Chapter 1: The Final Call

James sat slumped on a cheap aluminum chair, listening to the grating melody of the coffee maker. Although he was already slightly late it was far too early to start a workday without a cup of coffee. Such an attitude was typically frowned upon in his line of work, but there was a reason James was just a "professional associate" and not an actual fed. After adding enough artificial creamer and sugar to mask the burnt taste of the cheap coffee, James shuffled his way out of the dingy break room. As he made his way down the hall, he questioned why he was even there in the first place. He was a financial investigator, so he usually hadn’t a reason to sit in on the interrogation. His job typically involved sorting through data, spreadsheets, and the like. [Not that it matters too much a paycheck's a paycheck.] James thought as he took a sip of the bitter sludge that some might charitably call Coffee.

James made his way to the observation room, it was dusty and cramped almost certainly a renovated broom closet. The only source of light came from the one-way mirror. A quick glance through it revealed that the investigator he was supposed to assist had already started without him. James couldn’t help but be amused, the investigator looked like a stereotypical federal agent straight out of a cheesy B movie. All he was missing were the dark sunglasses to complete the look.

The suspect, on the other hand, was... normal? He was a man of average height, with dark brown hair and a complexion that, while on the paler side, was ethnically ambiguous. In fact, "ambiguous" seemed the perfect way to describe him. He was so nondescript that you could have dropped him almost anywhere in the world, and he would have effortlessly blended into the crowd. With a face so forgettable that the moment you looked away, you'd be hard-pressed to recall any distinguishing characteristics. It was as if his very appearance was designed to slip from memory. James only realized he hadn't been paying attention to a single word that was said when the investigator left the interrogation room.

The hinges groaned in protest as the Fed entered the observation room. "Oh, you're finally here. I'm Agent O'Connor, the lead investigator for this case."

James barely registered the introduction, his mind still half-asleep, trudging through the fog of his early morning malaise. He gave a nod, more out of habit than respect, and took another sip of the coffee that was rapidly cooling into something even less palatable.

Agent O'Connor, however, seemed unfazed by James' lack of enthusiasm. He was a tall man, broad-shouldered and square-jawed, the type who probably spent more time than necessary perfecting his stern, authoritative glare in the mirror. His voice was as gruff as his appearance, carrying an undercurrent of impatience

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"So, Mr. Balfour, you're probably wondering why you're here," O'Connor said, his voice cutting through the dimly lit room with all the subtlety and finesse of a broadsword.

James, still nursing his coffee like it was some sort of lifeline, glanced up. "Yeah, that's crossed my mind. I don’t usually spend my early mornings playing detective. What gives?"

O'Connor didn't miss a beat. "It’s our suspect, Professor Wilson. We pulled him in on the misappropriation of funds, but turns out that’s just the tip of the iceberg. His financials are a mess of unreported assets, offshore accounts, money flowing in from places we can’t trace."

James raised an eyebrow "So, what? You think he's got his hands in some kind of organized crime? The guy doesn’t exactly scream 'mob boss.'"

"Maybe, maybe not." O'Connor responded, his tone as flat as ever. 

"Okay, but I still don’t get why I’m here. I’m a desk jockey. You need a paper trail, I’m your guy. But this whole ‘interrogation thing’…  it's not exactly in my job description."

O'Connor’s jaw tightened slightly. "Order from higher up. Not my choice. They want all angles covered, and that includes having someone like you here in case he slips up on something financial. You’re not here to crack him, you’re here to catch what he misses."

James stared at him for a long moment. " I'm still not seeing why I couldn't just read the transcript or watch the recording or something."

"Do your job, Balfour," O'Connor said, his voice edged with finality. 

With the conversation seemingly over, O'Connor made his way to the door, pausing only to throw one last comment over his shoulder. "We'll start in five, so you'll have more than enough time to finish your beverage."

James took another sip of his now lukewarm coffee and muttered under his breath, "Lucky me."

***

Up close, Professor Wilson looked just as nondescript as he did from the other side of the glass. However, now that James was closer, he noticed something identifiable: the way Wilson carried himself. He seemed far too comfortable for someone in his situation. It wasn’t just the casual confidence he exuded, it was in his energy and body language. The early morning and the interrogation didn’t seem to affect him in the slightest. If anything, he appeared slightly eager, perhaps even excited. But those words didn’t quite capture it; it was more akin to a child barely containing his excitement before ripping open presents on Christmas morning. Whatever it was it unnerved me the way he was looking at us.

And then he spoke, "Ah, looks like the cast is all here."

O'Connor began in his usual tone, "This is my associate—"

"Oh, I'm well aware of Mr. James S. Balfour, son of William Balfour and Marie Vukovich. Lives in apartment 142 at 572 West 11th Street and was late this morning because he was sleeping off a hangover from a night of binge drinking with his college buddy, Tom Samson,"

There was a moment of pin-drop silence