DARK CITY a gripping detective mystery (9 page)

Chapter 17

Ghosted Echo

Sunlight heralded the arrival of the new day, casting a hue of gold over the city. For a few brief moments, those precious seconds between opening your eyes and remembering where you are, the world was beautiful. Windows glistened with the rain of the night, shining like diamonds studded in their settings of concrete. The city was not a jewel, nor would it ever be confused with one, but for a few moments, on lucky days, there was reason to remember what hope felt like.

Detective Knox opened his eyes to the beam that shone through his window, unmoved by the wonder of nature. He raised a hand to shield his eyes, muttering a curse under his breath, wondering if the sun was a torture device planted by God to slowly torment him into madness. While the rest of the city was reveling in a few moments of warmth and optimism, he was rubbing his eyes to remove the ghosted echo of the sun, already sure the day was on a path to ruin. Optimism was a disease, Knox thought, one that he had been fortunate never to contract. In those rare moments when he understood why people could embrace optimism, he wondered how people could live with such a burden.

As a pessimist, Detective Knox was only surprised when the strangers known as success and happiness paid unexpected visits, arriving under a cloak of mystery. Not expecting them made those moments of genuine happiness that much stronger, steeping the feelings in the boiling tumult that was his soul. Little victories that passed unnoticed for most people, were, for him, minor miracles. Optimists might be happier more often, but their feelings were shallow in comparison to his. Only men who embraced the dark side of life, like Detective Knox, could truly appreciate when the skies parted.

Detective Knox was in his usual foul mood by the time he arrived at the precinct, fresh coffee stains dotting circles on his tie, the roof of his mouth smooth where he had burned himself. His tongue ran over it endlessly, feeling the dying skin as it slowly separated, blistering that reminded him of how even the things he loved the most could hurt him. It was a lesson he did not need to recall on a daily basis, much less on a day when he knew he was walking down the staircase into his own personal hell.

Detective Lane was already at his desk when Knox arrived, his head buried in reports. His hand moved furiously, scribbling notes that would defy archaeologists in the future, giving rise to what seemed like a new language. Knox took his seat, waiting to see how long it would take his partner to notice his arrival. Lane continued, covering the paper with ink, only stopping when all the spaces were filled.

“Oh, hey, I didn't notice you get in. You must have snuck up on me.”

“Or you just really like paperwork.”

“One of us has to fill them out, and we both know it's not going to be you.”

“You do know me.”

“So we've got all three of the family members here already.”

“Rich people showed up on time? What's the world coming to?”

“Yeah, go figure. Anyway, they're all here, so we can start anytime. Did you want to talk to them all together, or one at a time?”

“As much as I'd like to get this done as quickly as possible, I don't think I could stand to listen to them if they got into an argument. We'll take them one by one.”

“Will do. Mrs. Hobbes is in interview room one.”

* * *

Faith Hobbes sat behind the plank of wood masquerading as a table with an air of dignity, a grace that belied the situation she found herself in. Although she was not being interrogated, her surroundings should have sparked a degree of disgust in a woman of her status. Her eyes remained fixed ahead, unwilling to drift towards the corners of the room, where lines of mildew grew like wildflowers. The edges of the floor were stained a rich, deep brown, as though coffee had been the only cleaning agent used. The room was a box, a utilitarian setup that served only the purpose of isolation, with little use for anything approaching comfort. It seemed to her perfectly appropriate that a building that housed so many monsters should look as inhuman as they were.

Detective Knox read the lines on her face, or the places where they should have been, looking for signs of her mood. She was a stoic creature, one well-adapted to keeping her emotions in check. Knox appreciated this, as he was uncomfortable having to hold the hands of grieving family members who could only speak to him through a wash of their tears. Faith Hobbes was not one of those women; she was a steely creature who treated other people like chattels, tools to be used to achieve her own ends. Knox made no moral judgments, he merely agreed with her that some people were tools.

“Detective, I don't know why I'm here. I already told you everything I know, so unless you've caught my ex-husband's killer, I really don't see the point.”

“I'm afraid we haven't caught his killer yet, but we do have a new lead we're working on. That's where we were hoping you would be able to help us.”

“I don't see how, but go ahead.”

“It's come to our attention that something happened to your ex-husband the day before his murder. Do you know anything about it?”

For the first time, Faith Hobbes' facade cracked. Her brow lowered in the middle, the painted streaks of black turning into an expression that resembled confusion. Detective Knox had trouble seeing it through the thick layers of makeup, and the forced immobilization of her face, but he swore he could see the muscles twitching, though not firing, in an attempt to move her towards humanity.

“I have no idea what you're talking about.”

“So he didn't tell you about anything strange that may have happened to him?”

“I assure you he did not. He was a boring man, so I think I would remember if he said something that wasn't.”

“You paint a lovely picture of him. So you didn't know that your ex-husband had been kidnapped?”

Even an untrained observer of human nature could see the very idea bounce off her, sliding down to the floor. Kidnapping, Faith Hobbes thought, required a victim someone desperately wanted. She could not fathom how anyone might feel that way about her ex-husband.

“Kidnapped? Heavens, no. Who would want to take him?”

“That's what we were hoping you could tell us.”

“I'm sorry, but I don't know who would think he was valuable enough. He isn't exactly the kind of target you would associate with such a thing.”

“What do you mean?”

“Isn't it obvious? He had money, yes, but almost all of that was going to a family member already. Other than money, he was an ordinary person. The whole thing seems like a joke, because he is about the last person to waste your time kidnapping. Whoever did it must have been amateurs.”

“That's interesting, you used the present tense one time.”

“I did? How odd. I suppose people never die as long as you don't remember proper grammar at all times.”

“That's one way of looking at it.”

* * *

Emerson Hobbes was less stoical than his mother, his demeanor more indifferent than insolent. With his feet resting atop the table, he reclined to ease the flow of blood to his extremities, reducing the wear and tear on the heart people were not sure he had. Detective Knox despised him, as he did all those who refused to apologize for the arrogance that privilege bestows upon them. His position, Knox thought, might make it possible for blood to actually reach his brain and engage it, not that it contained any wisdom worth hearing.

Detective Knox took his seat, waiting for Emerson to remove his feet. The pause grew, until Knox was sufficiently aggravated with his guest. Bracing himself, he put both hands under the lip of the table, and lifted it shoulder high, sending Emerson Hobbes tumbling off balance. His chair dug in, but the soft linoleum gave way as the rotted threads tore apart, and Emerson fell squarely onto his back, his head making a hollow thud as it hit the ground.

Emerson jumped to his feet as Detective Knox returned the table to its original position. His eyes were ablaze, wide with the sobriety that had been missing in them during their previous conversation. Knox could see the wheels spinning behind his eyes, as Emerson Hobbes struggled to comprehend what had just happened.

“Sit down Mr. Hobbes.”

“Are you kidding me? Did you really just assault me?”

If he had intended to assault Emerson, which he could have easily justified, he would have made it perfectly clear. Such treatment was specifically outlawed by the department, for legal purposes, which Knox knew meant he could not be engaged in such activity while sitting in front of one of the station's security cameras.

“All I did was put your feet back on the ground. In fact, I think you dented our floor.”

“This is outrageous. I could have your badge for this.”

“Kid, you don't know how lucky you are. So you look stupid for a few minutes, and maybe you get a bump on the head. That's nothing compared to what happens to people who are actually suspects. You don't want to make that list, do you?”

Detective Knox's words brought Emerson Hobbes down from the ledge, his anger seeping out like a slow leaking balloon. His chest sunk in, his face hollowed, and he took his seat. There was still a wary look in his eye, but he could see how the game was played, and it was his turn to act.

“I didn't do anything, so no, I don't want you running a vendetta against me.”

“Good. All you have to do is answer a couple of questions, and then you can go.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Did your father tell you about anything unusual that might have happened to him the day before his death.”

“Nothing that I can recall, but I might have had a little too much to drink by that point, so I wouldn't really know.”

“So you didn't hear anything about a kidnapping?”

Detective Knox was not an expert in psychology, or biomechanics, but he knew what to expect of people, and he could see from the expression on Emerson Hobbes' face that he was genuinely surprised to hear about a kidnapping. It was possible he was merely caught off-guard that it had been discovered, but Knox didn't believe that. Emerson did not know anything useful, which was exactly what Knox had expected.

“No. Are you telling me he was kidnapped before he was murdered?”

“It looks that way. Can you think of anyone who would want to take your father?”

“Just my mother, but I know she didn't do it.”

“ Very funny.”

“I'm sorry, but I'm having a hard time believing this. It doesn't make any sense.”

“I know it doesn't. Murder rarely does.”

* * *

Tory Hobbes was in a trance when Detective Knox entered the room, her consciousness somewhere other than the precinct. This stirred up feelings of jealousy in Knox, who had always wanted to be able to do just that. He snapped his fingers in front of her face, drawing her back from wherever she had been. Tory looked up at him, making an uncomfortable amount of eye contact, following him as he took his seat.

Detective Knox was not fond of eye contact, or any form of intimacy. It felt foreign to him to invite someone to look into the deepest recesses of his essence. It was akin to asking to be emotionally burgled, a phenomenon he did not wish to experience. Tory was not of this mind, wanting to share as much of her human experience as possible, believing that only through sharing can we truly be alive. She invited everyone in, and felt saddened when people like Detective Knox refused her hospitality.

Faith and Emerson Hobbes were people Knox could understand, flawed characters that were focused on their own self-interest at all costs, because that was the type of man he was. Caring about other people, about all people, in the way Tory did was beyond Knox’s comprehension. Knox did not think that such love was possible, even when confronted by the evidence. The world may be a better place for having people like her in it, he thought, but people like Tory were the lambs whose slaughter would feed the rest.

“So tell me, detective, why am I here?”

“Metaphysically, or actually?”

“You're still denying yourself an appreciation of the greater experience, aren't you?”

“I'll get around to it when I'm done with this narrow one.”

“You can't change a mind that doesn't want to change.”

“Good point. To answer your query, you're here to answer a few questions.”

“Do proceed.”

“Did your father tell you about anything unusual that had happened to him the day before his death?”

“No, we didn't talk about anything substantive.”

“So you didn't know he had been kidnapped?”

The word did not resonate with Tory, as though she could not wrap her mind around the idea of being forcibly removed from her life. To her, there was only the here and now, wherever that may be, so a kidnapping seemed merely to be a change of scenery, and not the grave action it was viewed as by others.

“Of course not, although now that you've mentioned it, something is starting to make sense.”

“What's that?”

“That day, he didn't quite seem to be himself. Well, he was, but he was moving a little bit slower, as though he had worked out too much and was sore. Of course, he never worked out, so it wasn't that. It never occurred to me to ask what was wrong. I figured he must have been coming down with the flu or something.”