A/N: Hey guys. Thanks for all the support for Downpour! Updates for Downpour should come quite regularly, due to school only resuming in February (or quite possibly even April) with occasional breaks in between because I have to go help out in my parents' office every once in a while or update my other fics, Apotheosis and Vortex (I've seriously neglected them for far too long).
October 14 2013, Friday. 8.17 am.
Boston Police Department.
Williams was already typing away when I arrived at the office. Charles, on the other hand, was nowhere to be seen. "Morning, Lieutenant," she greeted.
"Morning to you too," I replied. "Where's Charles?"
"He's gone to pay the security guard at Riverside a visit," she explained, her fingers still flying furiously over the keyboard.
"What are you doing?" I asked, walking towards my desk.
"I'm setting up a profile of our killer," she said as a matter-of-factly, as if it was supposed to be common sense.
"Uh, don't you FBIs use the ARI for that?"
"You're the one that told me not to rely on it too much, Lieutenant," she said. "Do you have the habit of contradicting yourself?"
I struggled to think of a witty comeback, but the need for one vanished when Bruno walked over, this time a woman and a boy behind him. "Hey, guys," he said. "This is Mrs. Jones and her son, Kevin. They said that they could help with the Burton case."
"Thank you, officer. We'll take it from here," Williams said. "Please, take a seat," she gestured to mother and son. After everyone had made themselves comfortable, we got down to business. "You said you and your son could help, Mrs. Jones?" the FBI agent asked.
"Oh yes... Last night, Kevin told me that he saw poor Malcolm walk away with a stranger, so I brought him down here today to see if we could be of any use," the lady explained. "Kevin," she said. "Tell them who you saw."
"It was a man, but he was wearing a hoodie, so I couldn't see his face," the boy said.
"It's okay, Kevin," I said. "Can you tell us how he was physically? Was he tall, short, slim, fat, that sort of thing?"
"He was kinda short, I think," he said uncertainly. "He was pretty skinny too."
"How tall is the man exactly, Kevin?" Williams insisted. She stood up from her seat. "Was he taller or shorter than me?"
"I think his head is around your nose."
The agent sat down again. "Should be around five-feet-four," she whispered to me.
"Did the man show any special characteristics? Does he walk with a limp, or an injured arm, maybe?" she inquired.
Kevin Jones shook his head. "No, I don't think so. But Malcolm seemed to trust him. They even held hands."
Now that was interesting. We continued to ask him questions, but the kid kept shaking his head. I seriously doubted that the boy could give us any more information, so I told Bruno to come see them out.
"Holding hands? That's a first," Williams noted. "Could the man be the boy's relative?"
"Maybe," I said wistfully. "Maybe..."
Almost immediately, Charles entered the office, panting. "Hey guys," he said breathlessly. "I found something."
"What is it?" Williams asked eagerly.
"The guard on duty said that our guy in the video was acting fishy. He didn't know the chap, but he memorised the car's number plate. I traced it, and the owner's name is Matthew Kelly. He lives along Ocean Drive, and he's the deputy managing director of a local conglomerate."
"Sounds like quite a big shot," I noted.
"Who cares? Everyone's equal in the eyes of the law," Williams said surely. "If he's our killer, no way is he getting out of my clutches that easily."
"I think you guys better get going," Charles said. "I'll continue digging for clues in the meanwhile."
"Alright, let's go," Williams said.
The ride to our suspect's office was quite a long one, so I decided to make some small talk. "So what do you think of Boston so far?" I asked.
"Pretty good," she said. "But it'd probably be even better without the rain and the murders. Speaking of which, do you think this guy could be our killer?"
"I hope so," I replied. "That way, there'll be one less dead boy in town, and one more perp brought to justice."
"Do you think we're dealing with a copycat?" Williams asked.
"I don't think so," I said. "This guy's not just some random perverse Shelby fan. He's got intelligence, but he's a lot more impatient. Back in Philadelphia, Scott Shelby would only abduct the next kid at least two days after the victim's body had been found. We only found Charles Edward's body yesterday morning, and Malcolm Burton was already missing by the afternoon."
"Wow, I can't believe you noticed all of this," Williams said, a little surprised. "You don't look like the guy that cares about small details."
"I'm just going to pretend that you told me that I'm very handsome, and take that as a compliment."
She laughed. "Fine by me."
October 14 2013, Friday. 10.49 am.
Daxton International.
The building's lobby was filled with men donning Armani suits and carrying their document-filled Hermes briefcases. We got a few not-so-pleasant looks thrown our way as we approached the receptionist.
"Excuse me," Williams said. "We would like to meet your managing director, Mr. Matthew Kelly?"
"Mr. Kelly only meets by appointment," the blonde lady asked unenthusiastically, eyes still fixated on her computer. She briefly tore her eyes away from the screen, placed a notepad and a pen on the counter, then resumed to show us the little attention she had for us. "Write down your name and number. We'll contact you once an appointment has been made," the woman said plainly.
"I'm afraid we can't wait," I said, a little annoyed. I flashed her my badge. "Can we see your boss now?"
"Fine, follow me," she said a little reluctantly. As she led us to Kelly's office, Williams shot me a look that said: What was that for? I gave her nonchalant shrug of my shoulders. Matthew Kelly's office was almost as large as my apartment. The office's marble floor sparkled, with glass cabinets lining one side of its walls, showing off the countless ten-thousand-dollars-per-bottle of very fine wine and spirits. "Mr. Kelly," the receptionist said. "The police are looking for you."
The executive was the exact opposite of Kevin Jones' description. He was at least six-feet-three, with graying hair, and he was really, really buff. The man didn't even look slightly shocked or bewildered in the least bit. Instead, he smiled, as if this was a planned gathering between a couple of old pals. "Please, have a seat," he said, at the same time gesturing for the receptionist to leave.
"I'm Lieutenant Clayton Grant, and this is FBI Agent Kimberly Williams," I introduced. "We'd like to ask you some questions."
"Well, I don't really have a say in this, do I?" he said jovially, for reasons I did not know. "Would you care for some whiskey?" he offered. We shook our heads. He poured himself a glass, then settled back down in his seat. "Please, ask away. I'll do my best to cooperate with you."
"Where were you yesterday at six in the morning yesterday, Mr. Kelly?" Williams questioned.
"I was at home, sleeping."
"Is there anyone that can prove it?"
"I'm afraid not. I live alone," he said, taking a sip of whiskey.
"Are you absolutely certain you were at home sleeping yesterday?" I asked sceptically. Kelly had a good poker face, but his body language gave him away. Even if I didn't have the footage of him at Riverside, I could tell he was lying. People became thirsty when they're lying.
"Can you prove otherwise, Lieutenant?" he challenged, all traces of hospitality gone.
"I have a witness that can prove that you were at Riverside Railway Station yesterday morning, Mr. Kelly. I strongly advise you to stop playing games with us and just tell us the truth."
"Fine, I wasn't home yesterday morning," he admitted. "I was at Riverside."
"And doing what, Mr. Kelly?" Williams questioned.
"To see a friend off."
"Can you please stop lying, Mr. Kelly?" I said, irritated. "I have video footage that you went to Riverside alone, and left the place by yourself as well." I walked up to him and hauled him up onto his feet. "Get up."
"What are you-"
I whipped out my handcuffs and slipped them on his hands. "I'm bringing you in, Kelly," I announced. "We've given you a second chance to come clean with us, but you didn't take it. So now, my partner and I are going to have to drag you in to the station, right in front of the eyes of all your employees."
The executive tried to protest. "This is unacceptable! You can't just-"
"Oh yes we can, Mr. Kelly," I said. "You have the right to remain silent, but anything and everything you say right now may and will be used against you in court."
I nudged Kelly not-so-gently towards the door. "Come on, boss man, let's do a little catwalk."
October 14 2013, Friday. 11.36 am.
Boston Police Department.
I approached Williams as she came out of the interrogation room. She shook her head dejectedly. "He's not budging, and his vocabulary doesn't really go beyond the word 'lawyer'."
"Maybe I should give him a try," I suggested. But before I could do anything, I heard someone clear his throat behind me. I turned to find Connor Payne staring at Williams and I. "Captain Payne," I acknowledged plainly. I was seriously not interested in talking with another man in a suit again.
"Lieutenant Grant, Agent Williams," he greeted. "I hope you two know what you're doing. Matthew Kelly's got clout, and it wouldn't do any good to both of your resumes if you get on his bad side."
"Of course, sir," Williams said. "We'll tread very carefully."
"You'd better," was all the Captain said before leaving us to our own devices again.
"You know, Lieutenant, you really should learn how to be a little more diplomatic," Williams chided. "Thank God Kelly's got something to hide, or else he definitely would've lodged a complaint about us."
"Well, Williams, there's a very good reason why I'm not working at the HR department of some company, you know?"
She shook her head, clearly deciding that there was no hope in convincing me of the importance of tact. "I don't think he's the killer," she said. "Kevin Jones clearly stated that the man Malcolm Burton left with was slim and short. Matthew Kelly can pass off as an MMA contestant."
"I think so too, but he's obviously hiding something. I guess there's really nothing we can do except to get him to spill everything."