place mare grace them with her presence. Rarity knew that this long and uncomfortable walk was necessary though, and she would have done it all day every day if it meant finding justice for her victim. Furthermore, she knew that the unnatural sound, or rather lack thereof, of silence within the bar was also good because it meant that she was being acknowledged. As she approached the counter itself, Rarity took great satisfaction in knowing that she hadn’t been in there more than two minutes and yet she had already lured most of the unwitting stallions into her trap.
When Rarity finally reached the bar itself, it had felt like an eternity when she came to a stop in front of it. It always did whenever she found herself having to walk through the main drinking area itself, not just of this bar, but anywhere else she would never have given the light of day otherwise. She climbed up, somehow gracefully, onto the stool at the far end of the counter and glanced over at the barkeep. The burly brown unicorn with the handlebar mustache seemed to be the only stallion in the entire place that hadn’t noticed her, intent on cleaning his glass, but Rarity knew better. In her time of investigative work, she quickly learned that most barkeeps were so much more attentive than they initially let on; some even seemed to make it a part of their job to hear and see things that others might not. The final challenge she faced was gambling on the fact that he didn’t recognize her, this time in a different disguise, and begin to cast suspicion. For her to be recognized could jeopardize her entire operation.
Thankfully though, it appeared that her cover was safe and that her operation was all clear. Just as conversation picked back up among the patrons, albeit quieter than before she had first entered, the barkeep completely stopped cleaning one of his glasses and looked over at her. Though she did not look directly at him, Rarity knew and could feel that he was sizing her up and admiring her features. While it didn’t flatter her any more than it hadn’t when the other patrons of the bar looked her over, it was exactly what she wanted. He turned more evenly to approach her and Rarity took that as her queue to start the waterworks. By the time he was on his third step, she had a healthy stream of tears going down her cheeks and a quiet, shallow sniffle that was just real enough to be convincing while also remaining quiet enough to not attract more attention than she wanted or needed; she wanted the barkeep and the barkeep only. For now, anyway.
“Oh!” she gasped dramatically and acted startled when he stepped directly in front of her, divided only by the wooden bar and a few dirty looking glasses of drained alcohol.
He cleared his throat, “Can I… get you a drink?” He tried to be polite, but failed miserably thanks in part to his gruff, seafaring tone.
Rarity sniffled, “That’s very sweet,” she said and then mustered a tiny smile, “but I don’t drink.”
The barkeep gave her a confused look, “Begging yer pardon, but ye do know yer in a bar, don’t ye?” She fell back in an attempt to make him feel even more sorry for her. From the black purse that she had draped around her, she summoned a white handkerchief and blew her nose into it.
“I didn’t mean nutin’ by it!” he said as he waved his hooves in the air and hoped that he hadn’t upset the distraught mare anymore. Not only could it potentially cost him a sale, but if he ran the pretty young thing off one of the patrons might try and clobber him again. He smiled to reveal one golden tooth, “Just be checkin’ is all!” He was quiet for a moment as he looked at her once again but then continued, “If it ain’t a stiff drink yer looking for, what be it? Oh is there something wrong Missy? Aye may be a rough old sea dog, but it be a crooked lie for me to say it don’t just tug at me old heart to see a lady in distress.”
As soon as he said that, Rarity knew that she had him right where she wanted him. It had been easier than she thought! Then again, it always had been with the old barkeep.
“Why!” she exclaimed, “It’s the… Worst. Possible. Thing!” She tilted her head backwards and placed the back of her hoof atop her forehead in a dramatic display. Simple theatrics to her but a legitimate cry for help to those in her trap.
“I simply didn’t know where else to go!” She allowed the tears to flow from her eyes a little more intensely, but dialed it back some when she noticed that some of the patrons further down the bar started to give her concerned looks. She didn’t need their attention at the moment.
“Aye?”
“I-I wouldn’t want to burden a handsome and busy stallion like yourself with it, but I was hoping that you would know somepony who could. You do seem to have an excellent eye darling,” she ended with a flirty tone and puffed her chest slightly outwards; she batted her eyes at him.
Like a twig in the wind, Rarity had managed to break any bit of hardness that might have been inside of the barkeep’s salty body. He darted his eyes away from her, and chuckled nervously. It somewhat surprised Rarity that he had been this easy to fool, and she couldn’t help but feel a little apprehensive of the situation, so while she resolved to be more acutely aware of her surroundings and of the barkeep himself, she retained the hope that it was either dumb luck or her own sheer experience that had managed to deceive him to easily.
“‘Tis no bother me, so pray tell, what is it that has ye so upset now?” He picked up one of the dirty glasses and used his magic and a rag to polish them to a crystal shine. While his eyes might not have been focused on her she had his full attention, and she knew that.
“I...” Rarity patted her eyes one more time, glanced around, and sniffled one more time to stay in character, “I need a certain somepony… ‘out of my life.’” She said the last part with a near whisper. “Somepony I could trust, somepony very dear to me told me that I could find what I needed here. Can you help me?” she once again amplified the intensity of her tears in an attempt to really show him that she was nothing more than a frightened and distressed mare. “Please tell me you can help me?” she pleaded with him.
“Aye,” the barkeep simply replied as he stroked his chin and gave her a curious look. He looked around and leaned into her. “Clover’s is but a humble bar me dear miss, but she’s known to harbor some… extrie services. For the right price, of course.”
“Of course,” Rarity whispered and, for character’s sake, sniffled once again and then flashed him a small black purse. “Money is no object,” she jingled the purse as proof and then tucked it back inside the recesses of her dress. Little did he know that most of the contents of the purse were paperclips and scrap pieces of metal with a single layer of bits on the top, in the event she was asked to ‘show the goods’.
“There is a particular pony I had in mind though.” She saw a concerned look spread across his face, and she understood that because there existed a general consensus amongst these types of characters that whenever a certain name was brought up, it just so happened that a cop was involved somewhere in the process. She moved quickly to explain herself, “My trusted somepony told me of him. Said he was clean and could be trusted. There can’t be any mistakes darling, I’m sure you understand that. Please tell me you understand that? I’ll simply die if you don’t!” She took on that pleading look again with him and batted her sad puppy dog eyes at him.
The barkeep took a few seconds to cautiously examine her. Though he simply swabbed the glass that he held she knew precisely what he was doing. He saw the sadness in her beautiful blue eyes, saw genuine fright and sorrow in her tears, and witnessed the way she shuddered each time she sniffled. It chilled his old sailing heart to think that somepony could be so cruel to another pony. It just wasn’t the sailor’s code.
“Aye,” he said with a sigh, “Very well then.” He looked around one more time, “What be the name?”
Rarity heaved a sigh and tried to make it look like she was attempting to stop crying while she also looked upwards to give the illusion that she was struggling to remember the name her fake “friend” had given her. She started to stammer some conjured names beginning with the letter ‘v’ just loudly enough for him to hear to further add to the illusion. Finally, after about the fifth name she called, she came up with the correct name.
“V-Vittore,” the name rolled off of her tongue and then once again when she looked into his eyes.
The barkeep gave her a confused look and scratched at the inside of his ear. “Can ye say that one more time?”
“Vittore. The name given to me was Vittore.”
“Hum, that name ain’t be ringing any bells,” he cupped his chin and looked upwards in thought, “Nope,” he shrugged. “Are ye sure ye heard right?”
“As sure as I am that I’m sitting in front of a handsome stallion,” she leaned forward slightly and batted her eyelashes. She ran her hoof up slowly up to his chin. She had to be sure he wasn’t withholding any information from her.
The barkeep once again chuckled nervously and even appeared to blush as well. He tugged at his collar and finally replied, “Sorry to tell ye miss, but t’aint nopony by that name here in this bar. Never was to the best of me knowing.”
“Oh goodness,” Rarity pulled her handkerchief out once more and began to cry softly, “Just when I thought my problems could be solved!” She lamented and blew her nose.
“Oh now, now, now!” he tried to comfort her, “Ain’t never heard of no ‘Vittore’, but I know of some ponies who can ‘assist’ ye, and probably for a better price,” he chuckled.
“No, I simply couldn’t!” Rarity declined and stood up. “For that same moment I talk to somepony is the same moment I’ll be locked away. You… you wouldn’t have me go to jail would you?” her lips quivered when she finished utilizing her guilt-trip tactic. She slowly started to take a few steps backwards and turned just slightly.
“I wouldn’t dream of it me lady!” the barkeep was quick to defend himself, “Just trying to help ye is all!”
“Oh, whatever shall I do?! Woe is me!” Rarity dramatically lamented, attracting the gazes of more of the patrons. She had most of the drinking area in her view, so she quickly observed each and every table she saw, especially the ones where the patrons were looking back at her. Where there was somepony looking at her there was either legitimate concern or, more realistically for a locale such as this, money to be made. Many of the patrons were either too inebriated or too caught up in their card games to take much notice of her anymore, and of the few that did look towards her, she was able to narrow her options down to zero almost instantaneously. She recognized a few of them from police mugshots and reports, all of them apparently contract killers for hire, but that was just it, she recognized them and they were not the individual she was seeking. There were only a few other patrons that could pass for killers of any kind, but Rarity had that feeling in her gut that they weren’t who she was seeking either. A group of three sat with each other, and she eliminated them because experience told her that hitcolts-for-hire very seldom sat in a group, even if they were a “Mafioso”. To do so would create too many conflicts, like when two businesses peddling the exact same items opened up right next to each other. That left her with only one possible suspect, and the more she scanned him the more she had a feeling that he was not her colt. While looks could be deceiving, he was simply too small and didn’t give off that “killer” appearance. Actually, she thought he looked more lost and out of place more than anything; perhaps troubled by something and drowning his sorrow in alcohol.
Almost as fast as she had scanned over and constructed profiles of all of the patrons in the bar, Rarity quickly concluded that this mysterious “Vittore”, if he even existed, was not in the bar. Or, in the very least, he wasn’t at that time. The trip had been largely a lost cause and the time was at hoof to call it quits. So like a well oiled and precisely tuned machine, she utilized the next moment to her advantage, slipped fully back into character with one last outburst of emotion and tear shed, and made a sprint for the door. Then, with a display that only she could perform, exited through the saloon style doors.
Once outside, Rarity proceeded to move away from the waterfront first at the same sprint she had left in and then eventually into a walk. She had no desire to be there any longer than she absolutely needed to be. When out of ear and eyeshot of the bar and the neighborhood completely, she stopped to compose herself and take some notes in her notebook. “Very interesting,” she commented to herself as she wrote, “It would appear that Mister ‘Vittore’ is nothing but a phantom. Conjured up by that shifty Joe’s mind, I’ll bet,” she snapped her notebook shut and began the trek back to her home. “Still…” she slowed her pace.
As bad as it looked for Joe, and for the investigation itself, that wasn’t enough. Rarity knew that there was no room for speculation or error. After all, who was to say that the bartender hadn’t withheld information from her because he had in fact seen through her disguise? Furthermore, who was to say that “Vittore” wasn’t just an alias? Could he simply have not been in the bar that day? There were too many questions left unanswered and, for Rarity, one unanswered question was one too many. She decided that it was time to fall back and do the one thing she had hoped she wouldn’t have to do. Shining Star had offered her full and unrestrained access to police resources, and though she detested the idea, she accepted that she was in no position to decline those potentially valuable resources. With a sigh on her breath and a little less pep in her step than usual, Rarity decided that it was high time to ask the police department for help.
- - - - - - - - - - - -
Spike took the hat off his scaly head and used a handkerchief to wipe some sweat from his forehead as he watched Rarity pace back and forth in front of him while he sat on the long wooden table down in the stuffy basement of the police headquarters. Every few minutes, Rarity would stop and look at a section of the extensive number of photos, documents, and drawings she had tacked onto the elongated chalkboard at the front of the room. She would step in for a closer look only to mutter something under her breath, rub her chin, and back away once again to resume her back and forth pace. Only when Captain Star came cantering down the stairs on the other end of the room did she stop to look at him.
“Looks like your suspect, Vittore,” Star chuckled as he walked around the side of the table and approached the duo, “He’s a specter. He doesn’t exist. That, or he’s really good at skipping town and not leaving a trace.” He propped himself against the table and concluded, “And I have a pretty good feeling that’s not the case.”
“You’re sure?” Rarity asked him with an intent look upon her face.
“I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t,” he defended and crossed his forelegs, “It’s been three days and over those past three days we’ve shaken down every two-bit lowlife and every backroom operation in the city.” He pulled his wooden baton out of its holster and it made a menacing sound as it scraped the brass inlays. He twirled it around and, with a macabre chuckle, concluded, “Even put a few wisecracking wisecolts in intensive care.” Spike gulped as he holstered it back.
“Hmf. You’re a darling, truly,” Rarity said with obvious sarcasm and rolled her eyes. “Now, if you’re done bragging about having beaten up half the denizens of Las Pegasus, I would very much like it if you’d answer my question.”
“You’re a patient one, truly,” Star shot back with equal sarcasm. He stood up straight and adjusted his collar, “All of that work and we didn’t come up with any leads. Not the first one. Nobody in this city has heard of any pony named ‘Vittore”, and nobody knows of anypony going by an alias like that. Furthermore, nobody even knows of anypony matching that description who offers services like that.” He looked blankly at the ground, “Thought we might have been on to something with our mobster fellas, but that wasn’t the case when we looked into it. Shame.” He tapped the top of the baton and then turned to leave. “Well, well Miss Rarity, it seems to me like you have your primary suspect in an open and shut case. Say the word, and I’ll make the call.”
“Indeed,” Rarity said as she turned one last time to look at the board and all of the evidence and information that she had compiled upon it. In her precise and intelligent mind everything lined up and all of the cards matched perfectly. She was sure, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that she was ready to take the final step. Now came the point in the investigation where the victim, Lyra Heartstrings, was awarded the justice that she so rightly deserved. It was a righteous step, but it was also the most crucial step. Rarity sighed, looked Star in the eyes and nodded definitely to him. “Captain, I believe it’s time we brought Mister Joe in for a talk.”
“Say no more detective,” Star said as he started up the stairs, a smile on his face, “Say no more.”