Heavens Alley - Chapter 3: Connecting dots

7:00 AM 
301 B, Oak-bridge apartments, Jester Street, Heavens Alley.

Keep your eyes on the road your hands upon the wheeeaall... rang the cheap Motorola V365 on the bed side table. A groggy Amora Rey reached out for it, cursing loudly into the silence of the morning. She was not a morning person, and only the brave dared call her before 10 am. Her boss, Greg Kingsley was one such soul, although there were days, and he would never admit this, when even he was terrified of Amora.

Greg Kingsley ran a publishing house which delivered "Heavens Messenger" every morning to the sleepy residents of Heavens Alley. It was the highest selling newspaper in the city and rightly so, for Kingsley was an ethical man who swore to publish news that mattered, and not pages riddled with advertisements like his adversaries did. Kingsley was a large man, by radius and not by length. He was just over 5' 5", and the years of devouring doughnuts at his desk left him with a rather enormous paunch. He was balding around the crown of his head, and like most men who reach the age of 58, didn't care too much about appearances. Amora Rey was his top journalist. Her fierce and devil may care attitude was not liked by most of her colleagues but it seemed to rattle witnesses and perpetrators alike, enough to get true and unmitigated statements, and she could weave these into golden stories for the paper. This quality of hers made her Kingsley's favourite.

"Jesus Christ Greg do you know what time it is? It's too early to be calling o'clock!!". Even Kingsley wasn't spared her wrath. "Amora they have found another body." Amora bolted upright, and asked "Jane doe?". "No, we have an ID. How soon can you be here?", enquired Kingsley. "I'm moving now. Text me the location", she said and shut the flap of her outdated Motorola. She didn't care for pleasantries.

There was a reason for this brash behaviour. Amora Rey was born and raised in Whitechapel, London. She spent most of her childhood by the banks of river Thames with a pencil and a notebook, penning stories her beautifully colourful mind conjured. Most kids her age were at the playground, but she had difficulties making friends. She was tom boyish in nature and the snobs at Patricks primary independent school looked down at her with condescension. This only made her hate her peers more and in turn the wall around her only grew higher and thicker. When she passed out of university, with a masters degree in journalism, she had been in four fights, beaten up three boys, two girls and spent a night in jail. She had also grown to be a boldly beautiful woman. She stood tall at 5' 9" and was lean from the Pilates training she attended thrice a week. This also ensured she could land a mean kick. She had a flair for the lurid, which was evident by the purple coloured bob cut hair. She had a pretty face, small wide eyes, a thin long nose and full lips. Her reputation as a recluse denied her a job close to home, and she decided a change of landscape is what she needed. She bid good bye to her parents and to river Thames, and set of to a new country and a new city. Heavens Alley welcomed her with open arms.

Amora reached Leyfreed street in thirty minutes. It was unusually crisp this morning and she felt chilly. She regretted not having brought her sweater. She flashed her badge and a warm smile to the guarding officer who let her past the restricted boundary protected by yellow tape. There were a dozen other reporters and journalists hovering over one spot, and Amora assumed this was where the body lay and moved towards it. She spotted Kingsley as she got closer and approached him. "What do we have here Greg?" They had built a cosy rapport for her to address him by name without offending him. Kingsley summarized "27 year old female, no physical injuries, no visible wounds, death by cardiovascular distress. A passer-by spotted the body and called the cops. The coroner just announced his analysis, an open and shut case. Something sent her heart into overdrive causing arteries to burst, killing her in minutes." "Did you say minutes???" exclaimed Amora. "Yes. Minutes. She squirmed in pain for minutes as her heart literally bled out", Kingsley answered. "You said we've identified her", said Amora. Kingsley looked at her. She wasn't phased by the dead woman in front of her. He answered, "Yes. Her name is Wendy Brisslman."

Amora spoke to the cops and the passer-by who found the body. It didn't take long, as no one really knew what had transpired. She decided to walk back home. She had collected all the information she needed to write up a frontline story. There was a nagging feeling at the back of her head and a walk is what she needed to put her doubts into perspective. This was the fifth death she had covered that was caused by sudden cardiovascular distress. Among the past ones, three were women and one was a man, all young and healthy, as indicated  by their medical records. Yet their hearts gave in. This was one death too many to be a co-incidence. Something did not add up. "Hey Rey, join us for a drink doll", yelled Stan, a rival journalist. His friends howled with laughter at his snide remark. "Bugger off to your fat mom you ugly toad", replied Amora, gesticulating with her middle finger up. Stan was thrown back by the insult and whimpered off. She had to go home and finish her article. But after that, she was going to look in to these deaths. Or were they murders? A chill ran up her spine, and this time it wasn't the weather. Greg had said something about a message on Wendy's phone. The last message she sent, one to a friend: Going for drinks with Eric from work, I'll tell you about him when I'm back. Stay up!! xoxoxo. 

Eric was her first lead.

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