“I didn’t fucking kill him.”

“No one said that you did, Mr. Zene,” said Chief Inspector Malady Kincaide. “We just find your situation a little suspicious.”

Zene sighed. He never should have accepted the money. They’d found Arcady’s advance on him, and the check was now a hostage in a little plastic bag in someone’s evidence collection.

The middle-aged inspector, her short hair graying in streaks across chestnut curls, sat across an antique chess table from him. Though the study was both roomy and classy, the police had managed to make the interrogation area seem tiny and cheap through careful staging and lighting. Zene would have admired it, if he hadn’t been sitting in an ancient wooden chair that they must have scoured the building for in a manhunt for most uncomfortable seat.

Well, there wasn’t any help for it.

“We keep going over my story,” said Zene, “and I know it’s been three hours. I keep near perfect time.” They’d taken his watch, too. “You think I did it because I’ve never been to one of these things–”

“And the son of one of the most corrupt politicians on the West Coast decided to hire you just because?” Kincaide demanded, looking as though she would spit.

Zene eyed her straight on. “Yes. You know damn well what he’s like.”

Kincaide’s scowl stayed on her face, making her look like a fussy Persian cat.

And that’s why you find this case so hard, thought Zene. You have the perfect suspects in the perfect place, but the motive is whack. Arcady hates his father.

Or does he?

She must be thinking in similar ways.

Zene recalled his past conversations with Arcady. He’d known the man for less than 24 hours–even if you included reading the ad on Craig’s list–but Arcady wore his heart on his sleeve. He was far too immature not to.

And the damn man thinks he can be a detective.

Another police detective walked in, and tapped Kincaide on the shoulder.

“Take him to the waiting room,” said Kincaide. “We may have more questions for him later.”

The waiting room turned out to be the pale yellow drawing room across the hallway.

Arcady was sitting in a chair backed far into one corner, arms crossed, looking at the floor, perhaps deep in thought. His father was seated in the opposite corner of the room, staring straight ahead with a face like thunder. Unlike his son, Dustin Arcady’s build looked as solid as oak–and his expression seemed just as malleable.

Hestia was absent, probably being questioned in another room.

Zene pulled a matching chair up to the junior Arcady’s corner. “They grill you too?”

Arcady looked up, and smiled briefly. “Of course; I was away from the party the longest. I don’t wish to contemplate what sorts of cockamamie theories they’re coming up with involving us murdering the poor fellow.”

“So what sorts of cockamamie theories are you thinking of?” asked Zene.

“I’m still processing information,” replied Arcady. “I prefer not to theorize before all the data that can be had is there. Prejudice is such an ugly key in which to carry out an investigation.”

“Hmph. Well, I guess we get to wait some more fun-filled hours in this rotten place.” Zene propped his feet on the nearby piano bench, not caring if he smudged the fine ebony wood. He hated pianists.

“You wouldn’t mind if I sounded some ideas off you, then?”

Zene noted that the officer standing guard at the doorway leaned inwards a bit more, while turning his head distinctly away from the room.

Arcady laughed softly. “Let them listen if they like, by all means. If my information assists their investigations, so much the better. I wouldn’t want my cello player to be incarcerated for any duration. It is so difficult for me to find a good one.”

“Your overwhelming concern is appreciated,” said Zene sourly.

“Cheer up, Zene. This will help pass the time.”

Zene snorted.

Arcady steepled his fingers. “First things first. What do you think is the most distinguishing item so far about this case?”

Zene wondered if this was a trick question. “Let me see. Oh yes. It just could be that he got hung from a chandelier in about half a minute of darkness.”

Arcady looked back at Zene with half-lidded eyes and a wry smile crossing his face. “There is some interest in that. I’d say that is ranked perhaps… second-most interesting. No, I say third-most.”

“So what’s in first place?”

“The killer was motivated by passionate vengeance, far exceeding the usual level that precipitates murder. The lights could have been left off for longer—a few more minutes would not have been amiss, and would reduce chances of being discovered. But the lights came on quickly after the deed was done, and long before he was dead.

“Our killer didn’t just want him to suffer. He or she wanted another—perhaps multiple others—to suffer as well. And the motive must be extraordinarily personal; a simple dead body would be enough to spoil the occasion, but the prolonged strangling of the man, dangling just out of the reach of help—that had a specific purpose, to sow fear perhaps.

“Would you care to guess at second chair?” asked Arcady. His twinkling eyes annoyed Zene to no end.

But at least it wasn’t boring.

“That someone managed to hang a full-grown man in half a minute?”

“No.”

“Of course not. That would be too easy.”

“There are certain simple tricks that can be brought to play in that area, you see.”

“Whatever.”

“The second-most interesting thing is that my father is intimately involved in this affair up to his neck. Isn’t that right, Father?”

Dustin Arcady glared at his son from across the room, but said nothing.

“Aren’t we all intimately involved?” asked Zene, not at all liking the idea of being de facto mediator in estranged father-son relations.

“My father,” said Arcady, meeting the elder Arcady’s gaze, “is a most astute politician. But he was not among the rescue party. Such an egregious slip of an opportunity, whether his opponent lives or dies. Now, Father, why is that?”

The temperature of the room seemed to sink by several degrees.

“I think,” continued Arcady, far too calmly, “that for once you were shocked to the core, Father. Even, dare I say it, frightened—a unique event in your life! We both know that mere close assassination does not keep that brain from turning over all the available political options.” Arcady might have continued, but he clamped his mouth shut.

The silence continued, but neither man seemed willing to break it.

Zene rubbed his forehead after a while. Arcady spoke of his mother in the past tense, after all. If that was what Arcady had referred to, the situation was far too fucked up for Zene to deal with, bone-dry and with no sleep.

Suddenly, the elder Arcady said, “Sebastian.” His voice was deeper than his son’s, an oratory voice if Zene ever heard one.

Sebastian Arcady did not answer.

Dustin coughed, and said, with emotion, though Zene was hard-pressed to tell which, “I know what you’re trying to do, Sebastian. You were always impetuous. And now you’re regretting it, and are pathetically trying to dodge. Haven’t you learned anything from those years assisting me in office?”

Arcady blinked. “Father, what do you mean?”

“You always were too clever for your own good, Sebastian. I’m not surprised you want to return to the fold—but really, was this necessary? Hiring a blundering hit man, even if he is a decent cello player….”

“Father!”

“I won’t have anything to do with your plotting, Sebastian. I wash my hands of this ugly evening now; I already reported my suspicions to the police. Son, I wish I didn’t have to do that, but your desire to prove yourself to me is well-known by all in the campaign party—”

Zene grabbed the younger Arcady, keeping a surprisingly strong right hook from meeting Dustin’s cheek under the now watchful attention of the policeman.

Dustin didn’t blink an eye. “I’m sorry… my son. I wish you hadn’t chosen this way, but you always took after your mother.”

“You’re wrong,” said Zene forcefully, keeping a tight grip on the source of his $5000 check.

Dustin raised an eyebrow. “And what do you know of his mother? Has he taken you into his confidence?”

“Not at all,” replied Zene, glaring at Dustin. “But I didn’t kill Cartwright any more than I’ve killed you.”

Dustin looked shocked. “Is that a threat? What a friend you’ve made, Sebastian. See how this thug—”

“Alright, that’s enough!” said Kincaide from the doorway.

---

“I’m sorry that your father’s such a dick,” said Zene.

“I know,” said Arcady, all earlier joie de vie drained and gone. As he drove Zene home, Arcady looked nowhere else but the road, and made no attempts at conversation.

“What are you going to do?”

Arcady shrugged. “Go home and think. I hope to get a look at the police reports tomorrow. Perhaps talk to a few people. The normal footwork; not very exciting, usually, even when murder is involved.”

Zene looked out the window and tried to think of something else to say. He wasn’t used to playing a heavy role in conversation, much less attempting to jump-start one.

The ride continued in silence. Though it was already five in the morning, the winter skies remained dark, and the few lights they passed by on the highway seemed like lonely stars.

“I appreciate you coming,” said Arcady after they had entered the city proper. “I apologize for events turning so grotesque.”

Zene shrugged. “I didn’t end up in jail.”

“I’ll keep you out of it,” replied Arcady, with a touch of gaiety overlaying quiet purpose.

At Zene’s apartment building, Arcady offered to help bring up the cello, but Zene refused, dragging the large case out of the back seat himself, then manhandling it up the stoop. As he wrestled with the door, which never opened willingly even at the best of times, Arcady called out:

“Zene! You forgot to ask about a new check!”

“Damn it, Arcady, not so loud in this fucking neighborhood!” Zene glared back at him. The rain was already starting again. “I’ll pick it up at your studio tomorrow.”

“I could write it right now—”

Zene let the door slam shut behind him, cutting off Arcady’s voice.

Tags: arcady, dustin arcady, malady kincaide, zene

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