Chapitre 19: Turn off the Light ch. 19
Peter half hopes someone will answer. Of course, by the time the Captain and the Lieutenant emerge from the stairwell two minutes later, no one has.
The Captain looks from the door to Leight. "No answer?"
"No one present—at least, no one alive."
With a profound sigh, the Captain takes his own turn at the door. "Open up, Mr. Aldrin. Philadelphia Police." He waits, ever so patiently. "If you don't open this door, we will." Surprise, surprise, there's no response. The Captain sighs again.
What Peter expects is some dramatic kicking down of the door. What he sees is the Captain opening the door with a key he extracts from his pocket. That's when he belatedly realizes their police contingent took so long because they stopped to get the key from the landlord.
So the Captain unlocks the door, takes his gun out of its holster, and heads in. They all follow.
The first thing that strikes them is the stench of rotting meat.
"No one alive," Leight echoes his previous assertion. Oh. So. Smug.
The rest of them just groan.
The apartment is small and dingy but not terribly messy. They wander through the living room, the kitchenette, and finally, the bedroom. There, the odor is the strongest, nearly vomit-inducing. Its source would appear to be the body lying on the bed. It is insect-ridden and well on its way to decomposed.
As Peter goes over to the body, he wonders, for at least the thousandth time in the last two years, what on earth possessed him to give up his cushy cardiology gig at Crick for this—this malodorous, vomitus, dangerous job.
Then he sneaks a glance at Leight, who is conducting his own examination by the window, and he remembers exactly why. So he swallows the bile in his throat and forces himself to look at the remains.
Frankly, not much of Mr. Aldrin remains. He was, from what Peter can tell, a large man. Probably young and possibly African American. It's difficult to say. He bites his lip.
"It was a professional job," Leight is saying as he examines the windowsill. "Ex-military with sniper training. It wasn't a terribly difficult shot—the car was only moving ten miles per hour—but what with the motion, the difficult angle, and the impossible stench—it was too neat not to be professional."
Then he gives up his examination and apparently all interest. He leans back against the wall, pulls out his cell phone, and starts texting.
The Captain grumbles. "What about you, Peter? What have you got for us?"
Peter hesitates. He hates to speculate. He wishes he had a lab. "It looks like blunt force trauma to the skull, but it's difficult—"
"Time of death?"
Peter continues to worry his upper lip. "It's difficult to be definitive without a lab."
"You're prevaricating," Leight says without looking up from his phone.
"Some time frame, Peter," the Captain pleads. "Please."
He looks at the body again, then at the Captain. "The best I can do is a loose estimate."
"Better than nothing," the Captain nods in encouragement. "Go ahead."
"Okay. Three to six weeks."
"Four and a half, to be exact."
"What?" Peter blinks and looks across the room at Leight, who excels at acting innocent when he clearly isn't. "How—"
Leight returns his phone to his pocket and looks up. "According to my former friend Larry—"
"Larry as in Pleasure Factory Larry?"
"Yes, you met him a few months ago. Now, according to my former friend Larry, one of his employees—Coco, I believe—disappeared four and a half weeks ago.."
"And how, exactly, do you know that Aldrin is the mysterious Coco?" Peter questions.
It's a struggle to keep his voice steady because he can't help thinking, doubting, speculating (as much as he hates speculating, worrying is his worst instinct).
If Leight was a client of Coco's, he might know things about Coco—his real name, where he lived, or how long he'd been missing.
And Leight's so careful, what with the "former" friend comment, that Peter can't decide whether to be moved or concerned.
"Good guess," Leight shrugs, "which I had Larry confirm via text two minutes ago."
"Then," Peter struggles to catch up, "how did you arrive at that guess?"
"Oh, Peter. Did you not catch the smell on Maria Vasquez's suit?"
The revelation strikes. "You've got to be kidding."
Leight smirks. "I never kid."
"Leight," the Captain cuts in. "What are you suggesting?"
"Maria Vasquez was having an affair." He pauses, looking thoughtful. "Or her husband was, and she caught him—but that's less likely." He pauses again. "No, it was definitely her. She wasn't wearing her ring."
"And you think this was relevant to the Senator's murder?"
"Absolutely."
"But what about the Marriage Equality Act?" asks the Lieutenant, sounding rather puppy-like.
"A convenient non sequitur, just a touch ironic, but certainly not the motive."
The Captain is silent. It's clear that the cogs are turning in his head as he thinks over the facts; it's a slow process. "I don't buy it. Peter, Leight, I need the two of you to talk to Vasquez's staff about the bill. The Lieutenant and I will handle the anti-marriage groups. We'll all reconvene in three hours."
Even though his theory has been disregarded, even though he has to steel himself to interrogate politicians, even though he's being forced to work before noon on a Sunday morning, Leight smiles.
"Brilliant."
Transportation is more difficult to navigate than usual. There are no cabs anywhere in sight. The subways and buses are packed beyond capacity. So Peter and Leight just end up walking alongside what was supposed to be the parade route as they head toward Maria Vasquez's downtown office.
By now, the news of the Senator's assassination has spread. There are no floats in the streets. There are no children or families left among the spectators. The party, however, continues. It could pass for an intoxicated wake. It's a little violent, a little sad, a little joyful—a little thing that isn't little at all.
Out of nowhere, Leight reaches for Peter's hand and clasps it in his own. Their fingers intertwine.
They keep walking, and there are a few more moments of silence before Leight breaks it. "This is what you wanted, isn't it?"
Peter blinks—he's still in shock over the scandalous handholding. "To which part of our current situation are you referring?"
"The characters and the setting. Us, together at Pride."
"I would have preferred a different plot twist—or better yet, no plot twist at all."
Leight wrinkles his nose. "How boring."
"Most people would say parades are exciting."
"Most people are squeamish about murder. I, on the contrary, enjoy assassinations."
"I know," Peter smiles in spite of himself, in spite of the pit of dread that is his stomach. "You also used to enjoy the Pleasure Factory."
"Yes," Leight nods, "I did."
"When was the last time you went?"
"The night before we went to visit your parents. I told you about it."
"I remember." Peter pays close attention to the sound his shoes make against the concrete.
"If you don't believe me," oddly enough, Leight doesn't sound terribly bothered by that prospect, "you can ask Larry yourself."
And that's when Peter stops in his tracks. "What?"
"In about fifteen minutes."
Peter raises an eyebrow, skeptical, but not really surprised at all.
"We're going to the Pleasure Factory to have a chat with Larry," Leight explains. He tugs Peter's arm (not quite) gently. "Now come along."
"The Captain asked us to speak with Maria Vasquez's staff. At her office."
"And that, my dear Grayson, would be a terrible waste of time."
"Mr. Malcolm!" Larry exclaims with open arms as he ushers them into the Pleasure Factory. The opium smoke is positively oppressive. "Long time no see!"
Leight smiles his most insincere smile. "I know, Larry, but don't look so pleased. Remember Dr. Grayson? We're here on police business again."
"Of course," Larry feigns calm. He's starting to sweat, just a little, but he acts as if he isn't worried at all. "Did you find Coco?" He leads them to the same table they sat at months ago.
"We did," Leight nods and takes a seat. "He's dead."
Larry massages his temple. He looks unsettled. "We were afraid of that."
And those are the words that send Peter over the edge. He's disinclined to like Larry because he doesn't exactly approve of his attitudes, this place, or the things Leight did here. But a man spent weeks rotting on his own bed, and his employer is just too cavalier about it.
Peter can't stand it.
It's rare that he's this indignant about anything, but he hates everything about this. "Then why didn't you do something? If Aldrin stopped showing up to work four and a half weeks ago, why didn't you send someone to check on him at his apartment? Why didn't you file a missing persons report? Why didn't you do anything?"
His green eyes shimmer behind his glasses. It isn't as if he expects a lot. Just something. Anything.
"The situation was delicate."
"Of course," Leight nods sympathetically while still managing to shoot Peter a withering look out of the corner of his eye. "Now, did you notice anything strange before he disappeared? Any old clients stop coming? Any new ones start?"
"Now that you mention it, there was one—" the Larry breaks off. His eyes are narrow, beady, suspicious. "Wait just one minute, Mr. Malcolm. You know my policy on client confidentiality. I won't sell anyone out."
"Really, Larry?" Leight raises an eyebrow. "Even if this particular client murdered one of your employees?"
"Please, Mr. Malcolm, you don't honestly think—"
"Yes, I do. Now, what name did he give you?"
"He?" Larry lets out a nervous laugh. "Mr. Malcolm, all of Coco's clients were women. As for the name, I'll have to look that up in our records."
"Please do, then." Leight gives Larry a look. "Now."
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État de l’alimentation hebdomadaire
-- Classement
Power Stone 
-- Power
stone