Obsession Under Jakarta Skies

Chapter 6

The morning sun didn't feel like a new beginning; it felt like an interrogation lamp. Silas stepped out of the derelict warehouse, squinting against the glare of Jakarta’s smog-choked horizon. He hadn’t even made it to the end of the block before the screech of tires signaled that his "off the grid" plan had lasted exactly four minutes.

A black-and-white patrol car lurched to a halt, cutting him off. The window rolled down to reveal Dorian, who looked like he’d aged five years since the previous night.

"Get in the car, Silas," Dorian said, his usual playful tone replaced by a flat, nervous energy. "Before the Captain sends the actual SWAT team to find you."

"I told you I was going dark, Dorian," Silas grumbled, pulling the door open and sliding into the seat. He smelled like gunpowder, warehouse dust, and the lingering, maddening scent of Anastasia’s perfume.

"Yeah, and I told the Chief you were 'pursuing a lead in a low-signal area.' He didn't buy it. He’s past the 'angry' phase and well into the 'I’m going to ruin your life' phase."

*

The air conditioning in Chief Gareth Dananjaya’s office was set to a temperature that could preserve meat, but Silas was still sweating. Gareth sat behind his mahogany desk, his face a shade of purple that matched the orchid petal currently sitting in Silas’s pocket.

"A shootout, Silas?" Gareth’s voice was dangerously low. "A high-speed chase through the city, a destroyed Mercedes, and you... disappearing into a warehouse with the prime suspect? My phone hasn't stopped ringing. The Kertawati lawyers are talking about harassment, and the Mayor is asking why there are bullet holes in a bridge on Jalan Antasari."

"They weren't my bullets, Chief," Silas said, leaning back in the hard plastic chair. "I was preventing a kidnapping. Or an execution. Take your pick."

"I don't have to pick anything! I have to provide results!" Gareth slammed his palm onto the desk, making a stack of folders jump. "You were supposed to be investigating a murder, not playing knight-in-shining-armor for a woman who probably planned the whole thing for the insurance money."

"She didn't plan getting shot at by professionals," Silas countered. "Those guys weren't street thugs. They had military-grade gear."

"And where is she now, Silas? Where’s the 'heiress' you were so busy protecting?"

Silas looked out the window at the bustling precinct floor. "She’s gone. She slipped away while I was asleep."

Gareth let out a short, hysterical laugh. "You fell asleep? While guarding a person of interest? Are you kidding me right now?"

"It was a long night, Sir."

"You’re a disaster," Gareth sighed, rubbing his temples. "I should suspend you. I should take your badge and hand this case to someone who doesn't have a death wish or a crush on the most dangerous woman in Jakarta."

"You won't," Silas said quietly. "Because I’m the only one who’s actually talked to her. And I’m the only one she’s talking to."

"One more screw-up, Silas. Just one," Gareth pointed a meaty finger at him. "You stay away from the girl unless it's in an interrogation room with three cameras running. You stay in the precinct. You do the paperwork. If I see you on a bike or near a nightclub, I’m putting you on traffic duty in North Jakarta for the rest of your career. Get out."

*

Silas slumped at his desk, staring at a blank incident report. The precinct was a hive of noise—phones ringing, suspects complaining, and the constant hum of a dozen conversations.

"Hey, don't look so blue," Dorian said, sliding a cardboard tray of coffee onto Silas’s desk. "The Chief didn't fire you. That’s a win in my book."

"He might as well have," Silas muttered, taking a sip of the bitter black liquid. "I’m grounded."

"Which is exactly why you need a distraction," Dorian said, his eyes gleaming with a suspicious amount of enthusiasm. "You’re wound tighter than a guitar string. You need to clear your head. Think about something that isn't orchids or heiresses."

"I’m busy, Dorian."

"No, you’re staring at a cursor. Look, a friend of mine... well, a friend of a friend... is meeting me for lunch. She brought a friend. It’s a double date, Silas. Very low-key. Just a casual chat at that new cafe down the street."

Silas looked at him, deadpan. "You’re trying to set me up? While I’m in the middle of a high-profile homicide investigation?"

"It’s not a 'setup,' it’s a 'social intervention.' Her name is Viona. She’s great. Very smart, works in... uh, lifestyle branding. Something like that. Come on, man. One hour. For your mental health."

Silas looked at the blinking cursor, then at the orchid petal he’d surreptitiously placed on a post-it note. "Fine. One hour. But if you talk about your workout routine for more than five minutes, I’m leaving."

*

The cafe was a trendy, glass-walled space filled with people on laptops and the smell of roasted beans. Dorian’s "date" was a bright-eyed woman named Maya, who spent most of the time laughing at Dorian’s terrible jokes. Sitting across from Silas was Viona.

She was attractive in a sharp, observant way. Her hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail, and she wore a blazer that looked a little too professional for a "casual" lunch.

"So, Silas," Viona said, stirring her latte. "Dorian says you’re in law enforcement. That must be pretty intense lately. Especially with that Wijaya thing."

Silas paused with his sandwich halfway to his mouth. "It has its moments."

"I can imagine," Viona leaned in, her smile a bit too practiced. "People are saying the police are focusing on the Kertawati family. Do you think there’s any truth to that? Or is it just high-society gossip?"

Silas set the sandwich down. He looked at Dorian, who was suddenly very interested in his salad. "Lifestyle branding, huh?"

"I’m interested in people," Viona said smoothly. "And what people are saying. For instance, there’s a rumor that a detective was seen leaving a club with Anastasia Kertawati last night. That sounds like a movie plot, doesn't it?"

"Who are you?" Silas asked, his voice dropping an octave.

"I told you, I’m Viona."

"Viona Maharani," Silas said, the name finally clicking. "The investigative lead for the Jakarta Ledger. You’ve been trying to get an interview with the Commissioner for six months."

The table went silent. Maya looked confused, while Dorian looked like he wanted to vanish into the floorboards.

"I prefer 'freelance journalist,'" Viona said, her smile turning into something sharper. "And you must be Silas Prabuwijaya. The man who’s been seen at every crime scene but hasn't filed a single public statement."

"Dorian," Silas said, not taking his eyes off Viona. "Did you know?"

"I... I thought she was just a friend of Maya’s!" Dorian stammered. "I swear, Silas! I didn't know she was a reporter!"

"It was a good try, Viona," Silas said, standing up. "But I don't talk to the press. And I definitely don't talk to them when they’re hiding behind a 'blind date.'"

"You’re missing an opportunity, Detective," Viona called out as he pushed his chair back. "The public is going to write their own story if you don't give them the truth. Was she worth the shootout? Anastasia, I mean?"

Silas froze. He turned back, his face a mask of iron. "Whatever you think you know, Viona, you don't. Keep your nose out of this case before you get it broken."

"Is that a threat, Detective?" she asked, already reaching for a digital recorder in her bag.

"It’s a professional courtesy," Silas said, turning on his heel and walking out.

*

"Silas! Wait up!" Dorian jogged after him as they headed back toward the precinct. "Look, I’m so sorry. I really didn't know. Maya said she was cool!"

"You’re an idiot, Dorian," Silas snapped. "She was fishing for a headline. If I’d said one wrong thing, I’d be on the front page tomorrow as 'The Detective in the Heiress’s Pocket.'"

"I know, I know. I’ll fix it. I’ll call her and—"

"Don't call anyone. Just stay away from the 'lifestyle branding' scene for a while."

They entered the precinct, but before they could reach their desks, a man in a white lab coat stepped into their path. It was Cassian, the lead forensics specialist. He looked pale, even for a guy who spent all day under fluorescent lights.

"Silas. Dorian. I need you in the lab. Now," Cassian said.

"Can it wait? I’m currently dodging a PR nightmare," Silas said.

"No," Cassian said, his voice trembling slightly. "It really can't. I just got the results back from the victim’s chest swabs. From where the orchid was sitting."

Silas felt a familiar prickle at the back of his neck. "What did you find?"

They followed Cassian into the sterile, cool environment of the forensics lab. On the monitor, a complex series of DNA sequences were swirling in a digital dance.

"I ran the DNA found on Hadi Wijaya’s skin," Cassian explained, pointing at a red spike in the data. "Specifically, the trace fluids left by the orchid’s stem and the petals. I was looking for a human match—skin cells from whoever handled the flower."

"And?" Dorian asked. "Did you get a hit?"

"I got something," Cassian said, tapping a key. "But it’s not in the database. Because it shouldn't exist."

Silas leaned closer to the screen. "Speak English, Cassian."

"The DNA is biological, but it’s been... edited," Cassian said. "There are markers in the sequence that don't appear in nature. It’s like someone took a human DNA strand and used a word processor to rewrite the middle of it. It’s highly synthetic, Silas."

"Are you saying the killer is a robot?" Dorian asked, his eyes wide.

"No, it’s human. Or it started that way," Cassian corrected. "But this level of genetic modification... it’s beyond anything available in public research. This is experimental. It’s black-budget stuff."

Silas felt the weight of the silver earring in his pocket, then thought of the way Anastasia had looked at him in the warehouse—the intelligence, the stillness, the way she had handled the briefcase like it was a part of her.

"The DNA," Silas said, his voice a whisper. "Is it from the orchid? Or the person who held it?"

"Both," Cassian said, looking at Silas with genuine fear. "That’s the part that’s keeping me up. The DNA from the flower and the DNA from the handler? They’re an identical match. It’s like the flower was grown from the person. Or the person was grown from the flower."

Silas stared at the screen, the world around him blurring. He thought of Anastasia’s note: You’re looking for the gardener in the wrong garden.

"Dorian," Silas said, his voice cold and focused. "Forget the paperwork. We’re going to the Kertawati conservatory. And this time, I’m not bringing a warrant. I’m bringing a blowtorch."

"But the Chief—" Dorian started.

"The Chief doesn't know what we’re dealing with," Silas said, heading for the door. "Nobody does. But I think I just figured out why Anastasia was so calm when the lights went out. She wasn't watching a murder. She was watching a harvest."