Chapter 7 –

Many thanks to those who have reviewed the last chapter. If you haven't, please drop me a line and let me know who you think's done it, any suspicions, requests…

Many thanks to Lily Moonlight for the beta. I apologise if my Polish is a little wrong!

Chapter 7 – An Alternate Sun

The door opened noisily as Stella turned the key, giving access to a study filled with papers, most unfiled, scattered about the desk and dropped onto the floor. The room was small and furnished in the same style as the rest of the house, the 1960's decor having found its way to every area, it seemed. Stella bent down, picking up a handful of the papers: they were assignments, old ones, from several years ago. She wondered why Goddard had them, what use they were, and bagged them. The other rooms had proved almost fruitless. There had been bills, his passport and other essential paperwork, but apart from the old man, there were no signs of anyone else having been there.

Stella looked at the papers on the desk and noted their topic. All were entitled 'Holocaust Restitution Efforts in the United States'. David Rostow's subject. The date coincided with his tenure at the university. Stella took another look at the essays already bagged – the same area of law, but with a different essay title. It seemed that Goddard had been doing a little research outside of his specialism. She moved the papers out of the way, checking them carefully as she did so. A small notebook computer lay there, causing Stella to smile; Adam would have fun with it once she got back to the lab. She dusted it for prints, pulling them off with the tape carried in her kit. Once done, she picked the computer up, noting that there was no charging lead attached to it, or any where in sight. Underneath the computer lay a small slip of paper. She secured the computer in a bag then returned to its hidden treasure. A slip of paper with names inscribed in ink, names which Stella recognised from the essays and assignments already seen. "Angell," she called to the detective who was busy checking through the other rooms for anything that looked suspicious. So far she'd found nothing out of the ordinary.

"What you got?" Angell said, emerging at the entrance to the room, looking slightly dusty.

"List of names. There's about fifteen in total. Worth looking into," Stella said.

Angell took hold of the list. "I'll copy these down and head over to the precinct, see if anything comes up on the names. You okay for me to leave you?"

Stella nodded. "It's not a crime scene. There's no sign of this being our primary and I shouldn't be too much longer so I'm sure I can deal with it on my own. Did anything of interest come up in the other rooms?"

"Nothing apart from a lot of dust. I know Mac said something about people having stayed here a couple of years ago – there's no sign of that being the case now. Of the six bedrooms – it looks like it was originally three but all have been partitioned – only two show any signs of occupation. One has all the old man's stuff in, the other looks like it contains Goddard's belongings. The rest are only occupied by dust mites and bad furnishings," Angell said, pulling a pen out of her pocket along with her notepad.

"It looks like Goddard was checking out some of Rostow's students," Stella said, looking at the bagged essays as if checking they hadn't grown legs and walked. "It seems we have a suspect. We just need a motive."

"Good. The sooner this case is done with, the better," Angell said. Stella saw the slight shudder she had noticed before run through the younger detective. Angell was usually made of stone, but in the past day and a half Stella had seen her crumble slightly. So far, the murders were senseless and that made it tough, but they would find who had done this and stop them from doing it again, that, Stella was certain of.

Angell noted down the names and left, leaving Stella alone in the house. The silence didn't bother her; in some ways it was soothing, giving her the present of being able to do her job without interruption, her focus solely on hunting evidence of some sort of another.

She passed through the rooms like a breeze, gently disrupting items which had been there for days or months, or in some cases years. One of the bedrooms had a wall of books, clearly an overspill from the study, which wasn't large enough to contain a vast amount. Stella looked at it briefly, her eyes scanning the shelves of volumes. One caught her eye. She pulled it out, the pages dry and brittle, but the title was all she needed. Sleep Awakens by J.M. Fitzgerald. She opened it to the title page and saw a name inscribed on the inside cover. Paul Rhyddian Murphy. It was possible that Murphy had leant the books to Goddard some time ago. Possible. She opened up another evidence bag and ceased her movements, becoming frozen. Downstairs a floorboard creaked. She lay the book down on the bag and took her gun from its holster. Heading toward the door and using it as cover as she peered down the stairs. Another sound. Footsteps. Stella caught her breath and strode to the top of the staircase, angling herself so she could look down without being seen. Nothing was in sight. More footsteps. She began to slip down the stairs, keeping in the shadows. The noises had stopped. She wondered momentarily if it had been Angell she'd heard, coming back to collect something she'd forgotten, but Stella knew Angell would have made herself known.

Downstairs she saw that the door was slightly ajar leading outside onto the street. She paced, almost ran, to it and looked out. A blonde girl with a shoulder bag was passing, her hair tousled by the wind.

"Have you seen anyone come out of here?" Stella called.

The girl turned and shook her head, her features exquisitely pretty. "Sorry. I've not seen anyone – not that I'm paying much attention mind!" She smiled at Stella and continued to walk past. Stella closed the door and began to search through the house, finding nothing and wondering if it had just been the wind and old floorboards creaking temperamentally.

-&-

Elior Rostow had been twenty-six when he was taken to Auschwitz-Birkenau in 1943. He was a Polish Jew and had been slated to die because of it. After two and half months in a place worse than any hell imaginable he escaped along with three others, all of them sonderkommandos, the prisoners forced to aid with the disposal of the corpses after they had been gassed. He had moved to Britain, and after meeting his American wife, emigrated to New York. Death was something he had seen much of, and it did not scare him. The day God decided it was time for him to meet St Peter he would go gladly. His fear was what other humans could do to enforce that meeting.

"My son is a very bitter and twisted man," Elior said, the two detectives, Flack and Taylor sat across a table from him. "He resented the power that other people could wield. The decision to specialize in Holocaust litigation was partly because of me and the stories he heard about Auschwitz. He wanted revenge; he wanted to take the power away, and for many reasons, he wanted that power himself. We – his mother and I – tried to discourage any such traits, but we failed," the old man showed no signs of regret. For him, you could do what you could, but life was too short to bury yourself in negative emotion if you didn't succeed. "He wanted to be a professor. He wanted to have that status so people would listen to him. But instead he abused his power, as we had predicted and he lost his post. He said he was returning to England, going back to his ex-wife, Alicia. He never arrived there and we heard nothing from him until five weeks ago when received a strange letter, as I told you before." He looked up at Mac and Flack, his eyes keen and bright, despite the years and the things he'd seen.

"What did the letter say?" Detective Taylor said. Elior could tell from the man's eyes that had seen killing too, his eyes were filled with the souls of those who had died in front of him, the memories of those who's lives could not have been saved. Elior studied for a moment, then let it go. The day wasn't for making character studies.

"That he had what he wanted and he was in New York. And that was enough, detectives, to make me come here. David blamed Brian for what had happened to him. He could never take responsibility. It was always someone else's fault," Elior sighed for the boy, knowing that his suspicions were likely to be true. "I would imagine David has something to do with Brian's death."

"Can you suggest why he would bring Goddard's body to the station?" the other detective, Flack, said.

"That's where things are blurred. David has Becker's Muscular Dystrophy. He has always maintained a lifestyle which would assist in fighting off the disease, but by now, I would expect him to be in a wheelchair as he is now almost forty-eight. Death is expected in the fifth decade of life, but some have lived until their late sixties. I imagine his condition is what also makes him want control," Elior said. "I have no doubt that David has a lot to do with this, but he won't be alone. However, he'll be a lot of the brains behind it. Whatever he's concocted, it won't be simple."

Mac nodded at him. "Have you anywhere else you can stay, Mr Rostow?"

Elior nodded. "My sister lives in New York. David has no idea where as she's moved twice and lives now with her new husband. David wouldn't even know her surname. I shall provide you with the address and go to her," he eyed the two detectives. "You need to know more about Brian Goddard, don't you?" Mac's eyes nodded at him. "He was a gentle man, a dobry człowiek- nice man.He protected his students from a distance. I met him on several occasions when David worked for the university and liked him immensely, although I never really knew him. I don't think anyone did. He was researching something at present, although he never said what and when he was at home there were a few phone calls, some late at night when one wouldn't expect someone to call. I saw him four times in two weeks. The rest of the time I was trying to look for David, or I was with my sister and brother." He stopped, knowing what they were thinking, that David might target his family. "He would never hurt them, or me," he said gently. "I know you think you have seen every type of cruelty, that you have heard every mother, father, sister, brother say that their loved one wouldn't do that but trust me when I say I have seen more than you and I am under no illusion of what my son is capable of. He would probably be diagnosed by a psychiatrist as having a character disorder. David would kill, but he would need reason, however warped that reason was." Elior stood, the detectives copying his action, almost as if they were about to salute.

"Is there anything else you can tell us about Brian Goddard's movements?" Flack said. "We have very little to go off at present."

Elior shook his head. "Just that most of his time was spent away from his house. Where he went I do not know. Something was consuming him. He also knew very little about David and his current whereabouts – he presumed he was still in England."

The young detective looked at the elder and Elior read what the eyes were saying. He heard more from body language than words. If Brian hadn't known of David's whereabouts, then what possible motive could David have for murdering him? Why would he want him gone? What had triggered the crime?

"You have my cell phone number if you wish to get in touch," Elior said. "If anything comes to mind be assured I will call you." He looked at Detective Taylor, reading the lines in his face, the grey eyes that saw much but had learnt to feel little, then cast his eyes over to Detective Flack, whose young face showed the beginning from where he'd came. "We are different, you know," Elior said. "It isn't all murder. Taking a life isn't always a crime." He felt their eyes in his back as the words resonated against them.

Elior found his own way out of the building, a grey haze covering New York City. He stood outside the precinct and looked around, watching the faces that passed, looking at their expressions, each one filled with the potential for good and evil. He looked down at the numbers on his arm and ran a finger over them; when it was warm his skin reacted with the ink and the numbers rose like Braille, a permanent reminder that the world contained evil, and that he had survived it. It had not won and would continue to be defeated.

-&-

Angell stood in the centre of Washington Square Park and checked her watch, wondering what was keeping Flack. She had learnt by now that he was never on time, born two weeks late and still trying to catch up – or at least that was his excuse. She cast her eyes around the white arch way and marvelled silently at its structure, the whiteness of the marble and the enormity of the seventy-seven foot monument, first built in plaster and stone to commemorate the inauguration of George Washington as president.

It was past lunchtime, and Flack had suggested that they grab a few minutes together in between interviewing another lot of students and colleagues of both Goddard and Raimo. He had also offered lunch, and that, she figured, was where he probably was now; queuing in some sandwich bar, eating his order – and probably hers – before going back for more.

She leant against the arch, looking down the pathway, waiting to see his tall figure approach, the grey light of a dull day casting only the faintest shadows of the people as they walked by. She jumped as she felt a hand on her shoulder and heard a familiar voice say her name.

"I expected you from the other direction," she said, turning round to face Flack. His deep blue eyes were dancing with light and his lips were teasing in a smile that was only for her. It was too easy being with him. Inner demons warned her about the dangers of getting involved, but she didn't want to listen to them. Colleague or not, her instincts told her that this was a man she should know more of.

"Tickets," he said, a hand emerging from his pocket. "The big wheel. I wanted to go on it when it was here last year, but I had no beautiful woman to accompany me." His eyes flickered, daring her to challenge the compliment.

"Didn't realise you needed your hand held, Flack," she said. "I thought you were a big boy." The double entendre hit her as the words left her mouth.

"You know I am, Jessie," he said, trying to resist a victory grin and failing miserably. She ignored him, but couldn't stop the faint blush of pink from appearing on her cheeks. Thankfully, Flack had the grace to ignore it.

"So you got tickets for the wheel?" she said, attempting to change the subject, although memories of the night before were still too clear in her mind.

"I thought it would be a nice break from all of the crap we see, even if it was just for a short time," he said, his words blunt as usual. "And, given that both of us are on late shifts for the next four nights, I figured it would give us a chance to be on our own without work." The smile this time wasn't mocking or boastful, it almost had a shyness, a timidity, that made something inside her crumble, although she would never admitted it.

"What time are the tickets booked for?" she said, watching the wheel as it came to a stand-still.

"About now," he said, checking his watch. "We should run." He grabbed her hand and pulled her down the main path through the park. She laughed at the action, the spontaneity of it, the feeling that she was sixteen again and the murdered and murderers of the world faded into the shadows, out of sight.

There were more people there in suits than she'd expected. Clearly the just after lunch ride was one taken by the City's professionals, a break away from the trial of the day. Students and tourists looked on, some queuing for tickets themselves. She felt a rush of adrenaline as the wheel began to turn, moving up into the air, into the weightless air where nothing else existed apart from the man she was sat with and the city beneath her. She could see for miles; the trees seemed like green dots, few protruding between the granite mountains that rose like inanimate monsters, making the silhouette on the horizon a child's two dimensional picture.

She glanced at Flack, his eyes taking in the view of the city where they lived, a city they never saw, lost among the violent crimes and murders, cleaning up the sins of others, continually looking for blood split. For a few minutes, the city looked new, and she knew he saw it too, that he saw it through new eyes, under a new light, as if the sun had been temporarily altered. "Thank you for this," she said, as the wheel continued to slowly turn, her eyes fixed on the gap where Ground Zero now was. She felt his hand grab hers and squeeze and she smiled, letting him catch her eye.

Giving in, letting go, she moved closer, ceasing the slight distance between them and moved her head to his shoulder. Flack's arm came up automatically around her and pulled her into him. She let the feeling wash over her without analysing it, absorbing it like the city she was flying over. A somnambulist maybe, she felt as if this could not possibly be real, and instead of pulling herself back into a world where nightmares were existent, she inhaled the scent of Flack's skin, her heart rate rising and listened to the sounds that drifted from underneath them as they flew.

The feeling of dreaming stayed with her even after her feet touched the ground, Flack taking hold of her hand and it felt fine. "What gave you the idea?" she said, listening to the calls of people as they settled themselves in the cabins on the wheel.

"I noticed it this morning and thought if we got chance it would be a fun thing to do. You want an ice-cream?" he said, noticing the stalls that were set up.

She laughed as he ran off, seeing him produce his badge in order to queue jump. She felt alive, as if for a short time death and all his friends had finally let go of her. Leaning against a nearby tree, she allowed herself to look at Flack away from the suits and the badge, away from the job and saw him simply as a man. She had stayed with him the night before, slept in his bed, a row of pillows between them. Neither had gotten to sleep easily. Eventually his voice had whispered softly, as if she might have been asleep.

"Jessie," she'd heard. It had become his name for her, a softer form of her work name. A name that reminded her she was female, although she was somehow more acutely aware of that in Flack's presence anyway. "Can we shift these goddamn pillows?"

She'd laughed, turning towards him, his eyes blue even in the midnight darkness. "You giving up your vows already?"

He'd given her his 'don't mess with me' grunt before moving them away, then moved himself closer, nuzzling her hair, his lips on the back of her neck. For a moment she'd been on fire as his knees brushed into the back of hers, one hand on her stomach, and then she'd heard his breathing deepen, sleep finally finding him and then taking her into his captivity too. When she'd awakened to the morning call of birds outside of the window her head was on his chest, their legs entwined. He was already awake.

And then they'd given in. All bets off.

He returned with ice cream and they ate it as they left the park, the alternate sun taking its leave, and the grim light of day returning as the ice cream melted, their hands entwined still, a piece of sun still left.

-&-

A car's horn beeped erratically as it deviated around an illegally parked car, the driver frustrated with the few moments of his day that had been stolen by inconsiderate parking. He turned briefly to glare at the person sat in the driver's seat; a young girl with what looked like a cop next to her. Maybe she had been pulled over.

The car remained in the same spot, failing to move. Parking attendants left it be, seeing the NYPD uniform, and booked other offenders instead. Inside the car, the girl sat, her brown hair straight and long, thinning the once plump face that had lost its puppy fat after the fifth attempt at dieting. The man sat, seemingly alert, his uniform smart although his hair was unkempt.

No one noticed them particularly. In New York City people go their own ways, too hurried to stop and check, the day too short to care. Cars negotiated round them, people passed by and the sun stayed on course to complete its daily journey. No one noticed how the car had been there for hours, or how the windows became slowly condensated. No one noticed how the people inside failed to blink or speak, their faces holding the same expression. No one noticed how still they stayed, not a twitch or a single movement. No one noticed.

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