The next morning Peter and Greg met Sarah back at Club de Tac. After making cupcakes, Peter had spent the evening texting her and all of the people on the list she’d provided. A few had agreed to come into the club and answer some questions, but most just left Peter on ‘read’.
“Remember,” Peter said as he opened the club’s front door and walked in. “Let me do introductions. When you go ‘I’m Greg, this is Peter’, it’s hard to get a handshake.”
Peter had reminded the big man three times already this morning. Greg only grunted in response.
The night club was just as it had been the day before, empty, stinky, and dirty. Sarah wasn’t anywhere in sight so Peter and Greg crossed the dance floor toward her office in the back of the building. Their shoes against the concrete floor was the only sound until they neared Sarah’s office. The door was closed but Peter could hear voices within.
Peter reached up to knock but stopped just short. Out of curiosity, he placed his right palm flat against the door.
Office Door
Durability:9/10
Quality: Mass Manufactured
Fun Fact(s):
1. If you turn the handle the door will open.
Though the information he received from his ability was less than useful, it gave Peter the idea to slap a few more surfaces around the club when they finished the interviews. Odds were low that he’d pick up anything interesting, but it was worth a shot. The office door opened as Peter reached up again, this time bringing his hand forward to knock.
Sarah stood in the doorway. She stepped back, eyes widening in shock as Peter’s fist came slowly toward her. She relaxed upon seeing the two men, and Peter’s fist retract, but didn’t return Peter’s bright smile. Behind her, seated at the desk, there was another woman. This one, to Peter at least, didn’t look like the kind of person to frequent a nightclub.
She looked to be in her mid to late twenties, auburn hair, thick glasses, professional attire. Wearing the look of someone who would rather be anywhere else, she flashed the two men an awkward smile over Sarah’s shoulder.
“You guys come on in. This is Sam,” Sarah said, stepping to the side of the door to let them through. “She was here the night that Alyson girl went missing. Feel free to use the office as long as you need to. I’ve got some errands to run. If anyone comes in just tell them we’re closed until 8.”
With that, the club’s proprietor left them to it. Peter stepped forward, Sam got to her feet.
“I’m Peter Mayhew,” he introduced himself, hand held out to shake. Hesitantly, Sam shook it.
Name: Samantha Isla
Race: Human (100%)
Age: 24
Power Level: 1
Fun Fact(s):
1. Samantha has more cats living in her one bedroom apartment than is strictly sanitary.
2. She should probably avoid texting Christopher back. He’s not as good a guy as he seemed.
Peter kept a frown from forming on his face as he read over Sam’s fun facts. His ability had never given him information quite like that before - almost as though it wanted him to tell her to cut her losses with this guy, Christopher. He didn’t know how to feel about that, let alone whether he should step in to say something. Who this random person he’d only just met chose to date was none of his business. But then, what if he chose not to say anything and Christopher ended up keeping Sam in a cage in his basement or something? Even if he did decide to tell her, how could he possibly bring that up in conversation?
“Nice to meet you. Also, Christopher is bad. Run while you still can,” he might say. But he didn’t.
“Sam,” she said in reply, releasing the shake and dipping her chin in a nod to Greg. “Nice to meet you both.”
They took seats around the desk, Peter and Greg on the side closest to the wall and Sam between the two men and the exit. It may not seem like much, but Peter knew from his years of living with a woman that some things men wouldn’t even think of can be the cause of much consternation to their female counterparts. One such thing might be having two unknown men between themselves and the only way out of a little room.
“Thanks for coming,” Peter said. He pulled his pocket-sized notebook out and flipped through a few pages. “We just have a few questions about your experience here on Monday night.”
Sam nodded, staring down at the desk instead of meeting the eyes of her interviewers.
“First, Sarah tells me you are a frequent patron of Club de Tac. Is that right?”
“Yes. Me and a few friends come once or twice a week.”
“The night the young lady went missing, did you notice anything odd? Anything different or unexpected here at the club or even outside on your way in and out?”
Sam thought about the question for a moment, nervously twirling a lock of hair under her right ear before looking up. “Maybe. I mean, it’s probably nothing.”
“Anything,” Peter reiterated seriously.
She nodded. “The bouncer didn’t check my ID, for one thing. He was a new guy. Or maybe just a bouncer I hadn’t seen before. Or since, now that I think about it.”
Peter jotted a quick note. “Great. That’s something I’ll have to follow up with Sarah about. Anything else?”
Sam tilted her head back and forth a few times, the red undertone of her hair glinting through under the light of a dim overhead lamp. “I can’t really think of anything. I get… When I’m here… What I mean to say is that I don’t come to Club de Tac to have an evening I remember. Quite the opposite, really.”
This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.
Peter smiled in understanding. She was saying she came here to get wasted and let her hair down. “I get it. If you’re willing, I know a harmless method of helping people recall things they may have noticed and subsequently forgotten. It’s called a cognitive interview.”
Sam smiled knowingly. “I watch Criminal Binds, too. Yeah, we can do a cognitive.”
Peter had indeed picked up that trick from Renea’s crime drama television programs. They always led people to the perfect recollections with a series of directed questions. On TV, everything went to script, of course it did. Having never actually performed a cognitive interview, Peter could only hope it went well.
“Okay,” Peter said. “Close your eyes.” Sam did. “Now let’s start at the beginning. Did you go to the club by yourself that night?”
“No,” she said, eyes squeezed shut. “I came with my friends Callie and Monique.”
“Let your eyes relax, your brow soften, and tell me about the night. Who drove you three there?”
“We took an Oober from my apartment. It was a white Kroyota, I think.”
“It was raining that night,” Peter reminded her, gently pushing her back into the memory. “You, Callie, and Monique left the ride service and walked into the club. What happened next?”
Sam detailed her experience with a shocking amount of detail, leaving Peter feeling like the world’s best cognitive interviewer. It also left him a bit bored. Until her recollection came to a halt.
Sam frowned, brows knitting together, eyes still closed. “I remember ordering a drink, vodka Bedrull. And then… I don’t know. We just danced, drank, and stumbled home.”
“Think back to when you were at the bar,” Peter prompted. “What did you smell?”
“Cigarettes and… cherries,” she said, head tilting. She frowned suddenly, brows drawn together in concern. Her eyes snapped open. “There was a guy at the bar. He… I didn’t realize it. But now that I’m thinking back…Oh no. Oh my god.”
“What?” Greg asked, leaning forward. “What happened?”
“I saw him drop something into a drink. It wasn’t my drink. It was over to the left of us.”
Peter almost jumped out of his seat with excitement, but schooled his expression. “What did this man look like?”
“He was…” Sam trailed off as she attempted to recall the memory. She closed her eyes again. “Tall. Like, I don’t know, maybe 6’2’’ or 6’3’’. A skinny white guy. And there was a tattoo on his neck… orange… maybe a bird?”
A neck tattoo, for investigative purposes, was about as solid a lead as one could hope for. Not only was it rare to see a neck tattoo at all, decreasing the potential suspect pool dramatically. It also made it easy to spot the tattooed person even in a crowded room. Peter squealed internally.
“Interesting,” he observed cooly. “Anything else you can remember about him?”
Sam scrunched up her lips, thinking for a moment before shaking her head.
“What about after you ordered your drink?” Peter went on. “Did you see him go anywhere, talk to anyone, do anything?”
“I don’t remember seeing him again the rest of the night,” Sam said. “Sorry.”
“Please don’t be,” Peter told her seriously. She had already given them more to go on than he’d expected to get all day. “What about the person whose drink was drugged? Anyone you know? Someone you recognize?”
She thought about that for a moment, and then shook her head. Peter pulled out his phone, navigated through his photos, and then slid it across the fake wood desk to Sam with a picture of Alyson displayed.
“Do you remember seeing this girl?”
Sam rolled her eyes in disgust. “Yes. Her and her friends were so loud and sloppy drunk. They were coming onto literally everyone. I saw her making out with some other girl on the dance floor at one point. Wait. Do you think it was her drink that got drugged?”
“Yes. She’s been missing since Monday,” Greg said. Peter punched him in the leg. “What was that for?”
One look at Sam’s expression should have let Greg know exactly what the punch had been for. She was chewing hard on her bottom lip, eyes filling with unshed tears.
“I was right there. Right there. You always think you’d help, you know? If you saw something like that happen right in front of you. But I was, and I just wasn’t paying attention. And now she’s probably…” Sam trailed off into incomprehensible sobs.
“You can’t blame yourself, Sam. The only person at fault here is a tall skinny white guy with a neck tattoo,” Peter told her. She seemed like a sweet woman, and she’d been so helpful. But since Greg had already sent her into hysterics, Peter decided to rip another bandaid. “Also, pretend I’m clairvoyant or something for just a second. Don’t text Christopher. Don’t see him again. He’s not who you think he is, and you deserve better.”
Sam looked at him, her eye makeup ruined with tears, perplexed. “How…”
“Don’t ask. Doesn’t matter. I’m only saying it for your benefit,” Peter told her, the most earnest and honest expression he could manage on his face.
Whatever was going through Sam’s mind shifted quickly based on the tiny movements on her face. Lips pursed, and then quirked to one side. Her reddening eyes squinted with suspicion. Tears continued creating mascara-dirtied streaks down Sam’s cheeks as Peter gave her one of the business cards for the made-up investigating team of Mayhew and Van Helsing. She promised to call or text him if she remembered anything else. Waiting in Sarah’s office for the next witness to arrive, Peter looked over the notes he’d taken while talking to Sam.
“I’m going to hit the head,” Greg said, standing and leaving the office abruptly.
Only moments after Greg was out of sight a head popped into view, leaning into the doorway to look inside. It was a young Asian man, perhaps in his early twenties. By the set of his cheekbones and shape of his eyes, Peter guessed he was Korean. His hair was shaved on one side, the rest of it hung to his shoulders. This man’s hair was as shiny and healthy looking as any Peter had ever seen, and he considered asking about his hair care routine.
“I’m Andy,” he said, still leaning into the doorway. “I think I’m supposed to meet with someone named Peter?”
Peter smiled brightly, getting to his feet and approaching the man with a hand held out. “I’m Peter. Come on in and have a seat, Andy. Greg just stepped out for a moment, but we can start without him.”
Andy shook the offered hand. Peter felt a tiny jolt of energy from the contact, like static shock but much more pleasant. Curiously, Peter perused the information provided about his newest acquaintance.
Name: Andrew Reinke
Race: Human (93%); Fairy (7%)
Age: 20
Power Level: 1.5
Fun Fact(s):
1. Sells fake IDs to underaged dance enthusiasts.
2. Has a modicum of uncontrolled Fae magic, which often skips a generation and varies dramatically in power and utility.
Peter asked the part-fairy the same questions he’d asked Sam to open the interview, but hadn’t gotten anywhere by the time Greg returned. Greg was sniffing at the air like a dog on something’s trail when he entered the cramped little office. His eyes locked on Andy.
“Fairy?” he asked threateningly.
“Half fairy,” Andy lied smoothly. “Does it matter?”
Greg growled. “Fae-kind are notoriously untrustworthy. In something like an interview, yeah. I’d say it does matter.”
So… Peter thought to himself. He’s a liar, and sells fake IDs to make ends meet. Doesn’t necessarily make him guilty, or even involved with our case.
“I didn’t come here to be talked down to by racists,” Andy said, getting up and heading for the door. Greg remained in the doorway, arms folded over his muscular chest. “May I?”
“Let him go, Greg. He’s right.”
Greg stepped just enough out of his way that Andy had to squeeze past him.
“Andy,” Peter called after him, hurrying to catch up as the half-fairy crossed the dancefloor. “Sorry about Greg. He’s been a monster hunter for a really long time. He didn’t mean anything by that.”
“Monster hunter,” Andy said, scowling at Peter. “Do you even realize that your implication that I am a ‘monster’ and not just a person like you is just as bad as what he said?”
Peter frowned. He was right. Peter prided himself on being an exceptionally accepting person and was horrified with himself. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I didn’t think about it that way and certainly didn’t mean to offend you.”
“Whatever,” Andy said, turning from Peter and marching out of the nightclub.
“Should I give chase?” Greg asked from somewhere behind Peter. “I know it’s not what you had in mind, but I can ask questions a little… harder than you do.”
Peter turned to glare at the big man. “We’re not torturing anyone. Plus, I have a better idea.”
He pulled Omacatl from his jacket’s side pocket, increased her size to that of a large kitten, and then set her down on the grimy concrete floor.
“Follow that man for an hour or so,” he told the cat. “Report back if he does anything terrible.” Omacatl dipped her chin in a nod, and then turned and bolted with incredible speed after Andy. Peter looked up to Greg. “If he does anything terrible, we’ll feed him to Roma.”
Greg laughed. “Or your cat.”
“Or my cat,” Peter agreed, silently wondering if she’d like having fairy for lunch.