Harmonic Homicide

This is yet another Dalton Drill murder mystery short story parody starring straight-laced private investigator Dalton Drill and his wise-cracking sidekick Iggy Diaz.

One

A haze of cigarette smoke hung in the cramped office, obscuring the view of Chicago’s skyline. Dalton Drill sat behind his cluttered desk, one hand idly spinning a pen while the other tapped impatiently against the worn armrest. Eyes narrowed, he stared at the lifeless phone on his desk, willing it to ring. The silence was stifling.

“Hey, D, I got us some coffee,” Iggy Diaz announced as he burst through the door, his infectious grin making an appearance despite the early hour. He set down two steaming cups and peered at the phone. “Still quiet, huh?”

“Too quiet,” Dalton muttered, his voice gravelly from years spent interrogating suspects and yelling down perpetrators. He took a sip of the scalding liquid, wincing as it burned his tongue. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

“Aw, come on, lighten up,” Iggy said, leaning against the window sill. “Maybe everyone in Chicago suddenly decided to behave themselves.”

“Unlikely.” Dalton shook his head, running a hand through his disheveled hair. His gut instinct had never failed him before, and he couldn’t shake the sense that something big was about to happen.

Just then, the phone rang, its shrill tone slicing through the tension. Dalton snatched it up, his face grim. “Drill and Diaz Investigations. This is Dalton.”

“Mr. Drill, we need your expertise,” a frantic voice blurted out on the other end. “There’s been a murder.”

“Give me the details,” Dalton demanded, any trace of humor gone from his voice.

“Legendary jazz saxophonist Dexter ‘Smokey’ Johnson was found dead in his apartment this morning,” the caller stammered. “The police are baffled. We need you and Mr. Diaz to take a look.”

“Consider it done,” Dalton said, slamming the phone down. He turned to Iggy, his eyes steely. “We’ve got a case.”

“Finally!” Iggy exclaimed, clapping his hands together. “Let’s go crack this thing wide open!”

The duo arrived at Johnson’s apartment in record time, the crime scene tape still fresh and fluttering in the wind. They ducked beneath it and were met by a solemn-faced detective.

“Drill, Diaz,” he nodded, extending a hand. “Thanks for coming on such short notice. This one’s a real head-scratcher.”

“Lead the way,” Dalton said, all business.

Inside the apartment, the air was thick with the stench of death. The victim, Dexter Johnson, lay sprawled across the floor, his saxophone still clutched in one hand. His face was twisted in a rictus of pain, as if the very air had turned against him.

“Who found him?” Dalton asked, crouching beside the body.

“His neighbor,” the detective replied. “Heard some strange noises last night, but didn’t think much of it until he saw the door ajar this morning.”

“Strange noises?” Iggy raised an eyebrow. “Like what?”

“High-pitched whining,” the detective explained. “But there’s no sign of a struggle, no weapon, nothing.”

Dalton examined the body more closely, his brow furrowing as he tried to piece together the puzzle before him. The cause of death remained elusive, but one thing was clear: Dexter “Smokey” Johnson’s murder was a symphony that had only just begun.

Dalton’s eyes scanned the room, every detail a potential clue. Iggy, ever the social butterfly, struck up a conversation with one of Johnson’s bandmates lingering near the scene.

“Hey man,” Iggy said, leaning in close. “I’m Iggy Diaz. What can you tell me about Smokey and his rivalries?”

“Rivalries?” The musician scoffed. “You mean Julius ‘Jazzman’ Harmon? That guy couldn’t hold a candle to Smokey’s talent. Their rivalry was just business.”

“Anything that could’ve pushed Harmon over the edge?” Dalton asked, joining the conversation.

“Harmon always wanted to be top dog, but he knew he’d never reach Smokey’s level,” the bandmate replied, shaking his head. “Jealousy breeds envy, but murder? I don’t know, man.”

“Interesting,” Dalton murmured, filing away the information.

As they spoke, something caught Dalton’s eye. A small, strangely-shaped device lay hidden beneath a bookshelf. He picked it up, turning it over in his hand. It felt cold, metallic, and completely out of place.

“What’s this?” he asked, showing it to Iggy.

“Beats me,” Iggy responded, shrugging. “Some newfangled gadget, maybe?”

“Let’s send it to the lab,” Dalton decided. “There’s more to this than meets the eye.”

Days later, the lab results arrived at their office. The peculiar device, as it turned out, emitted high-frequency sound waves capable of causing immense pain – and even death – in targeted victims.

“Johnson’s cause of death was no accident,” Dalton mused, poring over the report. “Someone used this device to kill him.”

“An invisible bullet,” Iggy remarked, whistling low. “No wonder there was no sign of a struggle.”

“Indeed,” Dalton agreed. “But who had the motive, means, and opportunity to make such a device?”

“Jazzman?” Iggy suggested, his voice hesitant.

“Perhaps,” Dalton replied, his mind racing with possibilities. “We must delve deeper into their rivalry – and Johnson’s life – if we’re to unravel this twisted symphony of death.”

“Let’s get to work, then,” Iggy said, determination in his eyes. “We’ve got a killer to catch.”

“Let’s pay Mr. Harmon a visit,” Dalton declared, tapping the lab report against his leg.

“Good idea,” Iggy agreed, grabbing his coat. “Maybe he can shed some light on this…sound wave murder weapon.”

The sun was setting outside their office windows as they hailed a cab. As they approached Julius Harmon’s apartment, the streets were alive with people laughing and drinking in anticipation of the night ahead.

“Remind me again why we’re here?” Iggy asked, wiping sweat from his brow.

“Harmon was Johnson’s rival, remember?” Dalton replied, his eyes scanning the building numbers as the taxi pulled up to their destination. “If anyone had a motive to kill him, it’d be Jazzman.”

“Fair enough,” Iggy conceded, stepping out onto the sidewalk.

“Besides,” Dalton added, “if nothing else, we might learn more about Johnson through Harmon.”

They knocked on Harmon’s door, an odd sense of foreboding creeping into Dalton’s gut. After several moments, the door swung open, revealing a tall, thin man wearing a red polka-dot tie over a matching shirt.

“Mr. Harmon, I presume?” Dalton said, arching an eyebrow at the man’s peculiar fashion choice.

“Who wants to know?” Harmon responded, eyeing them suspiciously.

“Detective Drill, and my partner, Detective Diaz,” Dalton replied, flashing his badge. “We’d like to ask you a few questions about Dexter Johnson.”

“Ah, Smokey.” Harmon’s face twisted into a wry smile. “Sure, come on in.”

As they entered the apartment, Dalton couldn’t help but notice the numerous pieces of polka-dot clothing scattered throughout the living room – shoes, jackets, even a saxophone case adorned in the quirky pattern.

“Interesting taste in fashion, Mr. Harmon,” Dalton commented, gesturing to the polka-dot extravaganza.

“Polka dots are my signature,” Harmon said with a shrug. “It’s how I stand out from the crowd.”

“Speaking of standing out,” Iggy interjected, “can you tell us about your rivalry with Smokey Johnson?”

“Rivalry?” Harmon scoffed, pouring himself a drink. “Is that what they’re calling it these days? Look, we had our differences, sure. But it was never more than professional envy.”

Dalton studied Harmon’s face, searching for any sign of deception. “Can you think of anyone who might have wanted Johnson dead?”

“Other than me?” Harmon chuckled darkly. “No, detectives, I can’t. And for the record, I didn’t kill him.”

“Johnson was killed by a device emitting high-frequency sound waves,” Dalton revealed, gauging Harmon’s reaction. “Know anything about that?”

“Sounds like science fiction,” Harmon replied, shaking his head. “But hey, maybe one of those gadget-savvy kids in Johnson’s band knows something.”

“Perhaps,” Dalton murmured, filing away the information. “We’ll look into it. Thank you for your time, Mr. Harmon.”

“Anytime, Detective,” Harmon replied, showing them to the door, the polka-dots on his tie seeming to dance in the fading light.

Dalton and Iggy sat in their unmarked car, watching as Julius Harmon stepped out of a bustling jazz club. The streetlights cast an eerie glow on the polka-dot suit he wore, making him look like a distorted optical illusion.

“Man, he really does love his polka dots,” Iggy said, shaking his head.

“Focus, Iggy,” Dalton replied, observing Harmon as he exchanged pleasantries with fans on his way to a waiting taxi. “We need to find out where he was when Johnson was killed.”

“Right, right,” Iggy muttered, pulling out a notebook. “I’ll start asking around.”

As they tailed Harmon’s cab, Dalton couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t adding up. Harmon had no alibi for the time of the murder, but he didn’t seem like the type to kill over a professional rivalry.

“Hey, Dalton,” Iggy called from the passenger seat, scribbling furiously in his notebook. “According to a couple of musicians I talked to, Harmon was at a recording session when Johnson was killed. They say he was there the whole time, laying down some tracks.”

“An alibi, then,” Dalton mused, his brow furrowing as Harmon’s cab pulled up to an apartment building. “But his motive still makes him a prime suspect.”

“True,” Iggy agreed. “We should keep an eye on him while we check other leads.”

“Agreed,” Dalton said, watching as Harmon, still clad in his polka-dot suit, disappeared into the building.

Over the next few days, Dalton and Iggy continued to surveil Harmon, observing his every move. They watched him rehearse with his band, dine with friends, and even visit a tailor to discuss new polka-dot patterns for his wardrobe.

“Still nothing concrete linking him to Johnson’s murder,” Iggy remarked one evening, as they sat in their car outside Harmon’s apartment.

“Maybe not,” Dalton replied, his gaze never leaving the window. “But we can’t rule him out just yet.”

“Guess we’ll have to dig deeper into Johnson’s life,” Iggy suggested, stretching and yawning. “See if there are any other suspects.”

“Right,” Dalton agreed, starting the car. “We need to explore every angle before we can begin to unravel this mystery.”

As they drove away, Harmon’s peculiar polka-dot obsession lingered in their minds, a strange detail that seemed to make him both more and less likely to be the murderer. But with each passing day, the pressure mounted for Dalton and Iggy to find the true killer – or risk letting another jazz legend fall victim to the deadly sound waves.

The saxophone, polished to a brilliant shine, gleamed beneath the flickering neon light of Dexter “Smokey” Johnson’s private studio. Dalton and Iggy stood in the doorway, dwarfed by the sheer volume of records, instruments, and musical paraphernalia crowding every corner.

“Johnson’s life revolved around music,” Dalton mused, stepping carefully over a pile of sheet music scattered across the floor. “But we have to find something more…something that ties him to his killer.”

“Let’s start with his personal connections,” Iggy suggested, flipping through a stack of letters on Johnson’s desk. He pulled one free, eyes widening as he read. “Listen to this: ‘I can’t believe you’d stoop so low, Smokey. Watch your back.'”

“Who’s it from?” Dalton asked, his interest piqued.

“Unsigned,” Iggy replied, tossing the letter onto the desk. “But it must be someone close to him.”

“Keep searching,” Dalton urged, rifling through drawers and cabinets, seeking any insight into Johnson’s relationships and motives.

In the midst of their investigation, Iggy’s phone buzzed. A text message flashed across the screen: “URGENT: Julius Harmon found dead. Same MO as Johnson.”

“Damn it all!” Iggy cursed, slamming his hand against the wall. “Harmon…he’s been murdered. Just like Johnson.”

Dalton froze, his mind racing. “If Harmon is dead, then our killer is still out there.” His eyes narrowed, determination flickering in their depths. “We need to work faster, dig deeper.”

“Right,” Iggy agreed, his voice tight with frustration. “Let’s split up. I’ll look into Johnson’s professional life while you focus on his personal life.”

“Deal,” Dalton said, his gaze lingering on Johnson’s gleaming saxophone. “And let’s hope we find our answers before another musician pays the ultimate price.”

As they delved into Johnson’s world, the stakes grew more urgent – the killer was still at large, and the jazz community trembled in the shadow of an unseen threat. With each new discovery, Dalton and Iggy found themselves drawn deeper into the labyrinth of ambition, rivalry, and mystery that surrounded the life and death of Dexter “Smokey” Johnson.

But as the shadows lengthened and the clues grew more tangled, the question haunted them: would they find the true murderer in time to prevent another tragedy?

Two

The high-pitched scream echoed through the dimly lit jazz club, sending shivers down Dalton’s spine. Iggy’s eyes widened as they both stared at the lifeless body of Julius Harmon slumped over his piano, his polka-dot suit now stained with blood.

“Damn,” Dalton muttered under his breath. “We were too late.”

“Who could have done this?” Iggy asked, his voice shaking with disbelief.

Dalton scanned the scene, his mind racing. The killer had struck again, and now Harmon – their prime suspect – was dead, leaving them back at square one. His gut told him there was more to this case than met the eye. He glanced at Iggy, who stood transfixed by the gore before them.

“Someone who wants us off their trail,” Dalton replied tersely. “We need to change our approach, Iggy.”

Iggy nodded, his face pale. “What do you suggest?”

“Let’s start by reviewing the evidence we’ve gathered so far,” Dalton said, his fingers tapping a staccato rhythm on his thigh as he thought. “There must be something we’ve missed, some connection between Johnson and Harmon that we haven’t considered yet.”

“Right,” Iggy agreed, swallowing hard. “Back to the drawing board.”

As they turned to leave the crime scene, Dalton couldn’t shake the feeling that they were being watched. A cold chill ran down his spine, and he tensed, his senses on high alert. He glanced around the room, searching for any sign of movement or unfamiliar faces. Nothing seemed out of place, but the gnawing unease remained. In the world of murder mysteries, instincts were often the difference between life and death.

“Stay sharp, Iggy,” Dalton murmured, his eyes still scanning the shadows. “The killer knows we’re onto them, and they won’t hesitate to strike again.”

“Roger that,” Iggy replied, his voice low and serious. “I’ve got your back, boss.”

With a shared nod of determination, the duo exited the jazz club, their minds filled with questions and their hearts heavy with the weight of Harmon’s death. They would need to dig deep, to reassess their strategy and unearth the truth hidden beneath the lies. Johnson’s murderer was still out there, and every moment that passed brought them closer to another deadly crescendo.

Dalton’s eyes zeroed in on a name scribbled in his notepad: Clyde Williams. The name echoed through his mind, resounding like the deep notes of a bass guitar. Johnson’s former audio engineer was their next lead.

“Let’s pay this Williams character a visit,” Dalton suggested, swallowing the lingering taste of fear from Harmon’s murder scene.

“Sounds like a plan,” Iggy said, determination etching itself across his face.

The duo arrived at Williams’ studio, nestled between a crumbling brick warehouse and a graffitied garage door. They pushed open the heavy metal door, revealing a dimly-lit space cluttered with soundboards, cables, and peculiar devices that looked like relics from a forgotten age.

“Whoa, it’s like stepping into Frankenstein’s lab,” Iggy whispered, his voice tinged with awe.

“Focus, Iggy,” Dalton scolded, his eyes scanning the room for any sign of their suspect.

Williams emerged from behind a towering stack of speaker cabinets, a wild look in his eyes and a tangle of wiry hair framing his face. He barely gave them a glance before launching into an excited tirade.

“Have you ever considered the possibility that extraterrestrial life exists?” Williams asked, gesticulating wildly. “I mean, think about it: there are billions upon billions of stars out there, each one potentially harboring its own planets, its own unique life forms!”

“Uh, Mr. Williams?” Dalton interrupted, raising an eyebrow. “We’re here to talk about Dexter Johnson.”

“Ah, Dexter,” Williams mused, a hint of sadness flickering through his eyes. “He never believed in my cosmic theories. Always too focused on his music to entertain the idea of otherworldly visitors.”

“Can you blame him?” Iggy muttered under his breath, but Dalton shot him a warning look.

“Did you have any contact with Johnson before his death?” Dalton inquired, trying to steer the conversation back on track.

“Unfortunately, no,” Williams sighed. “We had a falling-out over some professional disagreements, but I always hoped we’d bury the hatchet one day.”

“Interesting,” Dalton said, noting Williams’s response.

As they continued to question him, their surroundings seemed to silently testify to Williams’s alien obsession. Alien figurines leered at them from every corner, and posters of far-off galaxies decorated the walls like cosmic wallpaper.

Despite the chaos surrounding them, Dalton couldn’t help but notice how alive Williams was when he spoke about his theories. The man’s passion was infectious, and for a moment, he almost entertained the idea that maybe, just maybe, there was something out there worth discovering.

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Williams,” Dalton said finally, shaking the audio engineer’s hand. “If you think of anything else that might be relevant to our investigation, don’t hesitate to reach out.”

“Of course,” Williams replied, his eyes already drifting back to his equipment. “And if you ever want to discuss the mysteries of the universe, my door is always open.”

“Maybe another day,” Dalton muttered as he led Iggy out of the studio, his mind racing with new questions and possibilities.

“Think he knows something?” Iggy asked, his eyes wary as they glanced back at the studio door.

“Hard to say,” Dalton admitted, his brow furrowing in thought. “But it wouldn’t hurt to keep an eye on him.”

“Agreed,” Iggy nodded, his expression somber. “The killer is still out there, boss. We can’t let them slip through our fingers.”

Dalton’s eyes were drawn to a corner of Williams’s studio, where an intricate blueprint lay partially obscured by a stack of alien-themed books. Curiosity piqued, he edged closer, the dim lighting casting eerie shadows across the paper. The design was complex, a web of circuitry and strange symbols that seemed out of place amidst the extraterrestrial paraphernalia.

“Hey, Iggy,” Dalton murmured, beckoning his partner over. “Take a look at this.”

Iggy squinted at the blueprint, his brow furrowing in confusion. “What is it? Some sort of… sound weapon?”

“Seems like it,” Dalton replied, his pulse quickening. “It might be nothing, but…”

“But what if it’s connected to Johnson’s murder?” Iggy finished for him, his voice barely above a whisper. “We should confront Williams about it.”

“Agreed.” Dalton folded the blueprint carefully and slipped it into his coat pocket. They weren’t leaving without answers.

The duo strode back into the main room, determination painted on their faces. Williams, engrossed in adjusting a telescope, looked up in surprise as they approached.

“Mr. Williams,” Dalton began, his tone even. “We found something interesting in your studio.”

“Did you now?” Williams raised an eyebrow, feigning nonchalance. He glanced at the pocket where Dalton had stashed the blueprint, a flicker of unease crossing his face.

“Care to explain these blueprints?” Dalton demanded, pulling out the paper and unfolding it on a nearby table. “A sound weapon, isn’t it?”

“Ah.” Williams hesitated, then sighed in resignation. “I suppose there’s no use denying it. Yes, I designed a sound weapon. But I assure you, I had nothing to do with Johnson’s death.”

“Then who did?” Iggy pressed, his eyes narrowed. “And why?”

“Look,” Williams said, frustration creeping into his voice. “I was working on a project with Johnson before our falling-out. We wanted to create music that could alter brainwaves and induce deep relaxation. But we hit a dead end, and well… he went his way, and I went mine.”

“Where were you the night of the murder?” Dalton asked, watching Williams closely for any signs of deception.

“Here, in my studio,” Williams replied without hesitation. “I was conducting an experiment, trying to establish contact with extraterrestrial life through sound waves.”

“Anyone who can corroborate your alibi?” Iggy queried, skepticism lacing his words.

“Ask the kids playing basketball down the street,” Williams responded, smirking. “They saw me setting up my equipment on the roof.”

Dalton frowned, his gut telling him that Williams was telling the truth. Yet something didn’t quite add up. The blueprint in front of him seemed too significant to be a mere coincidence. But as he met Williams’s unwavering gaze, he knew they had reached a dead end. For now.

“Let’s go, Iggy,” Dalton muttered, pocketing the blueprint once more. “We’ve got more investigating to do.”

“Right behind you, boss.”

Dalton squinted against the glare of the setting sun as they approached Johnson’s studio, the brickwork casting long shadows across the deserted alleyway. Iggy trailed behind, scratching his stubbled chin in thought.

“Boss,” he said, breaking the silence that had settled between them since leaving Williams’s studio. “Do you really think there’s anything more to find at Johnson’s place?”

“Considering our current dead end, it’s worth a shot,” Dalton replied, unlocking the door and stepping inside the dimly-lit space. “Besides, we’re missing something, I can feel it.”

“Alright then,” Iggy conceded, scanning the room with renewed vigor. “Let’s start digging.”

The pair began scouring the studio, methodically turning over every piece of paper, rifling through drawers, and sifting through piles of discarded sheet music. The room hummed with the memory of Johnson’s genius, the very air seeming to vibrate with pent-up potential.

“Hey, boss?” Iggy called out suddenly, his voice echoing through the cluttered space. “Take a look at this.”

Dalton joined him by a dusty bookshelf, where Iggy was pointing at an out-of-place saxophone nestled among the books. “What about it?”

“Remember how Johnson always performed sideways on stage? Like he was serenading the saxophone?” Iggy asked, his eyes gleaming. “I’ve got a hunch.”

“Go on,” Dalton urged, intrigued by Iggy’s sudden intensity.

“Watch this.” Iggy carefully reached for the saxophone and gave it a gentle tug. To their astonishment, the entire bookshelf swung open, revealing a hidden room beyond.

“Great work, Iggy!” Dalton exclaimed, stepping into the secret chamber. “Who knew Johnson’s fear of microphones would lead us here?”

“Sometimes, it pays to think sideways, boss,” Iggy quipped, following him inside.

The hidden room was a treasure trove of peculiar musical instruments, their shapes and materials unlike anything Dalton had ever seen. In the corner, an odd-looking device caught his attention: it resembled a twisted fusion of a trumpet and a futuristic keyboard. The walls were lined with books on music theory, acoustics, and even paranormal phenomena.

“Johnson was onto something big,” Dalton murmured, his mind racing to piece together the puzzle. “Something that might have gotten him killed.”

“Let’s keep digging, boss,” Iggy said, determination etched across his face. “We’re not leaving until we find what we came for.”

Dalton nodded in agreement, feeling a renewed sense of purpose. They delved deeper into Johnson’s hidden world, each new discovery bringing them closer to unraveling the truth behind the jazz legend’s untimely demise.

Dalton’s eyes locked onto a tattered sheet of music resting atop an antique piano. His heart raced as he recognized the peculiar notations scribbled across the worn parchment. He snatched it up, his fingers trembling with anticipation.

“Look at this, Iggy,” Dalton said, barely able to contain his excitement. “These notes, they match the frequency of the weapon that killed Johnson.”

“Are you sure?” Iggy asked, his voice laced with disbelief.

“Absolutely,” Dalton confirmed, examining the music sheet more closely. “It’s uncanny. These notes, when played together, could produce the exact sound wave needed to commit the murder.”

“Then we’ve found our killer, boss!” Iggy exclaimed, clapping him on the back. “All we have to do is find out who wrote this music.”

“Exactly,” Dalton mused, his mind racing with possibilities. “But something’s off. It’s too easy, almost like…”

“Like someone wanted us to find it,” Iggy finished, his eyes narrowing. “You think we’re being played?”

“Maybe,” Dalton admitted, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “Or perhaps the answer lies deeper within these notes. We need to analyze this music and see if there are any hidden messages or clues.”

“Sounds like a plan, boss,” Iggy agreed, his brow furrowed in concentration. “I’ll grab some of those music theory books from the shelf; maybe we can crack this code together.”

“Good idea,” Dalton replied, carefully rolling up the sheet of music. “We’re so close now, Iggy. I can feel it.”

As the duo delved into the cryptic sheet music, Dalton couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that they were overlooking something crucial. Time was running out, and their window to catch Johnson’s killer was shrinking by the minute. But with each new clue they unearthed, the path to justice grew clearer, driving them forward with a burning resolve.

“Whoever wrote this music,” Dalton vowed, his voice steely and determined, “isn’t getting away with murder.”

Three

Dalton stood over the table, his eyes scanning the mysterious sheet music. The notes seemed to dance across the page like a twisted melody, taunting him with their secrets. He furrowed his brow, determined to crack the code.

“Any luck yet?” Iggy asked from across the room, his voice tinged with impatience.

“Quiet,” Dalton snapped, his focus unwavering. “I need to concentrate.”

Iggy rolled his eyes but complied, sinking into an armchair and leafing through a tattered jazz magazine. He tried not to let his frustration show, but it was getting harder by the minute.

Dalton’s gaze darted between the sheet music and the various documents spread across the table – newspaper clippings, photographs, interview transcripts. It all pointed to one thing: the killer they were after had a deep connection to the jazz world.

“Wait a minute,” he muttered, squinting at a cluster of notes in the corner of the page. “That’s odd…”

“What is it, boss?” Iggy asked, sitting up straighter.

“Look at this pattern here,” Dalton said, pointing at the intricate arrangement of sharps and flats that formed a hidden message. “If I’m reading this correctly, it spells out a name.”

“Whose name?” Iggy leaned over the table, excitement bubbling inside him.

“Ella… Ella ‘Nightbird’ Simmons,” Dalton replied, his voice dripping with certainty. “She’s our next lead.”

“Nightbird,” Iggy mused, scratching his chin. “I’ve heard of her. Sultry voice, enchanting stage presence. But why would she be involved in all this?”

“Good question.” Dalton frowned, a storm brewing behind his steely blue eyes. “We’ll have to find out.”

“Maybe she’s tied to the victims in some way? A former lover, a jealous rival?” Iggy suggested, his mind racing with possibilities.

“Or perhaps there’s more to her than meets the eye,” Dalton countered, already piecing together fragments of information in his head. “But one thing’s for sure – she’s the key to unlocking this twisted musical puzzle.”

“Alright then, boss,” Iggy said, standing up and cracking his knuckles. “Let’s go pay Miss Nightbird a visit.”

As they moved toward the door, Dalton couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling that had settled in his gut. There was something about Ella Simmons – something dangerous, something deadly. And as much as he tried to suppress it, a nagging voice in the back of his mind told him that they were walking straight into the lion’s den.

“Be prepared for anything, Iggy,” Dalton warned, his hand on the doorknob. “We’re about to step onto a stage where the curtain has only just begun to rise.”

The door creaked open, revealing a cacophony of squawks and feathers. Dalton’s eyes darted around the room, taking in the sight of exotic birds perched on every available surface – canaries, parakeets, even a toucan preening its glossy beak.

“Quite a collection,” Iggy muttered, brushing past Dalton to enter Ella Simmons’s home. “I knew she had a thing for birds, but this is something else entirely.”

“Indeed,” Dalton agreed, scanning the room with a detective’s trained eye. A slender woman stood by the window, her raven hair cascading down her back as she crooned softly to a vibrant macaw. It was Ella, the Nightbird herself. As she turned to face them, her sultry voice melted into an icy smile. “Detective Dalton, I presume? And your trusty sidekick, Iggy?”

“Miss Simmons,” Dalton replied, tipping his fedora. “We have some questions for you.”

“Of course,” she said, her dark eyes glinting with mischief. “But first, let me introduce you to my friends. This is Azul,” She gestured toward the macaw, who tilted its head curiously. “And over there is Cleo.” A striking African Grey parrot fluttered its wings in response.

“Charming,” Dalton said, struggling to keep his impatience in check. “But we’re not here to discuss your… hobbies. We found some sheet music that led us to you.”

“Ah, yes,” Ella purred, stroking Azul’s vibrant feathers. “My little secret. You see, birdsong has always been my muse. Their melodies inspire me, help me reach those impossible high notes. But what does this have to do with your investigation, detective?”

“Two people are dead, Miss Simmons,” Iggy interjected, his voice tense. “And we think this music – and possibly you – are connected.”

“Me?” Ella feigned surprise, her eyes widening dramatically. “But I’m just a singer, Detective. What could I possibly have to do with such heinous acts?”

“Perhaps more than you’re letting on,” Dalton said, narrowing his eyes. He couldn’t shake the feeling that she was hiding something, that beneath her melodious facade lay a darker, more sinister truth.

“Listen, Miss Simmons,” Iggy growled, clenching his fists. “We know about your relationship with Johnson. We know how it ended.”

“Ah,” Ella sighed, her gaze drifting toward the window. “Johnson. That man had a way of making people feel… insignificant. It’s no wonder someone would want him dead.”

“Are you saying you didn’t?” Dalton asked, his voice dangerously low. He could feel the pieces beginning to fall into place, the image of Ella Simmons shifting from sultry songbird to vengeful killer.

“Detective,” Ella replied, her tone dripping with condescension. “I am an artist, not a murderer. But perhaps you should be looking closer at those who felt threatened by Johnson’s success – or even those who envied his genius.”

“Or maybe,” Dalton said, his jaw set, “we should be looking at the woman who once loved him and now surrounds herself with creatures capable of deadly mimicry.”

“Careful, Detective,” Ella warned, her eyes narrowing to dangerous slits. “You’re treading on thin ice.”

“Then let’s hope it holds,” Dalton countered, his resolve unwavering. As he stared into Ella’s dark, fathomless eyes, he knew they had found their prime suspect. And as the air in the room grew thick with tension, the haunting melodies of Ella’s exotic birds echoed around them – a chilling reminder of the deadly secret they had uncovered.

Dalton and Iggy stood outside Ella’s house, the cacophony of exotic bird calls fading behind them. The air was thick with doubt and suspicion, but they needed more – a concrete link between Simmons and Johnson’s murder.

“Alright, let’s think,” Iggy began, raking his fingers through his hair. “We know she had motive, but we need something solid.”

“Something that connects her to the murders,” Dalton mused, ice-blue eyes narrowed in concentration.

“Exactly,” Iggy replied. He glanced up at the ever-darkening sky, as if searching for answers in the swirling clouds above. “Maybe we should look into their past relationship. There might be something there.”

“Good idea,” Dalton agreed, already pulling out his phone to scour the internet for information. “We need to dig deeper.”

“Hey, Dalton –” Iggy waved his own phone excitedly. “Check this out. An old newspaper article about Simmons and Johnson performing together. It says they used to be quite the power couple on the jazz scene.”

“Until he left her,” Dalton added, his brow furrowing as he read the article over Iggy’s shoulder. “That must have been… what? Two years ago?”

“Yep,” Iggy confirmed. “And check out this quote from Johnson: ‘Ella has an incredible voice, but our creative visions didn’t align.’ Ouch.”

“Indeed,” Dalton muttered, pocketing his phone. “Enough to spark a murderous rage, perhaps?”

“Could be,” Iggy conceded. “But we still need more.”

“Exactly,” Dalton said, his frustration mounting. “There must be something we’ve missed. Some connection. But what is it?”

“Hey, don’t worry, partner,” Iggy reassured him, clapping him on the back. “We’ll find it. We always do.”

“Right,” Dalton sighed, his determination renewed. “Let’s start by talking to some of Johnson’s former colleagues. Maybe someone saw something – or heard something – that could help us.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Iggy agreed, already heading toward their car. “You drive; I’ll keep searching for more info on their past relationship.”

“Deal,” Dalton said, sliding into the driver’s seat. As they sped off into the night, he couldn’t shake the feeling that they were on the verge of uncovering a dark and twisted secret – one that would lead them straight to the heart of Johnson’s murder.

“Something tells me,” he thought, his grip tightening on the steering wheel, “that we’re getting close to cracking this case wide open.”

The sun dipped behind the horizon, casting long shadows on the street as Dalton and Iggy parked their car in front of Ella Simmons’s house. The sound of exotic birds chattering filled the air, an audible reminder of her peculiar passion for winged creatures. Dalton couldn’t help but shudder at the thought of what secrets those birds might hold.

“Alright,” Dalton said, gripping the steering wheel tighter. “We need to dig deeper into Simmons’s personal life. There must be something we’re missing.”

“Agreed,” Iggy replied, pulling out his notepad. “Let’s start with her family, friends, anyone who could give us some insight into her motivations.”

“Good idea.” Dalton stepped out of the car, his eyes locked on the colorful parrot perched atop a nearby tree. “I’ll take the lead. You keep an eye out for anything suspicious.”

“Roger that,” Iggy responded, adjusting his sunglasses as he scanned the area.

The pair approached the house, its vibrant exterior reflecting Ella’s eccentricities. As they knocked on the door, Dalton braced himself for the unknown. He could feel the weight of this case bearing down on him, pushing him to find answers.

“Miss Simmons?” Dalton called through the door after a moment’s silence. “Detectives Dalton and Iggy, we’d like to ask you a few questions regarding your past relationship with Johnson.”

“Come in,” a sultry voice beckoned from within. The door creaked open, revealing a dimly lit room filled with birdcages and the mesmerizing scent of flowers. Ella stood in the center, wearing a blood-red dress that fluttered like a hummingbird’s wings.

“Quite the collection you have here,” Dalton remarked, trying to maintain focus as he glanced around. “Can you explain your connection to these birds?”

“Each one has a story,” Ella purred, her eyes gleaming with a mixture of pride and sorrow. “Much like my relationship with Johnson. But I’m sure you’re not here for that.”

“Actually, we are,” Iggy said bluntly, startling Dalton with his directness. “We need to know more about your motives, Miss Simmons. Your past with Johnson may hold the key to solving his murder.”

Ella’s eyes darkened. “I loved him once, but things change. People change.”

“Change enough to kill?” Dalton asked, watching her closely.

“Detective, you don’t know what it’s like to be overshadowed by someone you love,” Ella retorted, stroking a caged finch. “To feel your dreams slipping through your fingers. That kind of pain can drive a person mad.”

“Sounds like motive to me,” Iggy muttered under his breath.

“Let’s not jump to conclusions just yet,” Dalton cautioned, his mind racing. He knew they were close, but something was still amiss. “What about the sheet music? The deadly frequency?”

“Johnson’s obsession,” Ella scoffed. “He believed he could unlock the secrets of the universe through sound. But it cost him everything.”

“Could it have cost him his life?” Dalton inquired, feeling the pieces of the puzzle falling into place.

“Maybe,” Ella conceded, her voice barely a whisper. “But if it did, it wasn’t me who ended him. I swear.”

“Alright,” Dalton sighed, unconvinced. “We’ll be in touch if we have any more questions.”

“Please do,” Ella replied, her voice once again dripping with seductive charm. “I’m always happy to help.”

As they left the house, Dalton couldn’t shake the nagging sensation that they were on the verge of uncovering something monumental. The truth lurked just beneath the surface, waiting for them to find it.

“Keep digging, partner,” he thought as they drove away. “We’re close. So damn close.”

Dalton stared at the sheet music, the notes seeming to dance across the page as he tried to decipher their meaning. Iggy leaned over his shoulder, humming each line in an attempt to unlock the deadly frequency.

“Think, man,” Dalton muttered, his brow furrowing. “If we can predict Simmons’s next move, we might be able to stop her before she strikes again.”

“Maybe there’s a pattern in the music?” Iggy suggested, tapping his fingers against the table in rhythm. “Something that’ll tell us where she’ll go next.”

“Or who she’ll target,” Dalton added grimly, recalling Ella’s envy of Johnson and her thirst for the spotlight.

“Wait a second,” Iggy said, his voice rising in excitement. “What if she’s trying to take out anyone who stands in her way? Anyone who could overshadow her?”

“Like a vengeful Nightbird,” Dalton mused, the image of Ella’s exotic birds flitting through his mind. “But how do we know who’s next?”

“Maybe it’s someone close to Johnson. Someone who shared his passion for music and innovation,” Iggy offered, his eyes sparking with determination.

“Or someone who knew about his secret studio,” Dalton pondered aloud, remembering the hidden room filled with cutting-edge technology and experimental instruments.

Just then, Dalton’s phone buzzed insistently in his pocket, jarring him from his thoughts. He fished the device out and squinted at the screen, his heart skipping a beat.

“An anonymous tip,” he breathed, barely able to contain his disbelief. “It says Simmons was spotted entering Johnson’s secret studio.”

“Are you sure it’s legit?” Iggy asked, his eyes wide with surprise. “Could be a setup.”

“Could be,” Dalton agreed, his mind racing. “But it’s too big a lead to ignore. We need to get there now.”

“Let’s roll,” Iggy replied, already halfway to the door. “We can’t let her slip through our fingers.”

As they sped towards Johnson’s studio, Dalton couldn’t help but feel a tingling sense of unease. The puzzle pieces were beginning to fit together almost too perfectly. Was this really the end of the line for Ella “Nightbird” Simmons, or was the true mastermind still lurking in the shadows, waiting to strike?

“Stay sharp, partner,” he thought, his grip tightening on the steering wheel. “This game may be far from over.”

Four

Dalton Drill’s eyes narrowed as he traced the edge of a newspaper clipping, his mind racing with possibilities. “We confront Simmons tonight,” he declared, snapping the piece of paper down onto the cluttered desk.

“Tonight?” Iggy Diaz quirked an eyebrow, leaning back in his chair. A flicker of concern danced across his face, but he quickly masked it with a grin. “Well, I always did love a good showdown at sundown.”

“Enough with the theatrics, Iggy,” Dalton muttered, rolling his eyes. He held up the newspaper article, pointing to the bold headline: “Ella Simmons: Jazz Sensation Performs Live Tonight!” “This is our chance to catch her before she strikes again.”

“Alright, boss,” Iggy said, nodding. “So, what’s the plan? We sneak backstage, grab Simmons by the feathers, and ask her politely to stop killing people?”

“Something like that,” Dalton replied dryly. He drummed his fingers on the desk, his thoughts playing out like scenes from a film noir. “She’s using Johnson’s frequency tech to create a deadly weapon disguised as music. We need to find proof, and we need to stop her.”

“Got it,” Iggy agreed, straightening up. The humor melted away, replaced by steely determination. “Let’s do this.”

***

The night air was thick with anticipation as Dalton and Iggy trailed Ella Simmons through the bustling streets of Chicago. Her brightly colored parrot perched on her shoulder, its feathers shimmering under the streetlights. She moved with a grace that belied her sinister intentions, her hips swaying seductively to the rhythm of her own deadly melody.

“Stay close, but not too close,” Dalton whispered to Iggy, his eyes never leaving their target. “We can’t risk alerting her.”

“Right behind you, boss,” Iggy murmured, his gaze darting around the crowded sidewalk. He could feel the weight of their mission pressing down on him, but he pushed it aside. This was too important to let fear take control.

As they followed Simmons through the city, Dalton’s mind raced with thoughts of the deadly frequency, the lives that had already been lost. He couldn’t shake the image of the last victim, a young musician whose life had been cruelly cut short by Ella’s twisted revenge. The guilt gnawed at him, and he silently vowed to bring her to justice – for the victims, for Johnson, and for himself.

“Almost there,” Iggy breathed, echoing Dalton’s determination.

Simmons turned a corner, disappearing into the shadowy entrance of The Sapphire Room – the illustrious jazz club where she would perform her final act. The crimson velvet curtains inside seemed to pulse with anticipation, as though they knew what was about to unfold on that stage.

“Showtime,” Dalton muttered, and together, he and Iggy slipped inside, ready to confront the murderous songstress and end her reign of terror once and for all.

The dimly-lit backstage area of The Sapphire Room was a stark contrast to the bright and bustling Chicago streets outside. Dalton’s pulse quickened as he stood against the wall, his eyes darting between Ella Simmons and the stage entrance. Iggy, ever the master of blending in, had managed to secure them entry, posing as a waiter carrying a tray of champagne flutes.

“Boss,” Iggy whispered, sidling up to Dalton. “What’s the plan?”

“Simple,” Dalton replied, his voice low and tense. “We let her start her performance, then we make our move.” He clenched his fists, his knuckles whitening. “When she hits that deadly frequency, we intervene.”

“Got it,” Iggy nodded, his fingers nervously tapping the edge of the tray. “I just hope we’re not too late to save anyone else from her twisted musical vendetta.”

“Me too, Iggy,” Dalton murmured, watching as Ella’s exotic parrot fluttered its wings on her shoulder, seeming to sense the impending confrontation.

“Places, everyone!” called the stage manager, and Ella swept past them with a haughty smile, her sultry voice warming up like a well-oiled machine.

“Stay sharp, Iggy,” Dalton ordered, his gaze never leaving Ella as she strode onto the stage. His heart hammered in his chest, sweat beading on his brow despite the coolness of the room. This was it – the moment they had been working toward for weeks.

“Always am, boss,” Iggy replied, but his usual grin was replaced by a tight-lipped expression of concern.

As the velvet curtains parted and the spotlight fell upon Ella, Dalton felt a strange mix of anticipation and dread knotting in his stomach. He could hear the audience’s collective gasp at her mesmerizing beauty, the spell she cast over them all with just a single note.

“Damn it,” Dalton muttered under his breath. “How can someone so talented be so twisted?”

“Love and jealousy, boss,” Iggy replied, his eyes never leaving Ella on stage. “They make people do crazy things.”

“Let’s just hope we can stop her before she claims another victim,” Dalton said, gritting his teeth as the music swelled around them.

Ella Simmons stood beneath the stage lights, her raven hair cascading around her face like a waterfall, framing her captivating eyes. The audience held their breath as she raised the microphone to her lips, and her sultry voice weaved its way through the melody.

“Stay focused,” Dalton whispered through clenched teeth, his eyes fixed on Ella’s every move. Iggy nodded silently, the tension in the air almost palpable.

“Remember, boss, we’re looking for anything unusual,” Iggy said, scanning the stage with an eagle eye.

“Right,” Dalton responded, his heart pounding against his ribcage.

The music built toward the crescendo, Ella’s voice soaring higher and higher. Her parrot, perched on the piano, seemed to be entranced as well, swaying along with the rhythm.

“Something’s off,” Dalton muttered, his brow furrowing. “Her hand… it keeps drifting towards her left ear.”

“Maybe it’s just a nervous habit?” Iggy suggested, but his voice trailed off uncertainly.

“Or maybe that’s how she triggers the deadly frequency,” Dalton countered, his gut instincts screaming at him that they were on the cusp of catching her red-handed.

“Are you sure about this, boss?” Iggy asked hesitantly. “I mean, it’s a big accusation.”

“Trust me, Iggy,” Dalton replied, determination etched across his face. “We’ve come too far to back down now.”

“Alright then,” Iggy agreed, steeling himself for what was to come. “Let’s do it.”

“Wait for my signal,” Dalton instructed, watching Ella like a hawk.

As the song reached its climax, Ella’s hand moved towards her ear once more, her fingers poised above her earlobe. This time, however, she hesitated, her gaze darting nervously around the room.

“Something’s wrong,” Dalton said, his pulse quickening. “She knows we’re onto her.”

“Then we can’t wait any longer!” Iggy cried out, and with a nod from Dalton, the two investigators leaped into action.

“Stop the music!” Dalton yelled, cutting through Ella’s final note. Gasps echoed through the room as the spotlight swung towards the duo, their faces set in determined grimaces.

“Miss Simmons,” Dalton announced, “you’ve played your last deadly tune.”

Ella’s voice soared to dizzying heights, the sultry notes weaving their spell over the entranced audience. Dalton’s eyes remained fixed on her fingers, hovering near her left ear, waiting for the telltale signal.

“Get ready,” he whispered to Iggy, who nodded nervously. The tension in the room tightened like a coiled spring, ready to snap.

“Here it comes,” Dalton muttered as Ella’s hand moved toward her earlobe and she let out an eerie, dissonant sound. The deadly frequency had begun.

“Jesus, it’s happening,” Iggy exclaimed, his heart pounding in his chest.

“Stay calm,” Dalton urged, fighting to keep his own panic at bay. “We can still stop this.”

Their gazes locked onto Ella, they watched as her eyes widened in shocked realization. She clutched at her throat, her song abruptly silenced as she staggered backward. The room filled with gasps, confusion rippling through the crowd like a tidal wave.

“Simmons!” Dalton shouted, leaping onto the stage, Iggy close behind. “What have you done?”

“Can’t… breathe…” Ella choked out, her face contorted in agony. Her brilliant parrot squawked wildly from its perch on a nearby speaker, sensing its mistress’s distress.

“Boss, we gotta help her!” Iggy cried out, torn between wanting justice and saving a life.

“Dammit,” Dalton cursed under his breath, the cruel irony not lost on him. He tore a piece of fabric from one of the stage curtains and wrapped it around Ella’s throat, applying pressure to counteract the effects of the lethal soundwave. “Iggy, call an ambulance!”

“Right away, boss.” Iggy fumbled with his phone, sweat beading on his brow as he dialed emergency services.

The haunting silence that followed was punctuated only by Ella’s labored breathing and the audience’s whispered murmurs. The once mesmerizing song had transformed into a tragic melody, its allure shattered.

“Simmons,” Dalton growled, his voice dripping with contempt as he cradled her limp form in his arms. “You were willing to kill for your vengeance, and now you’ve fallen prey to your own weapon. What do you have to say for yourself?”

“Johnson…” she wheezed, tears streaming down her cheeks. “I just wanted… to be heard.”

“Save your breath,” Dalton bit out, his sympathy running thin. “You’ll have plenty of time to explain yourself to the authorities.”

As the wail of sirens approached, Dalton couldn’t help but feel a pang of pity for Ella Simmons – a woman whose love for music had been twisted into something dark and deadly. But justice would prevail, and the show must go on.

The blaring sirens faded into the distance, leaving only the quiet whispers of the crowd as a backdrop to the unfolding scene. Dalton’s nostrils flared, his jaw set in determination. He could feel the weight of anticipation pressing down upon him as he scanned the room, searching for the one who had manipulated Simmons’s deadly scheme from behind the scenes.

“Everyone stay put!” Iggy’s voice rang out, commanding the attention of the audience. “We’re not done here yet.”

As if on cue, a figure emerged from the shadows near the back of the stage, trembling hands raised in surrender. The man, clad in a shabby coat and worn fedora, looked like a caricature of a jazz musician fallen from grace.

“Please,” he stammered, tears streaming down his cheeks. “I never meant for anyone to get hurt, least of all Ella.”

“Who are you?” Dalton demanded, eyes narrowing in suspicion. His mind raced with possibilities, trying to piece together the final elements of this twisted puzzle.

“Name’s Benny,” the man choked out, swallowing hard. “Benny Kowalski. I was Johnson’s sound engineer, and I… I helped Ella with the frequency.”

“Of course,” Dalton muttered under his breath, his keen intuition connecting the dots. “You were close to both Simmons and Johnson. You knew their secrets, their desires. You helped Ella exact her revenge, but when it came time to end it all, your conscience got the better of you.”

“Y-yes,” Benny admitted, shoulders slumped in defeat. “I couldn’t let her go through with it. Not after everything that’s happened. So, I rigged the equipment to play the deadly frequency during her performance, hoping it would stop her. But I never wanted her to die!”

“Her death is on your hands too, Benny” Iggy chimed in, his voice tinged with disgust. “You played a part in this sick game.”

“Enough!” Dalton barked, cutting through the tension like a knife. “Benny, you will face the consequences for your actions. But let us not forget that Ella Simmons was driven by a twisted passion for revenge. She allowed her love for music to become something dark and deadly, and now she has paid the ultimate price.”

“Damn,” Iggy sighed, shaking his head in disbelief. “This whole thing’s been one hell of a swan song.”

“Indeed,” Dalton agreed solemnly, staring at the lifeless body of Ella Simmons. The parrot on her shoulder squawked mournfully, as if echoing the sentiment. “But justice will be served, and the truth will be revealed. That’s what we do, Iggy. We uncover the secrets buried beneath the surface and bring them into the light.”

“Couldn’t have said it better myself, boss,” Iggy replied, clapping Dalton on the back. Together, they watched as Benny Kowalski was led away in handcuffs – another broken soul caught in the web of ambition, betrayal, and vengeance.

The curtain closed on the tragic tale of Ella Simmons, her voice forever silenced by her own deadly melody.