London, England.
They say that the dead of night is the quietest. Richard Hawke knew this all too well. Of course, he was looking for a private investigator. One might ask why, but Hawke would brush them off. This wasn't a matter for some junior Yardie. Nor was an issue for some twit named Layton. It was a personal matter. The blond Englishman sighed, before clicking on an ad for some guy named 'Holiday'.
"Let's see if this twit has a fair price." A few minutes later he was on the phone with 'Holiday' the man's Philadelphian accent getting on his nerves.
"I need you to find someone for me."
"Yes. Ok. How much?"
"Good. His name is Fritzgerald Brewster. Uh-huh. He was in a project I invested in. Ran off with the money."
"Okay, I'll wire the money to you."
"Goodnight"
One might ask, just what does Fritz have to do with Hawke? It's simple really. Project Aurora. That's what links them. Hawke invested in it, backing Saint-James and Netzal, unaware of what they were really doing. Now, why would an English millionaire be interested in some stupid orb? Because it, and the watch, where his. And his alone. And he would get them back. At all costs.
A roadside diner, somewhere on I-5.
The first thing the shabbily dressed man sees when he exits his truck is dark. Dark dark dark. Pitch black, except for the neon sign, proclaiming the diner, 'T's', as open.
He walked in, and took a seat next to a man in black.
"What can I get you?"
He jumped at that, then looked up. A typical night shift worker, bags under eyes, makeup still somehow nice, and a tired expression.
"Coffee." His voice, gruff and matter-of-factly, sounded foreign to him, like a shadow of his former glory. Of course, he couldn't remember a thing from since... When? Ah well, it mattered not.
"Say, you, fellow in the black stovepipe-Lincoln, have you seen a Fritzgerald Brewster?" The man next to him turned. He looked exactly like him, down to the color of his eyes.
"Hawke sent you, didn't he? He can have his watch. I only need the pendant." Holiday's hand was pressed open, the cold steel of a watch pressing into his hand. The watch itself had an engraving, detailing when, and where it was made.
"1932, Dunkirk, Made for Col. V. Hawke. This watch has seen hell, eh?"
"Far more then just hell. It's seen drawing rooms aplenty, maps and bases and all sorts of things from the 1930s."
"So, it really is old."
"It's been in U-Boats, Shermans, Panzers, and landing craft."
"Old, as I said."
"Of course. I must be taking my day."
And then, he dispersed in a cloud of smoke, a purplish-blue hue following. Six dollars in one's resided at his spot at the counter. And Holiday walked to his truck, started it up, and drove to Philadelphia. Along the way, he called Hawke and promised to ship the watch to him. And it was done. The first case since he lost his memory, solved. Open and shut. Simple as that. And he drove.