Prologue
He needed a shave and a good sleep, preferably dreamless. Three days and nights spent locked up in here, in this windowless room, staring at the same information, didn't help it make more sense. Slowly, he turned the pages haphazardly thrown into the case folder. What most people didn't believe was that he had a system.
The light fixture in his office wanly bathed the threadbare amenities populating the space designated for the most accomplished detective in the land. His hand snapped to the desk lamp, adjusting it so that its light fell directly on the same page he kept returning to over and over – the vic's information sheet. When the victim was someone so young, questions abounded. Too young to make enemies. And yet.
"Detective Whitlock, you have a visitor." The latest addition to the precinct, a fresh-faced youngster straight out of the academy, put his head through the door, examining him from a safe distance.
Whitlock grunted, a sound that could very well mean either he agreed with the visitor coming in, or that the person in question could go to the deuce for all he cared.
"Phew, it smells pretty ripe in here," a voice Whitlock knew all too well broke the tense silence following the newbie's announcement.
"Look what the cat dragged in." Whitlock sneered, too fed up with the case haunting him lately to want to make pleasant conversation.
Marius Vassier, private investigator, in the flesh, and in his office. That had to be… news. Whether the news was good or bad remained to be seen. The well-known investigator never paid courtesy calls. Especially not to this precinct where the worst cases were handled, and where Whitlock was the uncrowned emperor. One without a coffee machine of his own, but still. He and Vassier didn't often cross paths, since the latter usually dealt with family drama but not the kind that involved the homicidally-inclined. However, when an interesting case did happen to make them cross paths, Whitlock had to admit with all the reluctance he could muster that the private investigator knew his job well enough to be a real cop.
Real cop jobs, however, didn't pay for designer clothes or expensive cologne, both favorites of the man in question. His presence alone lent Whitlock's office a polish it didn't deserve, lifting it briefly from the downtrodden affair it usually was.
"Now, now, mon ami," Vassier mocked, dragging a chair over for himself and sitting with the same casual grace Whitlock had come to know him for over the years. "I was thinking of sharing notes."
Whitlock gestured at his visitor with his unlit cigarette and made hard eye contact. "I have nothing to tell you."
Vassier quirked a perfect eyebrow, his lips barely twitching in a knowing smile. "Is it that bad? Chéri," he addressed the newbie, stuck in the door and taking in the interaction wide-eyed, "how about a cup of your best coffee? I'll be forever in your debt."
The young man shook his head briefly as if aroused from sleep and hurried out, closing the door behind him with deference. Some days, Whitlock had no idea whether the others at the precinct respected him or feared him. Or just thought he was a major asshole and wanted as little to do with him as possible.
"If you came down here for coffee, the sludge we usually indulge in under this humble roof is slated to ruin your delicate palate. I thought I should warn you. Effects might be permanent." Whitlock shrugged, waiting for Vassier to show his hand. Despite his bristly welcome, he was curious. Vassier was also known for having damn good leads.
"So charming of you." Vassier crossed his legs and placed his linked hands on top of his knee, watching Whitlock with hawk-like eyes. There was something raptor-like in the otherwise affable, handsome face. Vassier could fool anyone, but he couldn't fool Whitlock. They knew each other too well. "The Veridien case."
Whitlock closed the case folder on his desk in an unconsciously defensive gesture that didn't go unnoticed.
"You have no leads, no means to investigate further, the respectable faculty not exactly forthcoming with information, and it's eating you raw," Vassier said in a bored tone. His eyes, however, flickered with a glint that he, also, couldn't suppress. That meant that the game of cat and mouse was on. Whitlock didn't like his chances; Vassier never took prisoners, and it was a miracle Whitlock didn't have actual battle scars to show after interacting with the infuriating man once too many times. Still, he could say that a reluctant kind of friendship had developed between them in the time they'd known each other.
"Impressive analysis. What do you have to do with the Veridien case?" Whitlock attacked as riposte.
Vassier leaned back in the old chair. The obsolete piece of furniture, prone to cackling under the slightest provocation, endured the visitor's weight without complaint. Cruel elegance, some people called it, when commenting on the private eye's perfect manners and attire. Whitlock preferred not to call it anything at all.
Their staring contest was abruptly interrupted by the precinct's newbie bringing the guest his desired cup of coffee. Vassier took it from the young man's hands, thanking him as if he'd just been handed the drink of the gods. They both waited for the intruder to close the door behind him before continuing their conversation.
"The family wants justice," Vassier informed him placidly. His eyes, however, followed Whitlock's every move.
"The von Kellers hired you?" Whitlock asked, forgetting that he shouldn't betray himself by showing any emotion in front of Vassier.
His guest nodded slowly. "Yes, and they want the perpetrator found and punished."
Whitlock made a helpless gesture, letting his hands drop onto the case folder. "Then why are you here? Whisk yourself away to Veridien and find out what half the force this side of the mountains couldn't."
"No need to be bitter, Jakob," Vassier said. His voice was the opposite of affable. "I'm here because I think we can work together on this. This is the sort of case that'll allow us the opportunity to complement each other."
"Enlighten me." At this point, Whitlock wasn't beyond asking Vassier for assistance if the information he had in his possession could be used. Information the von Kellers had obviously withheld from the police.
"They think they know who did it."
"Do they now?" Whitlock couldn't refrain from a grimace. "Who is it, then? I'll grab my cuffs and have the bastard dead to rights within the next hour."
"I intend to put their educated guess to the test."
Whitlock rapped his fingers on the desk, now holding his hands apart, one on each side of the case folder. "Are you going to keep me waiting? Who's the killer, according to them?"
Vassier shrugged. "You know how it goes. The closer someone is to the victim, the more likely they are to be the culprit. I'm talking about a lover. A boyfriend," he insisted, making eye contact with his host to avoid any misunderstandings.
"Boyfriend?" Whitlock repeated slowly. "As in--"
"Yes," Vassier confirmed, resting his elbows on the arms of the chair and steepling his fingers in front of his face. "Society is free to frown upon such relationships, but that doesn't make them less real or common. The von Kellers know their son was involved with someone at Veridien Academy."
"A professor?" Whitlock leaned forward, caught up in the intrigue Vassier was propounding without censure.
"A fellow student." Vassier examined him closely. "And now you're wondering how you could've missed that. It's simple, and I'll save you the trouble of fumbling for an answer. It happened the same way your team couldn't examine the grounds as thoroughly as they needed to. With so many stairs that lead nowhere, rusty door locks that, presumably, haven't been used in decades if not centuries, personnel that act as if they all took a vow of silence under the threat of losing their souls, the lack of results of your investigation so far is not surprising."
Whitlock gave the man a sharp look but kept his mouth shut. Vassier was right. Extracting the tiniest morsel of information from the people working at Veridien Academy had been a nightmare. Medieval torture was prohibited as a method of investigation, and therefore, everyone had offered the minimum they could so they couldn't be accused of obstructing justice.
"What's your big idea?" Whitlock asked. "If you're here, you must have one."
Vassier seemed mighty pleased with himself. "More than an idea. An entire plan. Officially, you are close to declaring the whole thing a suicide, right? Or an accident."
"Not if I can help it," Whitlock said with a low grunt. Neither theory – suicide or accident – sit well with him. The position of the victim, the signs of an earlier struggle and violence prior to the fall that had brought about the poor chap's demise, and the academy's reluctance to cooperate, all pointed to foul play.
"That's the spirit, detective. What we need is someone on the inside."
"Right," Whitlock said dryly. "Have you secured a temp job to become part of the faculty then? I don't see you working there as a janitor. Or as a cook. Maybe a maid?"
Vassier gave him a withering look. "We need a student who can feed us the right information."
Whitlock paused. "Do the von Kellers have such a connection?"
"No, but I have already put things in motion to get someone in."
"They don't accept just anyone. I believe they have stricter admission standards than the Vatican."
"I will get that someone in," Vassier said in a tone that brooked no contradiction. "But you must supply that someone."
"How am I supposed to do that?" Whitlock opened his arms wide. It annoyed him that Vassier had more essential information than he did.
"Your nephew. He's in his last year now, correct?"
Whitlock took a moment to stare at Vassier as if the man had lost his marbles. "Lawrence? Pardon my French, but are you mad?"
"His grades are perfect, he's in top physical condition, he's smarter than your entire precinct put together, and he's the right age to mingle with the possible guilty parties."
"More than one guy whacked the boy? That your theory?"
Vassier shrugged. "People up there are too tight-lipped for the whole thing to be neat and tidy. I bet my right nut that things are much more complicated than they'd have us believe."
For Vassier to make such a blunt wager, things had to be damn interesting.
Still, Whitlock couldn't go along with what Vassier was suggesting. "I can't get Lawrence involved. He'd stick out like a sore thumb there."
Not to mention the secrecy required by such an operation. What Vassier wasn't saying, and Whitlock knew better than to bring up, was a simple truth: theirs was an institution where paperwork abounded but was just as easy to be made to appear lost. Like in the old folktales, Lawrence would have to walk in there like the wise peasant's daughter, neither dressed nor undressed, neither walking nor riding.
However, above all the complications – which were within Whitlock's purview to make much easier, given his position – there was the matter of involving Lawrence. It was hard to believe that the boy was now a young man of twenty-two, already looking too serious and older than his age.
Vassier nodded slowly. "He's a big gentle brute, just like you, and people who don't know him think he's slow. But he's right for the job. This is a career-making case, Jakob. You can't keep the boy out of it. Ask him. See what he thinks."
Career-making case. Vassier had to know he was talking out of his ass. But Whitlock understood office politics well enough to understand that success in the role would work mightily in Lawrence's favor. He'd be fast-tracked for making detective, and no one would bat an eye.
"No way, no." Whitlock shook his head. "That's my sister's kid we're talking about."
"He's a grownup. He wants to be a big bad cop like you. Do you think that protecting him from danger will keep him from wanting it less? And don't bring your sis into this. That woman never cared about Lawrence, with all due respect."
Whitlock had to bite his tongue to hold back the impulse to send Vassier to hell and out of his office. Although, he would do better to remember how well Marius knew him and all his dealings. At first, it had been unnerving; in time, it had become a too familiar aspect of their relationship to get annoyed about.
"He's not ready," he said, slowly scratching an old scar on his right hand with a single fingernail, something he often did when faced with a dilemma. "And he has school. The year barely started."
"Which makes it ideal. Transferring a student mid-term would be more difficult. Get Lawrence to take a sabbatical. He helps us solve this, he becomes a hero."
"There are other things to consider. What kind of miracle worker do you think I am to be able to make this happen? Don't even suggest that we should do this outside the law," Whitlock said, wagging his unlit cigarette again at his guest.
"You're the king here," Vassier said, smiling like he knew shit. "Hell, some of your subordinates even call you Emperor."
"Stop bullshitting me. This could land us both in hot water. Me more than you."
Vassier stood and leaned over the desk. He grabbed the case folder and opened it. The vic's sheet was, again, under Whitlock's eyes. Vassier rapped his knuckles over the vic's picture. "Read it out loud, Jakob. Date of birth, date of death. No, better let me do it." With a flourish, he lifted the folder and turned it so he could read it. "Born February 14th 1964. Date of death: March 10th 1986. How many months since it happened? Seven months?"
"Yeah, that's about right." Whitlock grabbed the folder and closed it, slamming it down on his desk.
"He had his whole life ahead of him. Are you willing to let this go? Those fuckers up there," Vassier gestured at an indefinite point in space, "think they can get away with murder. Let's mess them up."
Whitlock rolled the cigarette slowly between his thumb and forefinger, thin tobacco shreds pouring down onto his desk. "Who's the guy the von Kellers suspect?"
Vassier locked eyes with him in an undisguised battle of wills. "Give me your word that you'll talk to Lawrence, and I'll tell you."
Whitlock pushed his cigarette between his lips and lit it. Through the cloud of smoke he blew toward the ceiling, he examined Vassier slowly. "If Lawrence says 'no', you find someone else. And you keep me in the loop."
"Deal."
"Sure of yourself much?"
"I know Lawrence."
Vassier had met Lawrence a total of five times in the last three years. This infuriating private eye thought he could read people, even those going through the natural transformation of adolescence and young years. The problem was he was right on most occasions. And Whitlock could feel it in his gut that Lawrence would say 'yes'. His nephew was a silent, brooding young man at first glance, but a benign one, hence Vassier's remark about people suspecting him of being slow.
Lawrence was anything but slow. His wit was sharp like a razor blade, his mind worked faster than that of anyone else Whitlock had ever met, and he was able to memorize information in impressive quantities, information he analyzed and reduced to its essentials in the time people took to blink. Sometimes, his nephew's outstanding intellect amazed Whitlock in a way he could only describe as uncomfortable. It made him wonder if the young man Lawrence had become ever had time for making friends or finding someone special. As far as Whitlock knew, the boy had never had a girlfriend, unless he was extremely discreet, which, again, was an important part of his character.
He could see why Vassier would think Lawrence perfect for the job.
"Fine, then."
"We'll talk to him together," Vassier said.
"Don't you trust me?" Whitlock quirked an eyebrow and took a long drag from his cigarette.
"Not for this. Lawrence is more like a son than a nephew to you."
That was also true. As was true how Denise had preferred to leave her only son in the care of boarding schools and other people in general. Lawrence was her secret, one she treated like a dirty one; she had never told anyone who Lawrence's father was, though she had chosen a last name she wouldn't share with him. Whitlock had taken to the boy despite his taciturn disposition and understood quickly how intelligent he was. And Lawrence took to him in his own reserved way; that was why he was at the police academy now, educating himself to become a future cop, and later, a detective, just like his uncle.
"Okay," he agreed with a long exhalation. "Who was Lukas's boyfriend?"
Maybe he was struggling with this one because Lukas had been the same age as Lawrence at the time of his death. He wasn't just a vic.
Vassier smiled with superiority. "Bastien Hawthorne."
Whitlock frowned. "That explains that. He found the body. Convenient."
"And it would also explain the reluctance of the academy to assist with the investigation. The Hawthornes--" Vassier started.
"Yeah, they own everything this side of the mountain. But let me tell you this. They don't own this precinct."
Vassier shrugged. "And they don't own me, either. If Bastien's the perp, he'll go down."
"Be honest with me. Do you like him for it?"
Another shrug followed. "He's worth looking into. Like you said, he found the body. Who's to say he wasn't the one who strangled Lukas and threw him to his death?"
Whitlock felt a surge of energy despite the sleep lost over the past days. Finally, a lead. Bastien Hawthorne had seemed aloof and heavily medicated when his interview took place; Whitlock couldn't say whether the young man was capable of murder or not, but finding a reasonable motive was no longer farfetched, given the nature of his relationship with the victim. As for opportunity, that was also right there for the keen eye to see.
"Let's see Lawrence," he said, standing and grabbing his jacket. "Did you come in your car?" The boy – the young man – was always happy to see him. Even for someone as intelligent as him – or maybe exactly for someone as intelligent as him – studying could grow rather dull on occasion.
"Of course. But I'm not letting you drive," Vassier replied, narrowing his eyes.
"You should, seeing I gave you everything you wanted," Whitlock said with a grin.
"Convince Lawrence to play along, and I might. On our way back."
"I thought you were sure Lawrence would say 'yes'."
"He respects you way too much. If he senses the slightest hesitation from you, he's going to say 'no' just to make you happy."
Lawrence did respect him. And Whitlock respected the odd boy just as much; it was as close as he'd ever gotten to a feeling like familial love. He hadn't felt like that for his sister or their parents. But Lawrence deserved all the care and affection a parent could give him. Even if Whitlock wasn't that.
***
"Yes." There was no other answer he could give. Lawrence pressed his fingers against the edge of the table in an awkward position, close together like a barricade. Between him and the other people sitting with him, there were three cups of strong tea, three saucers and a sugar bowl with a teaspoon delicately set on the side. What would be the quickest move to make the whole arrangement crumble?
His uncle Jakob gave him a hard look. "Lawrence, take your time. You need to think about it before making a decision."
Well aware of the tension in his large shoulders, Lawrence pushed the tips of his fingers into the hard surface until white crescents appeared under his nails. He'd never been one to kowtow to people to get what he wanted. People called him blunt because he spoke directly. He'd never expected his uncle to be the kind to require coaxing.
"It is the Veridien case," he said simply, staring at the solitary leaf slowly circling inside his cup. The slight acidic taste of the tea made his throat feel dry. He wanted in. "I'm done thinking."
"Isn't he too cute?" the other man at the table commented.
Lawrence risked a furtive look at Marius Vassier. The man intrigued him to the point of making him feel a strange mental itch. Vassier had a quick wit but his reasoning didn't always follow a straight line. If rules of politeness weren't in the way, Lawrence would dissect his brain by means of subjecting him to a long string of questions about his methods.
Cute was the last thing anyone would call him. He had grown big, too big for his age – or any age, really, but his impressive stature, instead of engendering respect, turned him into a source of amusement among his peers. It was impossible to understand it. He appeared clumsy, yes – like a bull in a china shop, as a professor once said, earning him an appalling nickname – but he had never broken anything, nor hurt anyone by accident.
His uncle examined him at length. Lawrence could tell the detective was on the fence about his involvement, but he didn't know what else he could do to convince him.
Vassier seemed ready to intervene in his favor, but Jakob put a hand up. "Let's set the ground rules. You are there to observe, not to investigate. If things get hairy, you walk out. I don't need you on my conscience."
Lawrence nodded shortly. "I'll keep track of everything and stay in touch. I'll send you my notes every week. I won't get into trouble."
"Notes can be intercepted," Vassier said, his gaze fixed on him. "You can't use the phones at the academy without drawing unnecessary attention."
"I'll use shorthand and a key only my uncle and I know."
"Ah, so you're planning to keep things from me."
Lawrence was aware Vassier was teasing him.
"My uncle will share everything with you, I'm sure. As for using the phones at the academy, you're right. I'll go down to the village. There's a post office, and I can make calls from there. Anyone asks, I have a sweetheart who lives close by."
"Lawrence, you stud." Vassier grinned, giving him an assessing look. "What if anyone follows you?"
"I'll secure a girlfriend of convenience to fend off any suspicions."
"No, bad idea," Vassier said.
Lawrence stopped. It was an idea, not necessarily a bad one. But he could see why it would over-complicate things.
"You will keep up a tight correspondence with your dear mother," Vassier said.
Lawrence schooled his face to avoid grimacing at the mention of the woman who'd given birth to him. She had been adamant about not wanting to have anything to do with him beyond paying for his education – something she wasn't doing anyway, because his uncle actually took care of that aspect, too. Discreetly, as was his style, but Lawrence knew the truth.
"All the correspondence will be redirected to us," Vassier continued. "So, practice your homesickness because you'll have to be seen writing these letters. Who knows who might peek over your shoulder?"
"It is a good plan," Lawrence agreed.
"As for not getting in trouble, that remains to be seen," Vassier said, exchanging a glance with Lawrence's uncle.
"I won't," Lawrence insisted.
"He won't," his uncle said.
Vassier didn't seem convinced but appeared willing to let it go. "Good. Let's go shopping."
"For what?" Lawrence asked. He knew he would be supplied with a uniform at the academy after sending them his measurements. It was the way they did things. The Veridien case had fascinated him enough to take a close look at the way the academy worked.
"Oh, young man, you have no idea. You'll be surrounded by boys born with silver spoons in their mouths. We don't need you to look like one of them. However, we do need you to seem well-off. You'll be measured and judged by everything: the pen you use, the quality of your coat, even your socks."
"The precinct can't afford expenses like that," Lawrence said, quizzing his uncle with his eyes.
"But I can," Vassier said. "Come now. We're on a tight schedule."
TBC