by G. K. Lund
Olivia smiled. That would be helpful of course. She also noted the slight pause. Was it to sell her on the memory loss? Because he was still failing on that account.
“Come on, Ben. Why were you there?” He didn’t react to her use of his first name. Only stared out the windshield a moment.
“Did you find out about the suicide?” he asked her instead of giving an answer.
Olivia couldn’t help but furrow her brows. The question was unexpected, but she remembered both Reed and Klein being interested in this when she’d shown them the surveillance tapes. She had in fact gone back to Dr. Ogden to check. And the doctor had informed her that the man in question had not jumped from the bridge. There were no injuries to suspect that. No broken bones, no bruised skin. No internal damage. There had been plenty of needle marks though. He had washed up on the riverbank further upstream. The case had ended up on her partner’s desk. Olivia remembered Reed’s question as well. Had the man been blond? She glanced at the light hair of the man seated next to her.
“Well?” Reed pressed.
“I looked into it,” she told him.
“And?”
“Just answer my questions, Mr. Reed.”
He nodded like he’d read her mind, the tiniest of smiles back again. “I’m trying to piece together my memory. I remembered a name. It led me to WGI. Naturally, I went there to see what I could find out.”
“What name?” Saphia? Dimitri? Alwin?
Reed shrugged like it didn’t matter to him if she knew. “Clement Moreau.”
“What?” That had nothing to do with her case. It did, however, fit with George’s account. Olivia could feel the disappointment sagging down her shoulders. He could be lying of course. It scared her a little how that cheered her up. “Why is this name important to you?”
He smiled fully then, with a slight sadness to it. “Don’t know yet, Detective?”
“Who did you talk to at WGI?”
“Does it matter?”
“Everything matters to me.”
“I suppose it does. Your evidence leads you elsewhere… and here you are anyway.” He spread his hands out for emphasis before he grabbed the handle of the car door and looked pointedly at her. “I might not remember it, but we both know why I was at the bridge that night.”
She pressed her lips together, staring back at him. She had noticed the activities on his online accounts. All the usual stuff people posted there. Dinners, parties, events with friends. In his case even sage life advice for his author accounts, and then… two days before the murder… nothing. After that, there had been no updates. With the man next to her, that was not odd. She couldn’t really see him engaged in such things but with how he had behaved before all of this, those two days were an anomaly.
Your bones were broken. You were broken. And then you were not. Why was that? How? But she didn’t ask him. Couldn’t. The words died on her lips. Instead, she gave no protest when he opened the door and got out, forgetting his coffee as he walked away.
Chapter 28
“Have you seen Mr. Winter lately?” Cooper asked. Olivia glanced at his lawyer, Ms. Fischel, but the woman didn’t object.
“Why do you ask?” Olivia had been driving home after her talk with Reed when a message from Costa had informed her she was needed at work. Alwin Cooper was ready to talk now. There was no doubt he would go down for the murder. They had his prints on the murder weapon – in the victim’s blood. He had been at the Fortress at the same time as Okanov, and he was caught on camera in Harrow in the same areas at the same time. Now it was about what deal he could make by being helpful.
“He’s gone isn’t he?”
“And?”
“Dead.”
“You’re mistaken, Mr. Cooper. He attended a rally with the mayor a few days after Okanov’s death.”
Cooper gave her a look that informed her that she was, in fact, mistaken. “Like they’re not rich enough to make it look like he was there. I’m sure they use stand-ins all the time.”
Olivia glanced at Fischel again. Insanity plea, huh?
“Let me get this straight. You are saying that the supposed death—”
“Not supposed.”
“—death of Ward Winter is the cause of all this?”
“Yes.”
“And his company is hiding this fact with lookalikes?”
Cooper leaned forward a little. He was cuffed to the table, but Olivia would not have been particularly worried without them. Excepting the murder of a brutal hitman, Cooper was not a fear-inducing and violent man. Both his record and general behavior showed that.
“That’s what I’m saying. I don’t care if you’re laughing at me.”
“I’m not laughing, Mr. Cooper. Why would WGI go to such trouble?”
“Stocks or something? Don’t they all plummet when unforeseen things like this happen?”
“So they’re waiting for a more opportune moment for him to pass away?”
“Probably.” Cooper nodded enthusiastically. He emanated a need for her to see this his way. To understand.
“Alright. How does this all fit into the murder of Dimitri Okanov?”
Cooper opened his mouth to answer, but Fischel beat him to it. “Obviously Mr. Cooper has something to bring to the table.”
“Were others involved?” Olivia already suspected as much. Cooper was not really the type of man who did such a thing at the spur of the moment.
“Yeah,” Cooper began, but a look from Fischel cut him off.
“There are people with higher stakes than Mr. Cooper here.”
“If it’s word against word, we can’t really promise anything. You know that.”
“But I have proof,” Cooper said, his voice elevated a little at the importance of this.
“What my client meant to say is… there may be tapes.”
About an hour later, Olivia closed the door behind her on Cooper and his lawyer. Costa stood there, hands in his pockets, feet planted a good two feet apart. He’d been observing from behind the glass.
“Sir, I know you’re friends with Mr. Winter, but—”
“Acquaintances, three times removed.”
“Uh?”
“People like him know people everywhere. After New York… well, he put in a word for me here. Figured it was best to relocate, you know.”
Olivia knew all too well. It was after all her fault what had happened to her boss.
“Do what you have to do, Olivia, but keep it as… low key as you can. WGI provides jobs for half the city. We don’t need to cause a circus unless we have to.”
She nodded slowly and longer than necessary. “I’ll see if Sergeant Mallory can spare a couple of uniforms. Then we’ll see how we go about this.”
“Do that.”
She made to leave, but stopped herself, halfway looking back at Costa. “Thank you,” she said, her voice more emotional than usual. She meant for more than this case. She didn’t stay to see if he understood.
Chapter 29
“I’m going to have to put my foot down.” The uncertainty in Peter’s voice was unmistakable. I kept walking up the stairs to Param’s house once again. “I’m putting my foot down.”
I put a hand on the doorknob and turned toward him. Waiting for this alleged foot to actually be put down.
“Well?”
Peter pressed his lips together and scratched his beard before adjusting the strap of his ever-present satchel. Always carrying his laptop with him. “Come on, Ben. You can’t harass people like this.”
I opened the door. “Don’t think he’s been home since yesterday.”
“Don’t do that. Damn it.”
“Why did you come if you only want to leave”?
“Can’t leave you alone. You go looking for trouble.” He sighed and looked sideways at me as he turned back toward the street. “Must be the brain damage.”
“Probably,” I said and felt the mouth form into a smile. I walked into the empty house once again. De
spite his misgivings, Peter followed. I guess he was a good friend. Or a highly impressionable one. As long as he didn’t get in my way. I thought briefly of Detective Jones and her impromptu little interrogation in her car. For a moment I thought she had decided to take me with her to the station. Best not to wait too long to find Param just in case she made her threats real.
We found the house as we did the day before. Bottle upon bottle. All of them empty. The artifacts and paintings shrouded in the bleak daylight in there. We would have seen better if we’d opened the curtains, but I didn’t want anything to alert Param to our presence. Instead, we waited. Peter sat down in the recliner and booted up his laptop after fifteen minutes. That was how long it took him to get bored. I sat on the couch. Stared straight ahead. Yes, I was bored, but with nothing to do, that was how I passed the time. Waiting, and listening.
Two hours went by before anything happened. Peter had taken a break and gone to the kitchen, reasoning that since he had broken into the house, he might as well steal a bottle of beer. In the midst of the noises coming from him opening the fridge and finding the bottle, I heard the front door open. I immediately stood. Peter stared at me from the kitchen as he drank the beer. Luckily his mouth was occupied, or he would have said something, alerting Param to our presence. As it was, I heard his footsteps come closer. He came directly toward the living room, not via the kitchen. As the door swung open and toward the couch, I saw him come in, wearing the same clothes as the day before. He really hadn’t been home. He carried a grocery bag in one hand with hardly anything in it. As he stepped forward to put it down, he noticed Peter. They stared at each other for a second, Param’s body tensing, Peter’s movements freezing.
I took a step toward Param and must have made a noise, as the man whirled around to face me. And his eyes almost bulged out of their sockets again. He cried out and went for the door.
“No,” I shouted and lunged for him. Reacting before I could think. I needed to talk to him, and I had to do it now. I managed to get a brief hold of his shoulder, but he was moving toward the door, and I lost balance as I lost the grip, falling forward. Behind us, I heard Peter shouting something, but couldn’t catch the words. As I felt the body fall, I threw the arms forward and managed to grab one of Param’s legs. He kicked back at me, but couldn’t keep his balance as he also fell, crashing to the floor with me.
Oh, the pain. It came as a surprise despite it being obvious. Bolts of pain emerging from different places as the body hit the floor sideways. Especially from the right elbow as it smacked into the hard floor, as well as the left shoulder as I landed on Param’s foot.
“Ben, no,” Peter shouted somewhere behind us.
“Ow,” was all I managed.
“Get the fuck away from me,” Param yelled trying to kick his way free of me. I winced from the pain but held on. What the hell was this? It took nothing to hurt a body but a crash with floors and kicks.
“Oow,” I yelled in frustration. I cringed at the pain shooting through the body.
“Get the fuck away. Get the fuck away,” Param repeated, panic setting in at the sight of me holding on to his foot.
“Ben, for God’s sake, let him go,” Peter shouted as he tried walking over me to help the man.
I was not letting go. This man had the answers. He had to because I was not spending any more time in this miserable place than I had to.
“Let me go. Get away.”
“Why?” I shouted back.
“Why?” he managed in the midst of his panic.
“Yes.”
“You don’t know?” He stopped moving, staring back at me, breathing hard and looking worse for wear, but confused enough to not panic completely. He glanced from me to Peter and back again.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Young,” Peter said where he stood in an odd position, trying not to step on either of us. “We’re not here to hurt you.” He gave me a kick in the shin to point out his anger at me. The nerves instantly sent signals to the brain. A sharp pain that then became dull.
“Stop it. That hurts,” I yelled at him.
“That was the point.” He looked at me with anger, eyes narrowed, nostrils flaring. He was not happy with how I’d dealt with this.
“What’s going on?” Param asked at this exchange. “And can you let go of my damn foot?”
“I just need to talk to you, Param,” I said, trying not to sound threatening in any way. Honestly, I didn’t really know how to be if I tried. Still, I saw the man make a grimace of fear as I said his name. “I’m not here to hurt you,” I said, receiving a raised eyebrow in return. I let go of the man’s foot and raised my hands, palms out to show I meant it. “But I need to know why you think I will.”
Two wide open and brown eyes stared at me in disbelief. That was fine. I didn’t mind, because in addition to that, he didn’t try to run again.
Chapter 30
Param grimaced as he cautiously flexed the fingers of his right hand while moving the wrist tentatively. Peter glared at me because of it. I shrugged and stared back with a blank look.
“He’s sorry,” Peter said when he realized I had no clue what he was on about. “He hit his head recently. Lost all his manners.”
Param watched us both in silence. He sat on the couch now, panic gone, but not his alertness. We were strangers after all, that was understandable. But he also knew something about me. Why was he so afraid though?
“Are you alright?” Peter looked uncertain now the worst of his anger toward me had settled somewhat.
“No, I’m not alright. You broke into my house.”
“Door was open,” I volunteered. Now it was Param who glared at me. Then he got uncomfortable. Like he suddenly remembered to be afraid again.
He glanced between us. “Who are you?”
“That’s not a good sign,” Peter said. He sat down in the recliner again, turned toward the couch, while I sat on the living room table. Peter was right. Param clearly recognized me, so asking who Peter and I were, did not bode well for me getting any information about myself.
“We are here because I believe you have some information I need. This is Peter. He has the unfortunate fate of trying to help me come back from a memory loss. They call me Ben, and I think you can help me fill in the missing pieces of my memory.”
Param blinked as he stared at me, his hand all but forgotten now. I wished I could do that with the throbbing pain in the right elbow.
“I’ve been told you have the answers,” I added and hoped this would trigger something.
“I don’t think that’s how it works, Ben,” Peter protested. “We can’t restore your memories for you, no one can.”
“Who told you that?” Param still had confusion written on his face, but he was calming down a little. I was, after all, asking for help, not threatening an attack like he’d thought five minutes earlier.
“I don’t have a good answer for that. All I know is, I remembered a name, and it led me to you.”
“What name?” He sounded a little surprised like there weren’t many names associated with him. Judging by the number of bottles and clutter around us, my guess was that he didn’t socialize much.
“Clement Moreau. A priest. I think you’re connected to a foundation in his name.”
Param exhaled slowly and eyed me again. This time, he looked like he was trying to remember me. I recognized the feeling.
“Are you kidding me?”
“What? No.”
“Are you making fun of me? If so, you can get the fuck out.”
I turned to Peter for help, but he shook his head in confusion.
“I’m serious. Why else would I come here and ask about this person?”
“Because he’s long dead.”
I shook the head in protest. “He can’t be. I’m sure of it.”
“Oh, you’re sure of it, huh?”
“Yes, I—”
“He is dead and buried. Even his bones must have rotted away by now.” Param almost shout
ed the words, while at the same time making himself shiver at them. Words that I didn’t want to hear. I understood now the need to keep asking despite getting answers when one didn’t want them. I didn’t want this information. I wanted to talk to Moreau.
“Hey,” I shouted and stood up, a movement that made Param shrink back on the couch, eyes wide and giving me his full attention.
“Ben, calm down,” Peter said before focusing on Param. “Why are you so afraid of him?”
Param’s eyes darted between us again. “I don’t know for sure. I recognize him. I don’t know from where.”
“Why do you recognize me?”
“I’ve seen you. Many times. I’m sure of it.”
“Maybe you’ve met through Ben’s job. He’s a reporter now and then.”
Param shook his head ever so slightly and I mimicked the gesture. We were both confused, but we knew that was not the case. Param had never met Old Ben.
“Clement Moreau is supposed to have the answers,” I said. “I need your help to find him.”
Param looked like he couldn’t believe I was still on this track. “How hard is it to understand…” he sighed, got up from the couch, and headed for the door leading out into the hall.
“Wait—”
“Just hold on a sec will you?” he told me and went out of the room. Shortly after he came back carrying a large painting with a thick, carved wooden frame. “This,” he said and turned it toward us, “is Father Moreau.”
It was one of the clergy-men paintings. The man in this one looked to be around forty. Dark hair, almost black. A strong face, long and straight nose above an unsmiling mouth. The eyes were set apart, gray or blue, maybe a blend. He was serious in this depiction, and the black clothes didn’t help, but he did not look unkind.
“Ben,” Peter said, his voice soft. “I think Param is right. This painting’s old. The priest has to be dead.”
“He can’t be dead,” I heard myself say, the voice barely audible. “He’s supposed to give me the answers.”
