Chapter 5 Nostalgia

Charlie stood before the towering glass doors of the Ontario City Precinct, hands buried deep in his coat pockets, eyes squinting against the low morning sun. The sleek steel and glass structure hadn't changed much since he last walked through those doors-but he had. He could feel it in the way his steps slowed, in the hesitation lingering in his chest. Still, the case had begun. Mr. Babel's disappearance was now his responsibility, and for half a million dollars, Charlie wasn't going to leave any stone unturned.

He stepped inside.

The scent of bleach, old paper, and burnt coffee hit him all at once-a cocktail of institutional comfort he hadn't smelled in years. The lobby was bright with early light filtering through skylights, but Charlie didn't notice the architecture. What he noticed was the stir.

Heads turned. Officers nudged one another. A young rookie-barely twenty-two by the look of him-nearly spilled his coffee as he jumped to attention. Charlie gave a small, wry smile. He wasn't just a ghost from the past. Around here, he was a legend with unfinished stories.

"Bateman?" a voice called.

Charlie turned and saw a round-faced sergeant with a bushy mustache grinning from the reception desk. "Holy hell. Charlie Bateman. As I live and breathe!"

"Still breathing, Hal," Charlie said as they shook hands.

"Barely, with the crap this job puts us through," Hal laughed. "What brings the prodigal detective back to the house?"

"Business," Charlie replied. "And maybe a little nostalgia."

Hal waved him through the security checkpoint with a pat on the back. "You've still got the clearance. Go on up. I think Jack's in."

Charlie nodded his thanks and walked deeper into the building, ignoring the familiar pang in his gut. Every corridor brought a memory. Every door reminded him of a case. Every face-older now-carried a hint of the past. And then, as he reached the third floor, he paused.

The smell of gun oil hit him.

He turned his head and saw the small brass plaque on a door: Room 312 – Detective Unit. His old stomping ground.

He stepped inside.

"Holy crap, Charlie Bateman?" came a voice that had once been a daily comfort to him.

Detective Jack Morelli stood by his desk, older, broader, but still wearing the same brown suspenders and crooked tie. His hair had turned more silver than gray, but his eyes still held that same fire.

"Didn't think I'd see you here without a subpoena," Jack joked, stepping forward for a bear hug.

"I came voluntarily. Miracle, huh?"

They laughed and exchanged the kind of shoulder slaps only former partners could get away with.

"Sit, sit," Jack said, waving him to a chair and collapsing into his own. "Still chasing shadows?"

"More like ghosts with trust funds," Charlie replied. "You got a minute? I need your help."

Jack leaned back, arms folded. "Always. What's up?"

Charlie exhaled slowly and leaned forward. "I'm working a case. Missing person. High-profile. Name's Jonathan Babel."

Jack's brow twitched. "The Babel? Real estate tycoon, hangs out with prime ministers and Hollywood types?"

"That's the one. His wife came to me. Said he's missing, no activity on his accounts, no communication. She's convinced something's off."

Jack gave a low whistle. "That family's got enough money to buy silence. You sure she's not playing you?"

"I considered it. But she paid half a mil up front. That kind of desperation isn't for show."

Jack whistled again, louder this time. "Damn, Bateman. You got yourself a whale."

Charlie didn't laugh. "I need a favor. Want to know if he's left the country in the last 24 hours. Flight records, customs data-whatever you can find."

Jack tilted his head, nodding. "Give me a sec."

He turned to his desktop, clacked away at the keys, and opened a secure channel to the national database. The screen scrolled through flights, passenger manifests, airport security logs.

They waited in silence.

As the minutes ticked by, Charlie let his gaze drift around the room. It had changed slightly-new posters, different furniture-but it still smelled the same. Like sweat, ink, and adrenaline. And it still carried the ghost of the worst day of his life.

Jack glanced at him. "You good?"

Charlie didn't respond right away.

Instead, his eyes settled on the framed photo behind Jack's desk. It was old-faded now-but it showed three people: Charlie, Jack, and-

"Eliza," he whispered.

Jack followed his gaze. His expression softened. "She'd have liked to see you walk back in here."

Charlie nodded slowly, his throat tight. "She should've walked out of that warehouse."

"None of that was your fault."

Charlie looked down at his hands, memories flashing like stills from a tragedy he could never edit. "Tell that to her mother. Or mine."

Jack didn't press. He knew better than anyone what that day did to Charlie. The explosion, the fire, the screaming. Eliza had died in the line of duty-his partner, his best friend-and Charlie had never forgiven himself for not pulling her out fast enough.

"Got something," Jack said finally, breaking the silence.

Charlie leaned forward.

"Gregory Babel took a flight to Singapore," Jack said. "Private jet. Left about a month ago. No record of him returning. No recorded departures since then, either. Nothing from Pearson, Billy Bishop, or the Montreal terminals."

"So if he left, he didn't use a legal route."

"Or he didn't leave at all."

Charlie stood, mind already racing. "Then I need to talk to Veronica again. There's something she's not telling me."

Jack rose too, walking Charlie to the door.

"Hey," he said, hand on the frame. "I meant what I said earlier. Be careful. These rich folks? They're a different breed. They lie with smiles, they pay with threats, and they always have someone to clean up their mess."

Charlie nodded. "I'll keep my eyes open."

Jack gave him one last pat on the back. "You still got it, Bateman. Just don't let your past get in the way of your future."

Charlie gave a tight smile. "I'm not even sure I have either."

With that, he stepped out into the hallway, the precinct echoing behind him.