Chapter five: Truth

Paul knocked on the apartment door before him. It opened, revealing a muscular man in his early to mid-twenties.

"Blake Maxwell?" Paul said, taking out his ID. "My name is Paul Mortar, I'm a private investigator. Can I have a moment of your time, please?"

Maxwell raised an eyebrow. "Uh, sure? What's going on?"

No hostility. Not surprising, despite his past. Not everyone was a fulltime asshole. Either that, or Maxwell didn't want to lose his composure in front of someone with police connections.

"I've been hired to investigate Freddy's Restaurant," Paul said, pocketing his ID. "I understand you—"

Maxwell's eyes widened, and he moved to shut the door. Paul had anticipated this, and he placed his foot down to block it.

Well, he thought. At least now I know he knows something.

"I want to go after whoever helped Douglas beat you," Paul calmly said to Maxwell's disturbed face. "I think they might be connected to my investigation."

"Screw you," Maxwell growled, looking more like a feral animal than anything.

"If you cooperate," Paul said, "you'll be doing yourself a favor too."

Maxwell reopened the door and raised a fist. "Listen, pal—"

Paul jabbed at his throat. Maxwell's eyes bulged and he stumbled back. Paul followed him inside his apartment and shut the door.

"Stay back," Paul warned. "Raising a fist to a detective? I could have you arrested for assault, and I don't think you want to go down that road again."

Maxwell glared at him ferally, rasping as though he was trying to say something. Paul walked further into the small living room. There was a kitchen in the corner with a dining table nearby. Besides that, the musty, none-too-clean room was mostly empty, save for a small couch in front of a tv.

"What do you want?" Maxwell forced out, leaning with his hand against the wall. He looked about ready to kill, held back only by the part of his brain that bothered to think.

Paul faced him. "Mr. Maxwell, I think you know the answer to that question."

"I…" He all but retched, still recovering from the strike. "I told everything to the cops."

"I know, and they didn't believe you."

Maxwell said nothing.

"They didn't even take your story seriously enough to record it, initially," Paul said. "Until you…modified it a bit. I understand you blindsided Douglas with a weapon, and he still won the fight somehow."

Maxwell glanced away. "He's stronger than he looks."

"Of course—after you blindsided him with a weapon…"

"Whatever! He knows how to fight."

"Douglas only has a history with taking punches. You, though…"

He snarled. "What do you want from me?"

"The truth."

Maxwell glared at him for a long time. Finally he shook his head, turning away. "Screw you."

"Why did you have to change your story in the first place? What did the police not believe?"

"Get out," Maxwell said.

Paul paused for a moment. Maxwell didn't strike him as someone who'd get embarrassed easily. No, there was more to this. He'd been downright scared when Paul mentioned Freddy's.

"Something about that place must've really spooked you," Paul mused.

No response.

Finally Paul took out a card and placed it on the dining table. "If you change your mind, give me a call."

As he left the apartment and made his way down the corridor, he thought about what little he'd learned: Maxwell was hiding something.

Blake Maxwell shut his door, rubbing his sore throat. The detective was gone. Good.

He went straight for the phone and dialed a number. It took two rings before someone picked up.

"Hector Maxwell," the other person greeted.

Blake let out a growl, still strangled from Mortar's attack. "You actually went through with it."

"Blake?"

"Your detective was here," Blake said. "Asked me questions about that night. I told you not to hire him."

"I know what you told me. But you refused to talk, and so did Goodwin's boy."

"Douglas? What about him?"

Hector remained quiet for a moment. "I want to know what happened that night, son."

"So you hired a detective?! You can't do this! They'll—" He stopped himself. He couldn't say it—not without alerting them.

"He's a good detective," Hector said. "He'll find the truth."

Blake hesitated.

Then he slammed the phone down, growling in frustration. In the police department, he felt safe enough to tell the truth, even if the cops didn't believe him. Now though… One step out of line, and those things would come to kill him. Now that that detective was on the case though, he might get murdered anyway. And they wouldn't stop there; they'd come for his dad, too.

His eye was drawn back to the phone. An idea popped into his head. A terrible idea.

He clenched his jaw.

Finally he grunted in frustration and strode to the phone. Fine. If this was the only way to do it…

He dialed a number.

The receiver picked up soon enough. "Freddy's Restaurant. How may I help you?"

"I gotta talk to your nightguard."

"He's not here right now, sir."

"Your manager then!"

A pause. "Alright. I'll put you through."