A sharp ding and the door parted. Before them stood a single door, marked 112 A; presidential suite. They were ushered in quickly and seated on a long cream couch opposite a cluttered desk. It was a modern, smooth looking room and the air smelt of fresh lilies and vanilla. Rose sat behind the desk and promptly dialed someone, “Hello? Sir? Yes sir, they have arrived. Not a problem.”
She then flicked on her computer and began typing furiously. Soon enough a man, with a well-kept beard and corporate haircut opened the door leading to another office. Kimberly hesitated, something felt off, but one look at her Aunts face made her stand. After all, she had agreed to this. What is life without a little courage? Courage in the sense of denying ones’ own feelings and instincts, but is that courage or stupidity?
“Dear?” Cassidy said, already chatting to the man in the navy pinstripe suit and a red bow tie. Men with the audacity to wear bow-ties on a daily basis ought never to be trusted, she thought. Kimberly sighed and followed her Aunt into the next room.
“So,” the man said. “You’re here.”
“Yes.” Cassidy said. Kimberly sat in one of two suede armchairs and folded her arms.
“Your journey is not without sacrifice I imagine?”
“That doesn’t particularly matter, what did you say your name was?” Cassidy answered.
He pulled a cigar from his desk drawer and opened the window. Bringing it to his mouth he answered, “Jeremy, my name is Jeremy.”
Kimberly frowned, Cassidy seemed undeterred, and both remained silent.
“I am sure you have many questions yes?”
“Perhaps,” Kimberly said. “Or, we could skip to the point and you could start by giving us answers?”
“So tell us, why am I here?” Cassidy echoed.
Two broad men came into the room and stood with their arms crossed at the door. Mr Smith smiled, “Well, we want to propose something.”
“Something that wasn’t possible through email or over the phone?” Cassidy asked.
“Not exactly,” he reached for a folder that lay flat on the corner of his desk. Then flicking through it briefly he slumped back in his chair and scratched his head. “We have reason to believe you’re withholding information. Vital information relevant to a particularly important case. For confidentiality, and not to mention security reasons, it was best to question you in person.”
“What the hell are you talking about? Information about what?”
“Mrs. Henderson,” he replied firmly, “Your husband.”
“Pardon?” She shook her head and continued, “Sir I don’t wish to disappoint you but Richard passed away almost a decade ago.”
“Then what could I possibly know, and who could I not be telling it to?”
Mr. Smith exhaled a musty cloud of cigar smoke and leant forward, “You may recall a few people trying to contact you about how exactly he died over the course of 6 months following his funeral.”
“Vaguely, but they were just pesky reporters.” She said, “Scumbags trying to earn a quick cheque from my husband’s death.”
“Some. But a selected few were private investigators working for me.”
“And who exactly are you?”
“That doesn’t matter right now.” Jeremy pulled three pages from the file and placed them in front of Cassidy. “These three men and women – Mr. Williams, Miss. Johnson and Mr. Coleman were on assignment when they contacted you.”
Cassidy moved the pages slowly, a headshot of each was clipped to the top right corner. She was sure she recognised all three, each had shown up at her house asking questions for various papers.
Jeremy continued, “I wanted to keep the whole ordeal covert you see. But you didn’t respond well. After three failed attempts I decided to try another route.”
He smiled at Kimberley, “Your father dear.”
“What?” She replied.
He rolled his eyes. “I knew the pair weren’t the closest of brothers, but to my surprise, they hated each other more than I had originally thought. This of course worked out brilliantly.”
“So tell me,” Cassidy narrowed her eyes, “Why am I only hearing about this now? Why not sooner, it’s been over nine years?”
“Let’s just say the dust settled,” He said, motioning for the guards to draw closer, “And now, we’ve gained new motives.”
© Celsie Richardson 2015