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It’s barely 9 in the morning, and Ema is already knees-deep in a crime scene.
Usually she’d be over the moon - early or not, science is science! - but this specific murder is ugly to say the least.
The five-star hotel room is an absolute disaster. A large black suitcase is lying empty on the bed, it’s frame suggesting that it’s either been through some very rough trips or someone has been kicking it violently. The contents of said suitcase are scattered everywhere; Ema keeps catching glances of new ones every time she moves to another angle.
Someone, she thinks almost unnecessarily, was very angry.
And, in the middle of it all, is the body of the victim. According to the information she was given, he was forty-two years old and three times married. There’s no broken skin from what she can tell, but his arms are dotted in bruises where his sleeves expose the skin.
An interesting case, but Ema is already finding herself exhausted with it because the murderer was smart. Whether they wore gloves, or used a garment and took it with them, she doesn’t know, but there’s not a fingerprint to be seen besides the victim’s.
She’s in the middle of pondering some crushed sections of the plush carpeting in the shape of semicircles (a wheeled bag, maybe?) when an annoyingly familiar voice slices her focus in two.
“Anything helpful in here, Fraulein Detective?”
She groans, but doesn’t expend any more energy on degrading him now.
Of course, Klavier Gavin is not easily deterred. Footsteps sound until they’re clearly in the doorframe.
She sighs. “What do you want, glimmerous fop?”
He laughs. “Relax, Fraulein. I simply came to see what you’ve unearthed. I am prosecuting, you know.”
She snorts. “Well, don’t disturb anything. The scene can’t be tampered with, unless you want to find yourself in prison.” She pauses. “On second thought, get some handprints on the body, will you?”
Another snort sounds behind her. “Ach, you’re more resourceful than you look.”
After a quiet moment, she hears his breath hitch. She’s about to question it when he breathes, “What a mess.”
Ema huffs. “Tell me about it. Someone in this room had a field day with this guy’s luggage.”
Klavier’s steps begin again, though unsteadily this time. She looks up to find him waltzing between several rumpled dress shirts that clutter the floor. Somehow the fop even makes his awkwardness look graceful.
“Well?” he asks after an extended silence. “There must be something, ja?”
She hates to admit it, but she’s not really sure. Slowly, she shakes her head. “I found these”, she sighs, gesturing to the marks on the carpet. “They might be some sort of disruption from something with wheels, but I haven’t found anything matching that profile yet.”
He stares for a moment at where she’s pointing, leaning in to get a better look. For some reason, the honest furrow of his brow as he tries to detangle the possible clue irks her.
“What? Recognize them?” she puffs.
He pulls away and chuckles softly.
“What?” she snaps again. If he really thinks he can walk in here and just pretend to know-all-see-all, she’s going to--
“Those are not wheel blemishes, Fraulein”, he murmurs.
She blinks, mind torn between his apparent certainty and the sudden, soft huskiness of his voice. Klavier is usually the poster boy for loud and obnoxious; he’s never sounded so thoughtful around her before.
Realizing she’s been silent for too long, she splutters, “Well, then what are they?”
His lips twist into a smirk. “If I’m not mistaken, they are heel-prints.”
She scowls in question.
“When I still performed with the Gavinners, I was often given wedge-heeled shoes for performing on stage, so I’ve grown quite accustomed to their imprints.” He chuffs. “Ach. They might be good-looking, but they leave horrid marks in carpets.”
Ema nods, then retracts it. “Aren’t you, like, 5’9?”
He flicks his bangs. “I’m 5’11, Fraulein, you wound me”, he teases.
She rolls her eyes, but her heart isn’t in it, mind already racing with possibilities. “So, if those are shoe prints, and--” She spares a glance at the body. “--they aren’t the victim’s, then…”
“You have yourself a lead”, he finishes warmly.
Her head snaps to look at him before she can think to stop it, and she’s met with a rather unorthodox sight.
Klavier is smiling at her.
He smiles a lot, of course, but most of them always felt sickeningly fake to her, his enthusiasm more an act than honesty.
But this is far from his “winning rockstar smile”; he’s grinning excitedly, almost boyishly, eyes flashing with clear delight, those annoyingly perfect bangs falling just so they catch the light, turning blonde locks to platinum. His charisma is an ever-present shimmer on a normal basis, but up close, in his victory, he’s glowing with passion and it’s bright and intense and gorgeous.
Ema suddenly understands with frightening depth why people call him a heartthrob; he's attractive.
Overwhelmed by the way her entire world has just shifted, she pulls her gaze away to rest on something, anything else.
Klavier luckily doesn’t seem to take her silence as anything in particular. “Well”, he declares, “Now that you have something to go off of, I will leave it to you, Fraulein.”
Faintly, she registers his presence leaving her side, heading towards the door.
“Bitte, Fraulein, and good luck!” he calls, and then he’s gone.
Ema swallows dryly. She needs to focus. She has a lead.
Yet her mind is filled with that smile, that warmth she’s never seen from the fop before, how she kind of wants him to do it again and never stop. She feels her face flood with red, notices the tremor in her hands, and the way her pulse is pounding.
Oh, God. Forget the lead; she has a problem.