Blackquill Case Files: The Mansion Murder, Part 2
Nathan and Aria figure out their first suspects...
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As the door opened, the police brought in Marcus Sterling. Clarke looked inside the room, saw the duo, and scowled. Nathan curled his lip into a sneer and waved him off. Marcus Sterling was a Caucasian man wracked with emotion and fatigue—his disheveled appearance spoke of no sleep and endless questioning. Nathan studied him, noting subtle things: nervous ticks, averted eyes, and a beaded brow of sweat.
“All right, Marcus, I’m just gonna ask you a few precise questions—”
“Wait, the cops are hiring kids now? What the hell are you doing? Can anyone tell me why my dad killed himself?”
Nathan held up his hand and pressed his index to his lips. “Yes, I’m a teenager, but that’s irrelevant. And your father didn’t kill himself; there was no gunpowder on his fingers. Only thing that’s puzzling me is there’s no sign of a struggle. It pegs me someone he knew murdered him. You said you were here when it happened.”
Marcus nodded, his voice shaky but amenable. “Yes, but you’re not sayin’ I… I didn’t… I would never…” The man, who looked like he could’ve played football, or at least some Rugby, devolved into a blubbering mess at the implications, his mind working overtime to plague him with anxiety.
Nathan held up a hand, silencing him gently. “Shush. I don’t want them to think I’m doing something to you. But I believe you.”
Aria stepped forward, the photograph in hand. She held it up for him to see. “Who’s she? Your pop’s new girlfriend?”
Marcus’s eyes widened. He shook his head. “That’s…that’s my fiancée, Rachel. We kept things between us secret because dad didn’t approve.”
Nathan slightly cocked his head to listen. “Why’d he disapprove? She’s young, good-looking, and you’re well-off so no desire for money. If anything, in that picture, your dad looked sweet on her.”
“He thought she was after our money,” Marcus admitted. “He cut me off, said he’d write me out of his will if I didn’t broom her fast. We argued, sure, but I never wanted him dead.”
Nathan’s mind sifted through the details and turned toward the window, noting its position relative to the desk. “The unsub—that means ‘unidentified subject,’ before you ask—knew this room well. They waited for the right moment.”
He moved past Aria and Marcus to the door, inspecting the lock. He glared at it, looking for signs of a replaced lock or a broken one. “No signs of forced entry. The unsub was let in or had a key.”
Aria tapped her chin and grunted. “Who had access to the house?”
“Dad’s lawyer, Harold Moore,” Marcus replied. “Him and his business partner, Richard Evans. I didn’t trust them having access to dad’s house, but he said it makes it easier for him to be reminded of their meetings.”
Nodding, Nathan looked to Aria, lifting his phone to send a voice message. “Detective, find a Mr. Harold Moore and a Richard Evans. They’re both potential suspects. We need to interview them.”
“You sure?” said the voice message response. “Everything’s pointing to the departed’s son.”
“His name is Edgar Sterling. He’s not a face you forget; we’re trying to solve this man’s murder,” Nathan said, fighting to contain his irritation. “Please find those two. Marcus didn’t kill his father.”
The following morning…
Harold Moore was a black man of impeccable appearance, every hair in place, his suit unwrinkled. Nathan and Aria met him in his office, a sterile but well-furnished environment that spoke of precision and control.
“So, Mr. Moore, you’ve heard about what happened to Mr. Sterling, correct?” Nathan inquired, his voice calm.
Moore remained composed and confident, as if he had all the time in the world to answer the sleuth. “I just found out this morning. It’s a damn shame; I loved fishing with the guy. He always talked as if he knew secrets people were too stupid to think about. Damn…” he said as if the shock of Sterling’s death had just dawned on him.
Nathan watched him as he spoke, his eyes trained on more than the obvious. “So where were you on the night of Mr. Sterling’s murder?”
Moore’s eyes flickered momentarily before he composed himself, a gesture almost imperceptible to the untrained eye. “I was at home, reviewing documents,” he replied, his voice steady but not unwavering. “He mentioned he wanted to make some changes to his will, so I looked things over.”
Nathan noted the subtle twitch in Moore’s left eye. As Moore continued speaking, the sleuth observed his hand movements—specifically, the way his fingers drummed lightly on the armrest of his chair. The rhythm was erratic, and Nathan calmly tapped Aria’s knee to alert her to it. Without breaking line of sight with Moore, in ASL he told Aria, “Text Detective Monroe.”
“You had a key to the mansion?” Aria asked as she texted without looking. Once she finished, she hit the record button, breathing in relief that the phone’s sounds were connected to her AirPod.
Moore nodded to her question. “Yes, for business purposes,” he admitted, his hand instinctively moving to adjust his tie.
Nathan’s gaze sharpened. The tie adjustment was unnecessary; it was a subconscious attempt to regain control and confidence. Moore’s foot tapped lightly against the floor, subtle and unconscious. Nathan caught this as he shifted slightly in his seat, his expression remaining impassive.
“Interesting,” the sleuth murmured, leaning forward slightly. “And were there any disagreements with Mr. Sterling recently? Any disputes about what he wanted to change in his will?”
Moore’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, and a faint bead of sweat billowed at his temple. He reached up to wipe it away, but the motion was too quick, too deliberate. He shrugged before saying, “We had some differences of opinion, but nothing significant.”
Nathan tabulated his observations like a mental rolodex. He picked up another small but telling sign: Moore’s breath quickened slightly, and his nostrils flared—a physiological response to stress that most would overlook. Nathan wrapped up the interview, but he noted the slight quiver in Moore’s hand when he went to pour a glass of water. He gripped the glass too tightly.
“You’ve been very helpful, Mr. Moore,” Nathan said as he rose from his seat. “I’ll be in touch if I have any further questions.”
Moore nodded and offered his hand to shake. “This was educational; I never thought I’d get interviewed by an actual detective.” He forced a smile.
“I tend to be a lot more direct than the police. You’d probably be in cuffs by now if someone like Officer Clarke did the interview.”
“Well, thank God you’re calm and cool,” Moore retorted.
“Don’t thank Him just yet,” Nathan said as he and Aria left the office, the door closing softly behind them.
As they walked down the office corridor, Aria turned to Nathan, her brow furrowed. “He’s hiding something, isn’t he?”
Nathan nodded, his eyes distant as he replayed the interview over and over in his mind. “He’s involved somehow, Ria, but I’m not sure. The signs were all there—tiny details a layman would miss, but to someone trained to observe, especially someone who can’t turn it off… it was like watching a play unfold. He didn’t take us seriously because of age, but if Det. Monroe was there, I’d have gotten a confession out of him. He’s hiding more than a ‘disagreement’.” Nathan spoke the last word with finger quotes.
His phone buzzed. It was Detective Monroe. “Detective,” he answered.
“What you got?” Monroe’s voice was loud enough for the duo to hear.
“Moore was a nervous wreck. Aria recorded our conversation; you should be getting it now.”
“Got it. What did you see?”
“Underestimation. Nerves shot. Trying to keep his composure. He’s hiding something. I want to go back to the scene, take a second look around.”
Detective Monroe paused before she responded. “Yeah. You need to get me something concrete, Nathan. The higher-ups want this wrapped up.”
“Of course they do. I’ll have something by the end of the night. Talk soon.” He ended the call and motioned for Aria to follow.
After a quiet Uber ride, they returned to the mansion—the weight of Moore’s interview heavy on their minds. It staunched their personal conversation; they didn’t want to miss a detail, but Aria did manage to ask once they got out of the car: “How you feeling about starting this new academy Monday?”
“Lotusmori. A Portmanteau of ‘Lotus’ and ‘memento mori.’ Remember death, or ‘Remember, you will die.’ Kinda morbid to name your school. I kinda want to go just to find out who came up with the name. Plus, you act like I’ll be there alone; you’re starting there too.”
She ignored him with a sigh. “A lot of bigwigs’ kids go there. That’ll be fun,” Aria mumbled. “Everybody there’ll be throwing money around with fragile egos.”
“Yeah, that’ll be fun. A lot of mouths running like hot water, until you hit them in the jaw. But I’m going there for another reason,” Nathan said, his voice growing solemn.
Aria nodded. “How is Michael doing in there?”
“Holding on. Can’t do much without his money, but he’s got a big brain. He’s clever as hell.”
Aria smiled. “He taught you everything he knows. You’ve solved a lot of cases in Ravenwood; I’m sure Michael’ll be fine.”
“Whoever framed him is connected to Lotusmori. I don’t care about the school’s pedigree; I want to clear Michael’s name.” Nathan sighed. He wished he could put on some music in his earphones, but he needed to be alert.