Snow falls, and mysteries abound in this 8th episode of the Geier and Lark psychological mystery series…

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New York City glowed like a feverish constellation.

Black Friday lights pulsed against the wet sidewalks, flickering across puddles like tiny portals to other lives. From Geier’s office window, the line of eager shoppers wrapped twice around the block, bundled in scarves and armed with coffee like soldiers preparing for battle.

Geier watched them in silence, the bowl of his pipe glowing ember-red. “Collective delusion,” he said finally. “A ritual of hunger. People convincing themselves they’re saving money by losing their minds.”

Lark smiled from the couch, legs crisscrossed beneath her as always. “I think you’re confusing Black Friday with modern-day worship.”

He grunted. “You say that like they’re different.”

Before she could retort, the door burst open. Detective Vasquez stood there, trench coat dripping, face pale. “You two better come with me,” he said. “Something’s gone wrong downtown. Again.”

Scene One: Manhattan West

The Manhattan West shopping complex was chaos frozen in fluorescent light. Police tape fluttered like streamers. Shoppers stood behind barricades, clutching half-filled bags. Inside the atrium, three bodies lay amid scattered merchandise — their faces twisted in identical expressions of awe and terror.

Geier stepped carefully around a fallen display of discounted smartwatches. “Any sign of struggle?”

“None,” Vasquez said. “Security footage shows them browsing — then stopping dead, mid-motion. Every clock in the building stopped at exactly 5:05 a.m.”

Lark crouched beside the woman with the handbag. “She died reaching for this,” she said. “It’s a handbag on sale for sixty percent off.”

Geier huffed. “I trust she got the discount.”

But Lark was studying the woman’s face, the dilation of her pupils. “No bruising, no trauma. Like the others.”

“Others?” Vasquez frowned.

Geier nodded toward her. “She’s been reading the reports you don’t send me.”

Lark swiped open her tablet, the glow illuminating her features. “Two similar cases in Jersey malls last night. Different stores, same timestamp. Witnesses said they heard… singing.”

“Singing?” Vasquez echoed.

“Not music over the speakers. Something else. Low, rhythmic. Like chanting.”

Scene Two: Palisades Center

By evening, the snow had turned to hard rain. The trio drove north to the Palisades Center, its parking garage packed with shoppers desperate for deals. The air inside smelled of wet coats, cinnamon pretzels, and fear.

The body this time was in the electronics section,  a young man collapsed beside a wall of flat-screen TVs, every one flashing static.

Lark touched the man’s wrist, frowning. “Cold. But look…  no rigor yet. He’s been here for hours.”

“Impossible,” Vasquez said.

“Not if time’s the variable,” Geier murmured.

She turned toward the televisions. The static resolved for an instant into a shape — not a face exactly, but a mask. A golden one, expressionless.

Then the image vanished.

“You saw that, right?” Lark whispered.

“I saw electricity,” Geier said. “Our brains fill gaps. Pareidolia.”

Vasquez crossed himself. “I saw it too.”

They found a slogan printed on one of the store’s promotional banners, now torn and fluttering near the air vent: “Golden Opportunity: Everything Must Go.”

Lark shivered. “Greek myth. King Midas turned everything to gold and starved for it.”

Geier’s mouth twitched. “Consumerism as a death wish. You may be onto something.”

Scene Three: The Third Victim

The next morning, another body — this time in a SoHo boutique catering to the ultra-rich. A man in a tailored coat lay beneath a chandelier, frozen mid-reach toward a jewelry display. The security feed showed no one else in the room.

“Owner says the power cut out for thirty seconds,” Vasquez explained. “When it came back, he was like this.”

Lark examined the glass case. “He wasn’t reaching for a ring. Look. The display’s reflection. It’s warped.”

She angled her tablet light just right. In the reflection, the jewelry glimmered faintly, but the man’s face wasn’t his own. It was gilded, metallic, smooth.

Geier drew in a long breath. “Who was he?”

“Elliot Karr,” Vasquez said. “CEO of PriceDrop Online. Made a fortune convincing people to buy things they don’t need.”

“How poetic,” Geier muttered.

Threads

Back at the office, Geier poured coffee while Lark pinned photos to her tablet board. The victims’ faces glowed under virtual pins — a teacher, a marketing manager, a CEO. “Different backgrounds,” she said, “but all part of the same economic ecosystem.”

“Predators and prey,” Geier said. “You ever notice the difference between a sale and a sacrifice? One just uses brighter lights.”

Lark frowned at the timestamps. “5:05, 6:06, 7:07 — all repeating numerals.”

“Numerology now?” Vasquez asked.

“Pattern recognition,” she countered. “Sometimes meaning hides in symmetry.”

She tapped her tablet again. A symbol appeared beside each crime scene, captured from graffiti found near the victims. A spiral of coins surrounding a single eye.

“The eye of Plutus,” Geier said slowly.

“Who?” Vasquez asked.

“Greek god of wealth,” Lark answered. “Blind, ironically. He gave riches without judgment.”

Vasquez frowned. “Why now?”

“Fear,” Lark said softly. “Inflation. Scarcity. People fighting over a toaster like it’s a treasure chest. Human emotion creates… openings.”

Geier watched her carefully. “You’re thinking of your mother.”

Lark stiffened. “Why would you say that?”

“You retreat into theory when you’re upset.” He paused. “She struggled after your father died. Money fears can break people.”

Lark swallowed. “She thought one Christmas sale would fix everything. She was wrong.”

Vasquez shifted his weight awkwardly. “I’m sorry… but mythology doesn’t kill people.”

Geier smiled thinly. “You’ve never been to a clearance sale.”

Scene Four: The Warehouse

Following a clue from a witness, they found themselves at a shipping warehouse on the Brooklyn waterfront. Inside, pallets of merchandise were stacked to the ceiling, wrapped in plastic. The air was cold and metallic, filled with the hum of fluorescent lights.

On a central table sat a cash register, antique and ornate, its keys engraved with Greek letters.

Lark brushed dust from its surface. “This isn’t standard issue.”

Geier leaned closer. “An offering plate with buttons.”

She pressed one key marked with Δ. The register drawer shot open with a sharp chime. Inside lay coins — ancient, tarnished, gleaming faintly.

“Drachmas,” Geier whispered.

The lights flickered.

A figure moved in the shadows — tall, draped in a coat the color of gold leaf. A reflective mask obscured his face.

“Detective Vasquez,” he said, voice like silk. “Dr. Geier. Dr. Lark. You’ve come to make your purchase.”

Vasquez reached for his gun. “Don’t move.”

But the man laughed softly. “Everyone moves. That’s the problem.”

He raised his hands. Light shimmered between his fingers, and for a heartbeat, Lark saw through the illusion. She saw his face, both ancient and young, his eyes empty as coins.

“Plutus,” she whispered.

He smiled. “You remember. Good.”

The lights burst, plunging the room into darkness.

The Revelation

When the lights flickered back, the man was gone, and the cash register’s drawer was empty. But on the table lay a single bill, crisp and new, stamped with the same spiral symbol.

Geier picked it up carefully. “He’s collecting souls through commerce. Every purchase a pact.”

Lark’s voice was low. “The victims — they weren’t killed. They were traded.”

Vasquez exhaled sharply. “For what?”

“Balance,” Geier said. “Wealth feeds on want. He’s thinning the herd.”

“But why now?” Lark asked.

He looked toward the window, where dawn light crept through the cracks. “Because Black Friday isn’t about money. It’s about belief,  the collective madness that something worthless can save us. And that’s power. Divine power, if you ask the Greeks.”

Scene Five: The Trap

They decided to return to the first mall that night. Lark had an idea — to bait Plutus with his own ritual. She carried a shopping bag filled with trinkets and cheap gold-plated jewelry.

At exactly 5:05 a.m., the lights dimmed again. The crowd outside shifted restlessly.

Lark stood beneath the atrium skylight, holding up the fake gold chain. “If he feeds on desire,” she whispered, “then let’s give him a feast.”

The air grew colder. Reflections in the glass ceiling shimmered and multiplied until every shopper’s face turned metallic, blank-eyed.

“Dr. Geier,” she said softly, “I think it’s working.”

They approached an antique cash register on a decorative display stand. Its drawer was open. He nodded, gripping the handle of his cane. “Close the register.”

She slammed the antique cash drawer shut, and the sound echoed through the atrium like thunder.

The mirrored faces dissolved. The gold glow faded, leaving only the faint scent of ozone and burned sugar in the air.

When Vasquez turned back, the ancient register was gone. In its place lay a single coin, hot to the touch.

Aftermath

The public explanation was mass hysteria. A collective panic episode triggered by holiday stress.

People wanted lies more than truth, and the city was happy to give them both.

Back in Geier’s office, the snow finally stopped. Lark sat on the couch with her feet curled under her, sipping the cocoa she only allowed herself on stressful days.  “Do you think he’s gone?” she asked.

Geier shrugged. “Gods don’t die. They just go out of fashion.”

Vasquez, half asleep in the armchair, muttered, “You two are bad for my blood pressure.”

Lark smiled. “Think of it as preventative therapy.”

“So that’s it? He’s gone?” Vasquez said.

“For now,” Geier said. “As I said, Gods don’t die. They fade when ignored.”

Lark turned the coin over in her palm. “What happens if someone believes again?”

“Then he’ll come back,” Geier said honestly. “But belief cuts both ways. So does hope.”

She smiled, soft but real. “My mother used to say that. She believed if she hoped hard enough, things would get easier.”

“She wasn’t wrong,” Geier said. “Just early.”

Lark looked up, surprised.

Geier stood by the window, watching the shoppers below. “Hope is irrational,” he said. “But so is survival. Humans are good at both.”

Vasquez chuckled. “That’s the closest thing to optimism I’ve ever heard from you.”

“Don’t get used to it,” Geier said.

But Lark saw the faintest warmth in his eyes.

As the sun rose over the city, the coin on Geier’s desk glinted faintly—not gold now, not ominous. Just a dull, ordinary metal reflecting the morning light.

“Maybe,” Lark said quietly, “that’s all the power it ever really had.”

Geier tapped his pipe. “Then let’s keep it that way.”

For once, the smoke that curled upward didn’t look like wings or omens—just smoke from a tired old man’s pipe, drifting peacefully into a room warming with daylight.

And the city, for a brief moment, felt lighter.

-The End-

We’d love to know if you are enjoying the mystery stories of Dr. Geier and Dr. Lark. If so, please leave a comment below.

For more stories like this, check out: The Last Appointment: 30 Collected Short Stories
Catch up on my original fast-paced thriller NOT SO DEAD and the Sam Sunborn Series
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Or my children’s adventure book: Nougo and His Basketball.

And read for FREE some of Charles Levin’s short stories:

The First Appointment
The Last Candy Store in East Apple
I’m Processing
Books Unread
Nora Delivers the Package
The Permission Slip
10 Life Lessons I Learned from Playing Poker
Missing the Ghost in the Palace Theater
Moon Landing Memories
Word Drunk

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