by Jenna Coburn
Braden looked especially tired when he looked back at his little sister. “Thanks,” he groaned and brushed back his hair. “So that’s it. I mean, like, there’s fingerprints and stuff, and they say I’m just the only guy, everything points to me, and just because I don’t remember it doesn’t mean I’m innocent…” He threw up his arms, stopped walking, and sat down on the simple bunk bed.
There were a few meters between him and his family at that moment, and still, if he had stood directly behind the bars, the uncomfortable gulf that had been created was impossible to cross. Even if he was drunk out of his mind, they just couldn’t think that Braden would get violent, especially not violent enough to kill a man for no reason at all.
“So that’s the story so far. That’s all I have,” he sighed deeply. “They really didn’t tell me anything else. I think they don’t believe my story that I don’t remember, so they’re trying to get me to spill some detail I couldn’t have known or something.”
His head sank. “I’m afraid, guys. They’re going to question me and such…I mean…like in the movies, right?”
Caryn stepped closer to the cell and stuck her hand through the bars. Her son got up, and they managed some awkward form of a hug. “It’s going to be okay, we’re gonna…we’ll take care of everything. You’re not alone.” Some awkward hands reached in and through, and soon enough all six of them—counting the prison bars—were all entangled in the same familial embrace.
Since they couldn’t really all stay there, they decided to disperse for now; Alethea wanted to look into taking a more active role in the investigation, Caryn had some questions for the police, Creighton wanted a “man-to-man” with his son, and Elyse figured she’d roll her eyes and moan about how bored she was in the hallway.
Once she was back at the entrance, Alethea asked for Holden Westley. Apparently the agent hadn’t yet come in today and (being the strange guy that he was) had stayed at the same hotel that the murder happened. Supposedly it was for practical reasons, but there was something morbid about it, the policeman assured.
“Thanks for the help,” she said as she was turning away towards her mother, her raised eyebrow slowly returning to normal. “Okay, Mom, I’m going to go to that hotel and see what I can do.”
Caryn smiled gently and hugged her. “You’re the best. I’m sure you’ll work something out. Let’s talk again later today.”
Alethea just nodded. She went over to Elyse, and they looked at each other. Alethea raised her hand, overcome by the instinct to ruffle, and Elyse took a step to the side and backwards.
“I’ll get you someday,” Alethea said as her eyes narrowed.
Elyse slowly stuck out her tongue at her.
Alethea’s hand clenched to a fist as she withdrew it. “So…cute,” she pressed out between her teeth.
Elyse flicked her hair. “Begone now, old witch.”
“Touché,” Alethea conceded and walked out of the police station with quick, determined steps.
Chapter III
Alethea was in luck that all the buildings in the town center were more or less on top of each other, and its central position was a measure of pride for the Sparta City Hotel. It offered a thin veneer of luxury over an ancient frame that was mainly made from plywood and asbestos. It had the style of approximately fifteen years prior.
Still, it was clean and nice enough, and it’s not like the nineties were all bad. There was an old woman behind the front desk in the largely lifeless lobby; the recent murder did not exactly make the place more popular. She was all the more happy upon the arrival of whom she falsely assumed to be a guest.
“Good day and welcome at the Sparta City Hotel,” the receptionist said. “What can I do for you today?”
“Hi, my name’s Alethea, I’m looking for Holden Westley. You know, the FBI agent?” Alethea smiled politely as she put her hands on the wooden counter.
The receptionist nodded and instantly pointed a finger towards their hotel restaurant. “He’s eating breakfast right now.”
Alethea raised an eyebrow. Somehow, she had considered that she’d have to jump through some loops, do some convincing, or maybe climb up the façade and drop in through a window, dodge laser traps, the usual. But here she was, being pointed to a door by a finger and beyond would be Agent Westley, just like that.
“Thanks,” she said and couldn’t help but sound strangely disappointed. Some part of her wanted a challenge, not pointing fingers and open doors. But she just shrugged that off and went to meet the agent.
“Good morning,” she said as she stepped up to the breakfast table. Beside Westley, there were few guests, and he sat alone at a large table with a big flowerpot in the middle. He had apparently used the chance to get a lion’s share of the buffet, and now had the surprised look of someone who, a second before, had been completely in his own world of eggs and bacon.
“Good morning,” Agent Westley answered after taking a reasonable amount of time to reduce the amount of food inside his mouth. He took another pause and raised his hand, so he’d have the first chance to speak. “I’m sorry about yesterday, Miss Thwaite. It didn’t turn out like I told you. But believe me when I say that I was not meaning to deceive you.”
Alethea sat down on the table and leaned forward on her arms. “That’s okay, Agent Westley. I’m not here to complain to you. I just wanted to ask you a few questions.”
Holden pushed his plate aside and leaned back in his chair. He smiled and looked back at Alethea with an open expression. “I hope that I can help you and actually answer them,” he replied politely.
“I just visited my brother at the police station, and I believe he’s innocent. He’s just not capable of something like that, blackout or not. So in order to get to the core of this, I want to investigate as a, well, private investigator.”
“Hm,” Westley said. It seemed to be all he had to say, because they looked at each other for some long moments afterwards, apparently expecting the other person to be the one to first open their mouth again.
“So? Don’t you have some sort of opinion about that? I was hoping to work together, you know, I think I could be a big help. Because to me, accusing my brother seems like you’re stepping in the dark.”
The special agent sighed and leaned forward in a somewhat conspiratorial gesture. “Look, I personally don’t believe that your brother is guilty, either. Just the evidence so far paints a different picture than a gut feeling, and while I appreciate your concern as a family member, I would advise you to trust the investigation team and, if push comes to shove, the courts.”
She furrowed her brows. “I won’t just sit by and wait this out. It’s bad enough that my brother’s in jail, but on top of that, the real killer is getting away.” Her eyes shone with determination, so much that she watched Westley fold under the pressure they exuded.
“Alright,” he conceded. “I suppose if you’re decided I won’t be able to convince you otherwise. It’d be better to work together than have you poke around on your own and get mixed up in something. Especially if it gets dangerous at any point.” He swallowed once and sent a sidelong glance to the food.
“I don’t mind,” she just said. Thirty seconds later, she wasn’t so sure anymore. For someone with his figure, this man had a ferocious appetite. But perhaps he usually spent all day running on a treadmill.
“This food is delicious. You should try some,” Westley quickly suggested while his mouth wasn’t otherwise occupied. “Breakfast is the most important meal of the day. How are you going to bust crime without a good start to your day?” He took a deep gulp of freshly pressed orange juice, and then smiled so brightly that Alethea had to suppress the urge to look for a camera somewhere.
She wanted Elyse to be there.
“That’s okay,” she smiled apologetically. It felt difficult to deflect that onslaught of sunshine. “I already ate something.” Putting her chin on her hand, she kept watching him. “So, Agent Westley, maybe we could, um, compare note
s on our progress in this particular investigation…?”
Holden put down his food, sat back again, and looked at her. He smiled for a moment, then put his palms together on top of the table in front of him. After contemplating for a few seconds, he shrugged and started talking. “Okay.” With a look around, he made sure that no one was within hearing distance.
“You’re making a good impression on me, Miss Thwaite. I pride myself on my eye for people. The investigation has not yielded much yet, either, so…yeah.” He cleared his throat. “The detail that makes the current story most unlikely is that the victim was clearly killed with poison. He stopped breathing sometime in the morning. We’re not sure what kind of poison yet.”
Alethea nibbled on the inside of her lower lip, taking on a more concerned face. This was getting serious very fast. It was suddenly so real; there was a murderer, someone who had poisoned this man, and she was planning to get all up in their business. An FBI agent could be nonchalant about it, but this was a big thing for her. Still, it was all for family. That was more important than getting the jitters.
She’d picked up enough techniques to deal with those in her stage life. Doing this could hardly be more terrifying than doing something in front of a huge live audience. And from their method, the killer didn’t seem like the kind to shoot her in order to get away or something like that.
“When I read the newspaper article, there seemed to be a lot of confusion and wild speculation about why anyone would want to kill Larry Patrick. Isn’t that something you should follow up on?”
The agent shrugged lightly. “That’s a difficult thing to do. If there is something shady about him, then it’s quite well-hidden. We can’t just poke into the blue. Theoretically, there’s a lot of reasons to kill someone, especially if you count in that the murder doesn’t need a reason understandable by anyone but the killer.”
“So you’re saying they might be bonkers,” Alethea followed the line of thought. Her eyes moved through the room, not actually focused on anything, as she sifted through her thoughts. She wanted to believe that there was a better answer than mental instability. Maybe Larry just wanted to get high.
That was a good explanation, anyway. Maybe it was all just a misunderstanding, and Larry had died because he wanted a trip. She almost said it out loud, but Agent Westley spoke first.
“If you want me to give you a tip, you should talk to the people involved to get a better picture, not to me. That may not be hard evidence, but it’s the only way to really get an image of the situation. You’ve got an advantage. The police force of this town isn’t exactly large and overfunded, and I’m an FBI agent, so everyone I talk to is immediately shocked.”
He smiled and raised his hands, putting on a falsetto voice. “Oh no, what do I have to do with the FBI? What is going on? Do they know I grow weed?!” He cleared his throat and chuckled a little. Alethea looked at him with her eyebrow raised. It was weird, but strangely endearing. “So, yes, Miss Thwaite, I think you seem like a very, well, friendly and sociable kind of individual, so I believe you will have no problem finding perhaps a lead that will help the investigation, or at least, perhaps, help the case of the defense, which I suppose would be in your interest. That is, your brother’s and your family’s.” He quickly emptied the glass of orange juice and exhaled deeply.
Alethea nodded slowly. “Okay,” she said. It took her a few seconds’ time to regain her thoughts. When she picked up the thread once more, she thanked Agent Westley and stood up. He stood up with her, and they shook hands.
At that precise moment, the woman from the front desk called out. “Mr. Westley! There’s a call for you from the station.” With an apologetic smile, he nodded to Alethea and then quickly went to the front desk. She was wondering if he didn’t have a cell phone or something. Then she remembered the business card with his personal number. Didn’t the police have it?
The call seemed to have been over quickly, because by the time she had made it back to the reception area, the agent was already hanging up the phone and walking up to her again. “Wait a second, Miss Thwaite.” He approached her and lowered his voice. “Are you sure that your brother couldn’t have done it?”
“Of course I’m sure,” she immediately replied. “I know him.” She wasn’t sure what he was getting at, but from the look on his face, he’d just gotten some relevant information.
“Alright. I’m going to tell you, because you’re going to know soon either way. They found a piece of evidence in your brother’s trailer that links him to the crime.” There was a giant question mark on her face, but he shrugged. “That’s all they just told me, actually. I’m going down there now. Should I give you a ride?”
Alethea just nodded. This thing was developing in a completely unexpected way. What could they have found at Braden’s trailer? That just made no sense at all. By now, there remained only one possibility for her—someone was trying to frame him. He couldn’t have done it—just couldn’t!—so they had to be framing him.
Noticing how silent she had become, Holden seemed somewhat unsure what to say anymore, and they simply walked out to the parking lot together. The agent’s car was a sedan of a metallic silver color; it still had the new-car smell. The inside was as neat as the outside, as could be expected from a man who looked as well-ordered as its driver.
Still, Alethea had no eye for it. There was a whole new dimension to the murder. As inexplicable as killing Larry Patrick had been, it became even more inexplicable when thinking that her brother Braden had specifically been framed. Or maybe it wasn’t as specific? Someone could conceivably just have followed him home after all. It was still alarming.
“Do you think someone could be trying to frame your brother?” She looked at Holden with some surprise, being pulled from her considerations with such pinpoint accuracy as to their content.
“That’s just the only explanation I can come up with,” Alethea honestly admitted. “But that doesn’t really bring us any further. My brother’s not exactly a man of many enemies.” She threw back her head, but the car’s ceiling didn’t hold the answer, either. “Probably he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. That’s the kind of man he is.”
Agent Westley kept his eyes on the road, on the other hand. Very exemplary. “We’ll get to the bottom of this, Miss Thwaite. I believe you when you say that you cannot imagine your brother to be a criminal. As I said, I can’t imagine it, either; he’d have to be an excellent actor. And if he was such a criminal mastermind, why would he be so dumb as to leave evidence at his home?”
“Things don’t add up,” she agreed with him. Looking at the side of Holden’s face, she found herself smiling just slightly. The fact that he was involving her in the investigation like this, and talked so straightforward, was far from a matter of course. “Thank you, Agent Westley,” she spoke the words as they came to her.
It was the agent’s turn to be silent, and so they stayed for the few minutes it took to turn into the parking lot and get out of the car. When they walked into the police station together, the fact that they were accompanying each other probably made the weird Holden Westley even more peculiar in the force’s eyes. Still, the officers inside did not give any immediate reactions.
“Miss Thwaite here has taken up the case,” Westley said to the man behind the front desk. “This is Officer Simmons, by the way,” the agent told Alethea. Officer Simmons nodded at her.
“It’s a pleasure to be introduced. So you’re a private investigator, Miss Thwaite?” She hesitated, then nodded. Then she looked at Holden, looked back at Simmons, and shook her head. “So which one is it?”
Holden chuckled politely. “She’s just trying to help out her brother, in all seriousness. Nobody’s actually paying her for any of this. I made the choice to involve her, because I think she can help justice beyond being a character witness if her brother is taken to court.”
Simmons considered that for a moment, then looked at Alethea with sincere eyes. “We can pu
t your brother at the scene around the time the murder occurred, and now we found physical evidence that he, in fact, had poison in his possession. Well, we assume it’s poison. We have to confirm the lab report and match it.”
Holden crossed his arms. “On the other hand, there’s a lot of holes in that story still. I doubt the DA would consider that to be a solid case, and neither would the jury.”
Alethea feigned a cough and gave way to her frustrations. “There is no case! My brother couldn’t have done it. That’s why I’m here. I want to do something. I can’t just sit at home. I want to know what I can do to find the person actually responsible, or at least find things that cast doubt on the explanation that my brother killed a man!”
“That’s clear to us, Miss Thwaite,” Simmons said. “But you’re not a licensed investigator, and we can’t have you running around the station and standing in the way. If you want to help the defense, you can do what any civilian could do to accomplish that. Just don’t hinder the actual investigation, and if we find out you tried, we’ll have no choice but to–”
“Yes, Officer Simmons, I’m sure she’s aware of that,” Holden interrupted. “Now I’m sorry there’s nothing more here for you, and I can’t exactly drive around with you all day no matter how much I’d want that, so let’s part ways for now and you can call me anytime. Unless you want to wait to speak to your brother?”
Alethea bit her lip. “No, that’s okay, Agent Westley. Officer Simmons. Good-bye.” She started walking, but turned back around. “My brother’s really innocent, though.”
“We understand, Miss Thwaite.”
“He is, though.”
“I believe you,” Holden said.
She nodded firmly. “You better,” she whispered.
“Excuse me?”
“Eh, nice weather! That’s all.” She looked over her shoulder to the doors that led outside.
“Yes, isn’t it?”
Alethea stared at both of them for what felt like a whole minute, then she gulped and quickly left the station. It was still morning, but she felt like she needed a drink. Investigation work was very stressful. She got why Humphrey Bogart famously drank a lot of whiskey, but he only played an investigator.
