The car hummed softly as we sped down the quiet stretch of road. To break the silence, I flicked on the radio. Static gave way to a station mid-song, and a tender, romantic melody filled the air:
"If you are not the one, then why does my soul feel glad today?"
The lyrics landed like a brick in the small, confined space of the car. I stiffened, my grip tightening on the wheel. Without missing a beat, I reached out and switched it off.
"That song was too boring," I said, my tone deliberately dismissive, hoping to brush the moment under the rug.
Sasha turned toward me, an incredulous look on her face. "It's one of my favorites," she defended, her voice sharp with defiance.
I shrugged. "Do you want me to play it again?" I asked, my tone light, though I was silently praying she'd say no.
She rolled her eyes dramatically and leaned back in her seat. "No, thanks."
Crisis averted.
The drive to Schwat City stretched on, the empty streets rolling by like a never-ending ribbon of asphalt. The quietness outside was almost eerie, amplifying every small sound within the car—the occasional rustle of clothes, the soft tapping of Sasha's fingers against her book. My foot rested a little heavier on the gas pedal than usual, though I couldn't quite explain why. Adrenaline, maybe. Or the need to fill the silence with motion.
I glanced sideways at her. She had taken out a novel, The Adventures of Tom Sawyer by Mark Twain, and was flipping through the pages with a slight pout on her lips. She looked like a kid trying to distract herself from a long, boring car ride.
"The kid's got herself an adventure now," I muttered under my breath, smirking to myself.
Sasha looked up, catching my gaze for a moment. "What?"
"Nothing," I said quickly, eyes snapping back to the road.
After a beat, I decided to break the silence again. "So, how was your trip to Japan?"
"It was nice," she said, her voice softer this time, though there was a shadow of worry in her tone. "But my grandmother's really sick. She's getting so old."
I nodded, my hands steady on the wheel. "How old is she?"
"She's 89."
"Asians really do live a long time," I remarked. "Age slower, perfect skin... always look younger than they are. Must be nice."
Sasha gave me a side glance, her lips twitching like she was deciding whether to be amused or annoyed by my comment. She chose silence, her fingers going back to her book.
"So, Mr. Hoffman," she said after a pause, her tone shifting slightly. "Did you send that letter to your parents?"
The question caught me off guard. My jaw tightened, and I shifted in my seat. "Yes, yes," I lied smoothly, my voice calm and steady. "Still waiting on a reply, though."
Sasha didn't respond, but the weight of her glance lingered on me. Clearing my throat, I refocused on the road, letting the rhythm of the tires on asphalt drown out my thoughts.
I parked the car at SuperTech Pvt Ltd, the building bustling with activity. The parking lot was packed, far busier than usual. Inside, employees hurried back and forth, their faces lit with the faint buzz of post-holiday energy.
"Guess everyone's back from their Christmas and New Year breaks," I remarked, stepping out of the car.
Sasha followed, adjusting her bag on her shoulder as she surveyed the scene. "Makes sense. First week of January, everyone's catching up."
I nodded, glancing around at the crowd. "Let's hope they're not all still in holiday mode."
We headed toward the glass doors, the lingering festive vibe in the air contrasting sharply with the brisk pace of the staff. It was going to be an interesting day.
I stepped into the dimly lit lobby of SuperTech Pvt Ltd, my gaze immediately falling on the lifeless Christmas tree in the corner. It stood there, bare of any decorations, its once vibrant lights now dimming as they were taken down piece by piece. The tree looked like it had been stripped of all its life, standing there stark and naked—a stark reminder that the festive season had passed.
At the reception desk, I pulled out Jake Brooks' portfolio—Noah Dawson's so-called "bosom friend," as Jack Dawson had put it. My eyes scanned the photograph: brown hair, pale freckled skin, and thick-framed glasses. There he was, flirting with the typical American beauty—the receptionist—leaning in close with an easy smile. It was almost textbook.
I approached the desk, leaning casually against the counter. "Can I take your man for a dance?" I asked, flashing a smirk.
The receptionist looked up, amused by the boldness of my statement. "Oh hey. Loren." Her tone was playful, but I could see the gleam in her eyes, eager for some distraction.
I held up a hand, rejecting any advances. I wasn't here to provide her with entertainment for her mundane job. I had my own agenda—either this guy, Jake, was part of a clue, or he was the glue holding something together. Besides, she had turned me down earlier, so I figured I might as well return the favor. Give her a taste of her own medicine.
"Damn, what's your problem, dude?" Jake interrupted, annoyance creeping into his voice. "Can't you see I'm busy talking to my office beauty here?"
"Yes, I can see that," I said flatly, pulling out my badge and showing him to make him understand the gravity if this situation "I'm quite busy, you know."
Jake's attention finally shifted from the receptionist, and a flicker of recognition crossed his face. A faint sense of satisfaction bloomed within me as I watched him finally focus on me.
Meanwhile, Sasha had struck up a conversation with the receptionist, her voice filled with excitement as she went on about the new 2004 fashion collection and celebrity sightings.
Girls.
Jake finally leaned back, using the sofa as a makeshift question room. "So, man?" he said, puffing smoke from a cigarette. "Homicide Bureau? Is it?"
"Yes," I confirmed.
He exhaled, shaking his head. "Damn, I'm tense. Never talked with a cop—or detective—whatever—like this before."
"I'm not here as police," I corrected, steady and calm.
"Oh yeah…" Jake said, irritation seeping into his voice. "Detective… whatever."
"So, are you and Noah close, Jake?" I asked, keeping my voice neutral, but my gaze sharp.
"Hell yeah," he replied, his tone brimming with familiarity. "Haven't seen him in five months…"
"Can you answer my question about his life partners?" I pressed, leaning slightly forward.
"His life partner?" Jake chuckled, his eyes narrowing in amusement. "Damn, that man's a skirt-chaser."
"His girlfriend?" I probed, watching for any shift in his expression.
Jake looked at me skeptically for a moment, his smirk fading slightly. "You know she's pregnant, right?"
I felt a flicker of interest, though I kept my expression neutral. "I have a clue."
Jake continued, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Noah had a very secret relationship with a mystery girl named Cassie. Never seen her, but she was old... not his type. Older women, never his style."
He spoke slowly, careful not to raise any suspicion. "This woman, she was suspicious. No photos. No clues. No nothing. Hell, even her number isn't contactable. I happened to hack his phone once—pure curiosity, you know. She's like a ghost."
"Didn't Noah find it strange?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.
"A man in love is the most foolish thing," Jake scoffed. "Even a Casanova like him couldn't resist her. Said she was married, divorced—wanted to keep everything quiet, not to draw attention. But this is America. People do whatever they want; no one even blinks an eye. You believe this Cassie stuff?"
"No," I said sincerely, not hiding my doubt.
Jake shrugged. "Out of curiosity, I found her address."
"Whose address?" I asked, intrigued.
"Noah's girlfriend," he replied, smirking. "I pity her though. She thought she'd hit the jackpot with a Mr. Moneybags, but little did she know…" He trailed off, his voice filled with meaning.
I chuckled slightly, catching his drift.
"I want to help my friend, Mr. Noah Dawson," Jake said, his tone shifting to something more nostalgic. "After all, he's done me favors—secured some numbers for me."
I gave him a long, measured look, absorbing his words. This guy might just be more valuable than I thought.