by Dylan Madrid
Defeated, Quintin climbed back into the car and drove toward the illuminated glow of London that sat on the horizon, offering hope.
*
Back in his flat, Quintin kicked off his loafers. He thought about calling Fiona, who wouldn’t believe the night he’d had, but he remembered his cell phone was missing or lost. Instead, Quintin reached for the remote and turned on the television. Every station was carrying the story, and they all confirmed the same thing: Everett Bremington had been assassinated in his own home, at his own party, by an unknown assailant. The footage included a few quick glimpses of an emotional Regina being ushered away from the intrusive cameras by two men who were twice her size. One of them was Reed Ashton, of the Diplomatic Security Service. At least that’s what they were calling him on the news.
As midnight approached, Quintin lay down on his bed, anxious for the night to come to an end, but his mind was reeling with questions. His body was alert, charged with the new desire he felt for the mysterious Italian man he’d met in the dark. He felt more alive than he could ever remember. Suddenly, his life no longer felt like the mind-numbing existence he’d allowed it to become. This was different. Exciting.
Quintin closed his eyes, slid his hand beneath the waistband of his briefs, and wrapped his palm around the shaft of his hardening cock. As the sound of Luca’s voice and the sweet smell of his skin flooded Quintin’s mind, he felt his body tense with an orgasm before it relaxed into a blissful state of peace.
When sleep came, it came fast.
The Dream
The dream was always the same. After a few drinks, Quintin stumbled out of a smoky jazz joint and entered the hazy fog of a summer night. It was tough to breathe and even more difficult to swallow in the heavy, sticky air. There was a street lamp burning on the corner, cutting through the mist with a pale-orange glow emanating from the flickering gaslit flame.
From above, neon signs and illuminated gold bulbs flashed and swirled, covering the sidewalk with a pulsing kaleidoscope pattern. Quintin’s attention was captured by the rhythm of the lights around his feet. They danced on the worn, cracked concrete, threatening to tango with him at any second. He wondered if there was a secret message encoded in them, in their steady and constant configuration. He glanced up, searching for the dark sky and bright stars, but all he could see was a ceiling of fog hanging over his head like a suspended wet blanket, ready to fall.
“Kevin?” he heard himself say, speaking his lost lover’s name. His own voice sounded strange to him, foreign and far away, as if his words were traveling down a long, narrow tunnel before being boomeranged back to him.
A sense of fear broke out within his body. It first appeared on the back of his neck in the form of tiny beads of perspiration that popped up like antennae. He then felt them on the space of skin just above his upper lip. His palms went clammy next. Then the thrust and rattle of his heart, throbbing with panic against his rib cage like an angry white rabbit kicking to get out.
Something is wrong. Something is very wrong.
“Kevin?” he repeated. There was no reply from the emptiness around him. Except for the slow, shifting fog and the constant play of lights and shadow on the sidewalk, the world seemed strange and still. Even the music, a lovelorn, melancholic saxophone solo—bleeding out of the bar, floating out into the streets, and kissing the battered brick walls—sounded like a haunting echo, a musical warning urging Quintin to go away.
But where do I go?
Realizing he had no idea where he was—what city or even what country—or how he got there, Quintin remained frozen in place. He stood beneath the overhanging marquee of the jazz club and waited for a sign. A sign of life. An indication that all was right with the world. For Kevin to appear, slinking out of the darkness and emerging from behind the black body of the lamp post with a ridiculous grin on his face. Always the prankster he was.
Yet Kevin was gone. Quintin knew this, but even in the dream he grappled with the weight of it, denying its breadth and existence, what Kevin’s disappearance had done to his predictable life. The destruction of it. The ruins in which Quintin had been left behind, without so much as a good-bye.
Quintin’s fear formed into fast-simmering rage. It crept up his throat, seeped into his words. He clenched his fists and shouted as if he were trying to drown out the torch song still coming from the jazz joint. “Kevin, where are you?”
As in real life, there was no response. No answer.
The Detective
Quintin was aware of a knocking sound, soft knuckles rapping against wood. He opened his eyes and was surprised to see the wash of sunlight pouring in the tiny window on the wall beside his bed. It was morning. Already. The strips of golden rays were lying across his bare torso, sun kissing every inch it could touch of his naked flesh. A bedsheet was wrapped around his body like a boa constrictor, trying to choke the last lingering visions of the haunting dream out of his subconscious forever. Quintin continued to stare through the smudged glass, intrigued by the view. The sky outside was unusually blue, as if someone had painted over it with a brush to make the drifting clouds appear even more stark and white.
Quintin sat up and realized the knocking sound was getting louder. Someone was at the front door and they weren’t going away. He climbed out of bed, freed himself from the soft shackles of the cotton bedsheet, and reached for a pair of gray sweats and a dark-green T-shirt in a pile of clothes on the floor. The wooden floor of the flat felt cool against his bare feet as he made his way to the source of the knock. He licked his lips. His tongue felt weighted like wood. His mouth and throat were dry.
What time is it? Coffee. I need coffee. And some water, please.
He unbolted the door and opened it.
“Quintin Pearson?” the distinctly British voice asked. “I’m Detective Sergeant Mallory Evans with the Metropolitan Police Service. Might I come in and have a word with you?”
“Good morning,” he said.
“This will only take a moment of your time,” she said.
“Do I have a choice?” Quintin asked.
He glanced down at the tall detective’s muddy shoes.
Did she wade through a swamp to get here?
Quintin stepped aside, opening the door wider for his unexpected guest. She entered the flat with a sense of intruding authority.
She unbuttoned her steel-gray pea coat and reached into an inside pocket for a mini notepad and a short stub of a yellow pencil. Like the rest of her skin, the back of her hand was sprinkled with a light dusting of freckles. Her red hair was pulled back into a halfhearted bun. Wild, wavy strands framed her square, pale face. Her large eyes were murky blue and dark, the color of deep water. Her stare was intense, as if she were trying to burn a hole through whatever she looked at, including Quintin.
He shifted uncomfortably, seemed unsure of what to do with hands, his long arms. He folded them across his chest.
“Mr. Pearson, I would appreciate your full cooperation.” Her voice was soft. It made Quintin wonder if she had a hard time being taken seriously as a detective. She looked like a disheveled kindergarten teacher. She looked and sounded like she’d been brought up in poverty and was now doing everything she possibly could to deny that part of her life ever existed.
Why not just be yourself, Detective Sergeant Evans?
“Sorry,” Quintin said. “It’s early. I’m not…a morning person.”
“Perhaps some tea would wake you,” she said, sounding as if she would like a cup as well.
Is she planning on staying awhile? God, I hope not.
“I only keep coffee in the cupboards,” Quintin answered. “I could make you a cup. It’s instant.” He gestured to the small kitchenette consisting of little more than a fridge, a sink, and a burner.
Quintin followed her eyes. She glanced at the stack of dirty dishes. “I’ll pass.”
Quintin sat down, sinking into an oversized brown leather chair. Mallory followed his lead and perched herself on the edge
of a matching love seat, crossing her feet at her ankles as if she were a debutante at a ball, waiting to be asked to dance by a member of the Royal Family. The mud on the edges of her shoes kissed. Quintin watched as bits of dirt fell from her soles and settled in a dusty puddle on the hardwood floor. “Is there…something I can help you with, DS Evans?” he asked.
She gave him a strange look—a combination of disapproval and pity—and he felt awkward, on display. “A man has been killed.”
Quintin had to fight the urge to crack a smile. She sounded so melodramatic, as if they were in the middle of a hot storyline on The Young and the Restless. Instead, he nodded and said, “The ambassador. It’s awful.”
“And you were there,” she said. “At the party.”
Quintin held her gaze, although her penetrating stare was still making him uncomfortable. He nodded and said, “Yes.”
“It wasn’t a question,” she informed him. “I’m fully aware you were at the Bremington estate last night. That’s why I’m here. I’m going down the guest list, one by one. A few people left before the police had the chance to question them, such as yourself. It’s my job to…interview them.”
I wonder if the men she works with make fun of her. Why is she so insistent on appearing so tough?
“I was there,” Quintin said, “but I left.”
“Were you in the room?”
“The room?”
“The ballroom? Where the assassination occurred? When shots were fired? Where were you?”
“No.” Quintin shook his head. “I left early.”
“Why?”
Good question. I can’t tell you the truth, Lady Detective Sergeant. That an Italian spy named Luca warned me. That I climbed out of a second-story window, made it safely to the ground, and fled the scene in a luxury car I will never be able to afford.
Quintin placed his palms against the cool, smooth arms of the brown leather chair. “What is this about exactly? I mean, the news is saying he was assassinated. Shouldn’t the police be out looking for an assassin? I hardly think a guest at the party would do this.”
Mallory Evans raised an eyebrow. “And why do you say that?”
“From my understanding, the party was invitation only,” Quintin said.
“That is correct.”
“Regina Bremington knew every single person there. That would mean she invited her husband’s killer to her own party.”
“She’s not a suspect,” Mallory said.
“I didn’t think she was.”
“The ambassador’s wife is desperate for answers,” she said. “I’m sure you can understand.”
“Of course.”
“You’ve lost someone yourself, from what I gather,” she said.
Quintin felt a lump form in his throat. He narrowed his gaze and said, “I’m not sure what information you’ve gathered about me, but what is it that you want to know?”
“Let’s just say I did some research before I sought you out,” she explained, trying to appear like she had the upper hand.
Maybe she’s bluffing. Or maybe she knows something about Kevin and she’s holding on to the information in case she needs one last card to play.
“How well do you know Mrs. Bremington?” she asked.
“We’re…acquaintances.”
The detective looked intrigued. “But as you just pointed out, she knew you well enough to invite you into her home. With such relaxed security?”
The white cordless phone on the lamp table next to Quintin rang. The sudden electric shrillness of the sound startled him. He reached for it instinctually, trying to appear nonchalant. He swallowed before speaking, still parched. “Hello?”
“There’s a detective there with you.” The person on the other end of the call was a woman. Her words were peppered with a heavy, sexy accent. Italian. “Tell her nothing,” she instructed.
Quintin avoided Mallory’s eyes but could feel their iciness, their chilly disbelief. He struggled to maintain his composure and he knew it showed. “Who are you calling for? Who are you trying to reach?” he said into the phone, knowing Mallory was listening carefully to his every word.
The woman on the other end of the line was insistent. “Luca wants to see you. But you cannot tell anyone. You mustn’t say a word about him or this phone call or the information I will give to you later. If you do, your life will be in danger. Do you understand me?”
“Yes.”
“Then you wish to see Luca again?” she asked.
Quintin could not contain his smile. Yes, I definitely want to see him. This time with the lights on. “That sounds great.”
“Meet me at Trafalgar Square in one hour. Be careful,” she cautioned. “They’re following your every move.”
“What for?” he asked.
“Take the bus, not the Tube,” the stranger continued. “I have the Jaguar.”
Quintin hung up the phone and resumed eye contact with Mallory Evans. “Will that be all?”
The tip of her pencil was poised less than an inch away from her handheld notepad. “I still have many questions.”
Quintin stood up and searched the room for a reason to go to the window. He wanted to get a good look at the street below, to see if Luca’s beautiful green car was still there. He wanted confirmation that the woman with the sexy accent on the phone was telling the truth. “I’m not sure how much help I can be,” he said to the detective. “Honestly, I was just happy to be invited in the first place. A guy like me doesn’t get many party invitations.”
“That’s absurd,” she said, cracking half a smile. “You’re young. You’re single. You’re good…” She stopped herself before another compliment rolled off her tongue. She sifted in her seat and straightened her posture, as if she were willing her body to appear in charge, in complete command of the conversation.
“I write magazine articles about fiber intake and proper denture care for a living. I’m hardly thought of when glamorous social events are organized in London.”
“Take me through the night,” she said. “From the moment you arrived at the party, what did you do?” Mallory Evans looked up at him. Quintin still couldn’t help wondering how she’d become a detective. Sure, she was tall and somewhat intimidating with her broad shoulders, but the minute she opened her mouth and her melodic voice slipped out, she was more amusing than threatening.
Quintin swallowed, let out a small sigh. He reached for a green plastic watering can on the counter near the fridge. He filled it with water at the sink as he spoke. The faucet squeaked on and off. “I arrived. I said hello to Regina. I was underdressed. She sent me away.”
“And from there you left?”
“Yes.” Quintin moved to the window. He tilted the watering can into the base of a half-dead fern.
“How?”
He glanced down to the city street below. “I beg your pardon?”
“How did you get home?”
Just as the woman on the phone had said, the Jaguar was gone. “In a car,” Quintin answered, his gaze still directed through the glass.
Mallory’s sweet voice rose with slight agitation. “Your car?”
Quintin stepped away from the window. “No…”
“Did someone drive you?”
“Yes.” He looked at her then, as if to reassure her that he was telling the truth. “A cab.”
She shot him a look of disbelief. “You took a taxi from the Bremington estate all the way home to Ladbroke Grove?”
“I wasn’t feeling too well.”
“Too much to drink?”
“No…it was a headache.”
“So strong you couldn’t drive?”
He put the watering can down on the coffee table between them. “Yes.”
“You left this behind.” Mallory reached into the pocket of her coat and pulled out Quintin’s midnight-blue cell phone. She handed it to him. “Strange,” she said. “It must have been difficult to telephone for a taxi without your phone.”
Qu
intin regretted the words as soon as he spoke them. “The maid…she called a taxi for me.”
Mallory tightened her grip on the stubby pencil. “The maid?”
“Yes. She’s an older woman.”
“Mr. Pearson,” Mallory said, “the Bremingtons don’t have a maid.”
Quintin felt his face flush with heat. “That’s impossible. She answered the door…when I first arrived. Her eyes—”
“What about her eyes? What did this woman look like?”
As he spoke, Mallory wrote with intensity on her notepad. “Her eyes were very cold…mean. She was older. In her late fifties. Maybe early sixties. Very stern. Like being there was a big bother.”
“Was she tall? Thin?”
“Tall, no. Thin, yes. And her hair…it was a mixture of black and gray. Short, but styled. Come to think of it, she seemed more like a guest than a maid. She gave off the impression she was wealthy, but she was wearing a uniform. The traditional kind. Black and white.”
“We need to find this woman.”
“Is she a suspect?”
“Mrs. Bremington is adamant about having an all-male staff.”
Of course she is. Her own personal harem of men.
“Really?” Quintin said. “All male?”
“There are no records of a female employee. I’m sure of this. I went over them this morning.”
“Then maybe this woman has the answers you’re looking for.”
“Someone does,” Mallory said. She stood up, tucked her notepad and pencil away, and buttoned up her pea coat. “I’ve taken up enough of your time.”