The Truth of Yesterday

Book 4 of the Killian Kendall Mysteries

By Josh Aterovis
Copyright 2026

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Chapter 26

I arrived at Chris's just before noon. She answered the door at my knock.

"Wow, you made great time," she said, stepping aside to allow me in.

A small black-and-white dog came barreling down the hallway and skidded to a halt at my feet, looking up at me with enormous, expressive brown eyes.

"Have you met Janie?" Chris asked.

"I don't believe so," I said, momentarily distracted.

"She's a Boston Terrier," Chris said with all the pride of a devoted dog lover. She sounded like she was introducing her child.

"She's beautiful."I knelt down to rub her ears. Janie wriggled with pleasure. "Janie is a cute name."

Chris blushed slightly. "It's short for Janeway, as in Captain Janeway."

"I didn't know you were a Trekkie."

"I'm really not, but my dad is. I grew up watching all the old series. I had a huge crush on Captain Janeway when I was a kid. The signs were always there..."

Just then, Janie leaped into my arms, knocking me off balance. I tumbled backwards onto the floor with the dog happily bouncing on my chest and giving me kisses. I laughed and played with her for a few more seconds before returning to business.

"When do I have to go see Evans?"

"Not till five."

I frowned. "That's a while off. I'll have to kill some time until then."

"Well, then, tell me what happened last night. You promised when you got here you'd give me all the details."

"Okay."

"Can we do it in the living room? I'm getting tired of standing in the foyer."

I made a face at her, and she pulled me to my feet. Janie trotted along beside us as we went into the living room, where I gave Chris the rundown on everything that had happened since we'd last seen each other while the dog sat contentedly in my lap.

She thought for a minute when I finished. "So you think these cases are connected somehow?"

I nodded as I stroked Janie's head. Her fur was so soft. I felt calmer than I'd felt since my confrontation with Jake.

"It sounds like Fenton Black is the common denominator. What are you hoping to get from Detective Owens?"

"I have a lot of blanks to fill in. Do you think he'll tell me if they've gotten anywhere on the case? What's he like?"

"Kind of gruff, a little impatient, maybe. He sounded busy, mostly. This isn't his only case, you know. The cops here in the city are overworked and underpaid, and things are tense with the current administration, to say the least."

"I know. It would be nice, however, if he didn't have to be bribed into working on this one."

"I didn't bribe... Well, okay, maybe I did. Look, it's only natural for me to side with the cops on this — my dad is one, after all — but that doesn't mean I don't see your point of view too."

"I know. I'm just grouchy. You've been a huge help. I couldn't have done this without you."

"Sure you could have. I've just made it easier."

I glanced at my phone. "I still have hours before I meet Evans."

"Is there anybody else you could interview while you wait?"

"Just Paul's family, and I don't know how to get in touch with them. That's part of the reason I wanted to talk to the detective."

"Oh. Isn't there any other way you could get up with them?"

"If there is, I haven't thought of it yet."

"What about Sabrina? Did you ask her about his family?"

I stared at Chris dumbly. Had I? I wasn't sure. I whipped out my notebook and flipped through to my notes from my conversation with Sabrina. There was no mention of Paul's family.

"It, uh, seems like I may have overlooked that."

Chris shrugged. "It's worth a shot."

I found Sabrina's number and called her, but she didn't answer. I figured she was at work or screening her calls — maybe both — so I left a message asking her to call me back.

Chris and I talked for a few more minutes about the case before we were interrupted by the buzzing of my phone.

"Killian? It's Sabrina. I got your message. Has there been a break in the case?"

"Possibly, but that's not why I called. I just thought of something I forgot to ask you when we talked. Do you know how to get in touch with Paul's family?"

"His family? No. Like I said— Wait! Actually, I think he did give me his mom's number once in case of an emergency. Let me check to see if I copied it over when I got a new phone last year." The line was silent for a couple of minutes, then she returned. "It's your lucky day. I found the number."

Silently thanking the patron saint of private investigators — assuming there is such a thing — I jotted it down, then thanked her and hung up.

"Did she give you anything useful?" Chris asked.

"Yeah, I got lucky. Sabrina had his mom's phone number."

"Where does she live?"

"I'm not sure. Do you recognize the exchange?" I showed her the number.

"It's a 301 area code, so it's Maryland, but that's all I can tell you. We can look it up on the computer, though. We may even be able to find the address using a reverse directory."

I stared at her in admiration. "Good thinking!"

She grinned. "Maybe you'll make a detective out of me yet."

A few minutes later, we had the information we needed. Paul's mother lived in Silver Spring, Maryland.

"That's just outside the city," Chris said. "As long as there's no traffic, it shouldn't be more than fifteen or twenty minutes away."

"Let's just hope she'll agree to see me."

I dialed the number, and the phone rang three times before someone picked up. The woman on the other end had a pleasant, sunny voice.

"Mrs. Flynn?" I said.

"Yes. May I ask who's calling?"

"My name is Killian Kendall, Mrs. Flynn. I'd like to ask you some questions about your son, Paul."

"Paul?" she asked, the brightness suddenly fading from her voice. "Why do you want to talk to me about Paul? You do know he's dead, don't you?"

"Yes, ma'am. That's what I wanted to speak to you about, actually. I'm so sorry to intrude, but I'm a private investigator, and I've been hired to find out who killed him."

There was no response. "Mrs. Flynn?"

"It's very hard to lose a child," she said at last.

"I can't even imagine your pain."

"I lost him twice. I got him back after the first time, but nothing can return him to me now."

"You don't think his killer should be brought to justice?"

"It's not that. It's just...my older son, James, he doesn't want me to even talk about Paul. He wouldn't like it if he knew we were having this conversation. We're a very religious family. My husband and James could never accept...they couldn't understand..."

"That Paul was gay?"

"You know?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"My husband is dead now, but James still won't even speak of Paul."

"Is James there now?"

"No, he's at work. He won't be home until after five."

"Could I come to your house and talk to you before that? He wouldn't have to know."

"I don't like to lie..."

"You wouldn't have to lie."

"I suppose if it will help you catch Paul's killer, it would be okay."

"Thank you. I'll be there in about half an hour," I said, allowing myself some wiggle room.

"I'll be looking for you," Mrs. Flynn said.

I hung up and turned to Chris. "Are you coming with me?"

"Yeah, but I think maybe I should drive. I know how to get there, and you look really tired."

When she said that, I realized just how tired I was. I was running on caffeine and adrenaline, and when that was used up, I had a feeling I would crash. Still, there was a growing feeling of urgency pushing me forward.

"I am tired, but I'm okay. Besides, what about your brother? Can you leave him here alone?"

"Crap! I forgot about Kevin. He has a two-o'clock appointment with the orthodontist. I guess I can't take you."

"I'll be fine. I have GPS. Besides, Mrs. Flynn might be uncomfortable if two of us appeared on her doorstep."

I set off to make my way through the confusing maze of D.C. area streets, beltways, and highways. Even with the assistance of my GPS, however, it took me fifteen minutes longer than it should have, thanks to traffic and several wrong turns on my part.

Mrs. Flynn lived on an attractive, if crowded, street with well-cared-for homes that looked as if they'd been built during the post World War II housing boom. Large, old trees lined the road, keeping everything shaded. The lawns were immaculately groomed with neat, color-filled flowerbeds.

Mrs. Flynn's house was a small cottage, part brick and part white clapboard, with a chimney on each end. Enormous mums exploded with autumn color along the brick path leading to the door and against the foundations. Dark-green ivy climbed up one chimney. It made for an idyllic scene.

I walked up the path, breathing deeply the smell of fall — a pleasingly earthy, spicy scent. When I knocked, the door was quickly answered by a small, plump woman wearing white cotton pants and a blowsy, emerald-green top: Mrs. Flynn, I presumed. I was surprised to see she was older than I'd expected. She had short, permed, brown hair, shot liberally with gray. Her round face was relatively smooth, but deep creases cut into the skin at the corners of her mouth and eyes. She looked like a woman who smiled often, though she wasn't doing so at that moment.

"Yes?" she asked cautiously, as if she suspected I was selling something.

"Mrs. Flynn? I'm Killian Kendall. We spoke on the phone?"

Her eyes widened. "Oh! I didn't expect—"

"Someone so young?" I gave her my most winning smile. "I get that a lot."

She smiled tentatively and opened the screen door. "Please, come in."

"Thank you for seeing me, Mrs. Flynn."

She led me into a cozy living room decorated with an eclectic mix of antiques and modern furniture. Knickknacks, photographs, and souvenirs covered every available surface: the evidence of a lifetime only family members could decipher. The pictures seemed to be of several different children. Over the fireplace, in a place of honor, was a huge portrait of Jesus. Although he wore a benign smile, I had the creepiest feeling his eyes were following me as I moved.

I was relieved when she offered me a seat on an oversize armchair that was turned slightly away from the fireplace, which kept me from having to look Jesus in the eye. Mrs. Flynn took the sofa.

I decided to start off with some easy questions to put her at ease. "How many children do you have, Mrs. Flynn?"

"We had six: three boys and three girls. My husband and I were married for forty years before he passed away."

"I'm sorry for your loss."

"We had a good life together. He's in a better place now."

I paused for a moment at the nonchalance in her voice as she talked about the death of her husband. I couldn't imagine being that blasé about Micah's dying, and we hadn't been together anywhere near forty years.

"Where did Paul fit in?"

"He was the youngest. I always called him my surprise package. I was forty when I found out I was expecting for the sixth time. My next-youngest was almost ten by then. After five children, I knew what was happening as soon as the morning sickness started. I didn't even need to go to the doctor, but of course I did. They assumed I'd want an abortion. It wasn't safe to have a baby at that age then, not like it is now. Women can have babies at almost any age these days. Then it was dangerous. I wouldn't even hear about an abortion, of course. It was never an option."

"One of your sons lives with you now?"

"Yes, James. He's the youngest one after Paul. He moved in after his father passed away."

"I understand Paul was estranged from the family for a while, but reconciled with you after his father...passed away."

"Yes, when he told us he was...well, you know, his father said we couldn't accept that. Unless he was willing to get help, we couldn't have anything to do with him. Oh, how it broke my heart, but there was nothing I could do. My husband was the man of the house, he was an elder of the church, and it was what he felt was right."

"Did anyone from your family stay in touch with Paul?" I tried to mask my horror at the matter-of-fact tone in which she spoke of how they had turned their backs on their own child.

"Not that I know of. As far as I can remember, my husband's funeral was the first time any of us had seen Paul in years."

"And after the funeral, he began to visit you?"

"Yes. Always while James was at work. It was wonderful to see him again. He'd grown into such a handsome young man." She cocked her head slightly to one side. "He looked a bit like you, actually."

She stood up, went to the mantel over the fireplace, and picked up a small, silver-framed photograph, which she handed to me. "That's Paul."

It was strange to realize it was the first time I'd seen a photograph of him. I'd been poking into his life and investigating his death for weeks and had never known what he looked like. The picture had been taken at his high-school graduation. He was wearing a blue robe and holding his mortarboard hat in his hands, posing in front of the ivy-covered chimney.

There was indeed a certain air of resemblance between us. He was, as he'd been described, small and blond. Beyond the superficial similarity, however, we really didn't look all that much alike. His face was shaped differently, his eyes smaller, his nose thinner and longer, and his ears larger. His hair was lighter than mine and straight. He wore glasses, while I had contacts. He was cute in a quiet, unassuming way.

"Do you know who might have wanted to harm Paul?"

"No, I have no idea. I really didn't know much about his life. He almost never spoke of personal things. I didn't even know what he did for a living until the newspaper articles came out with it. I don't know why they feel they have to smear that sort of thing all over the pages like a trashy novel."

I felt my hopes take a nosedive.

"Then you wouldn't know much about his personal life?" I asked without much optimism.

"No, not really. I did meet his...friend once, though."

My heart skipped a beat. "His boyfriend?"

"Yes. He brought him to meet me a few months ago. I asked Paul if he had anyone special in his life, and he told me yes. At first, it was enough to know he was happy, but a mother wants to meet the person in their child's life, so I finally told him that on his next visit he should bring his...friend."

"Can you tell me about him?"

"He was a very nice young man. He was tall with dark hair. It was obvious, even to me, that he cared very much about Paul. I've thought of him often since Paul was killed, but I didn't know how to get in touch with him."

"Do you remember his name?"

"Of course. His name was Tom, Tom Jackson."

It was all I could do not to crow in exaltation at those words. That was information I hadn't even expected. I tried to keep my excitement under control, however. I had more questions to ask.

"Did Paul ever seem worried or scared during his visits?"

"No, not that I noticed."

"Did he ever mention anyone who might want to harm him?"

Mrs. Flynn shook her head firmly. "Definitely not. I would remember that for sure."

"Do you know anything about a safe-deposit box he kept?"

"No. I'm sorry. I don't seem to be very helpful."

"You've already helped me a lot, Mrs. Flynn."

A kernel of an idea began to form in the back of my mind at the mention of the safe-deposit box.

"I have?"

"Yes, and there's a way you could help me even more."

"How is that?"

"The safe-deposit box I just mentioned. I have a feeling it could be very important to know what's in it."

"The police can't find out?"

"Well, they could, but they're taking their time with Paul's case. They're overworked, and it...hasn't been a high priority for them, to be honest." Mrs. Flynn looked distressed by my blunt honesty, so I hurried on. "I intend to turn everything over to them, but I'd like to know what's in it first. I have Paul's key, but I can't get into it. You could, however."

"Me?"

"Yes. They would open it for you as Paul's next of kin."

"Oh, I don't know..."

"Please, Mrs. Flynn. The two of us could go there right now. It wouldn't take long at all. I'd have you back long before James got home."

I hoped I was telling the truth there.

The older woman thought for a few minutes. "You really think the contents could be important to finding Paul's killer?"

"I suspect the key to the whole case may be in there."

She nodded hesitantly. "Then okay, I'll do it."

I quickly called the bank and asked to speak to the branch manager. I didn't want to make a trip all the way there, only to find out they wouldn't open it for us. After I explained the situation, the manager checked Paul's record and discovered he had listed his mother as his emergency contact. The manager said as long as she had a photo ID on her, she would be able to open the box. I got directions and hung up, my excitement building with every development. My earlier weariness was all but forgotten.

I loaded Mrs. Flynn into my car, suddenly very grateful I'd driven, and we set off for the bank. We didn't speak much on the way, each of us lost in our own thoughts.

The manager met us personally and, after expressing his condolences to Mrs. Flynn, led us to the vault. Mrs. Flynn inserted Paul's key into the lock and turned it, then the manager did the same with his key. He slid the long, narrow box from the wall and carried it to a nearby table before leaving us to open it in private.

Mrs. Flynn lifted the top with shaking hands while I peered over her shoulder. At first glance, all I saw were individual coins encased in plastic sleeves, which I figured must have been the more valuable pieces in his collection.

When Mrs. Flynn pushed them to one side, a thick envelope appeared. She pulled it out, and we read the scrawled handwriting together: "Open in the event of my death."

Mrs. Flynn gave a shuddering sigh and handed the envelope to me. "I don't think I want to read it."

I debated whether to read it there or wait until later, but my curiosity got the better of me. I lifted the flap, which wasn't sealed, and removed the contents: several sheets of paper folded together. I flattened them out and picked up the top letter, dated a week before his death.

To whom it may concern:

I don't know who will find this, but I will more than likely be dead if you're reading it, so I suppose it doesn't really matter. I recently found out some information that I've come to believe may have put my life in danger. To explain, I'll have to go back a while, though.

I was hired by The Drake Group several years ago. Not long after I started working there, I was assigned a repeat client I later learned was the man I knew as Neal, the owner of the agency. I only found out because he wanted me to be his boyfriend. I told him that, while flattered, I wasn't interested since I was already dating someone. He seemed to take the news in stride and stopped seeing me. Our business relationship remained cordial, although he did offer me a larger cut of my earnings in exchange for my silence. He didn't want the other escorts to know we'd met in person. I agreed.

A few months ago, I was attending a symphony concert with a client when we ran into Neal. My client also knew him and proceeded to introduce the two of us. We pretended not to know each other, but my client introduced Neal as Fenton Black. As soon as I got home, I looked up that name on the Internet. Most of what I could find online made him sound like a wealthy philanthropist.

But I found a Reddit thread that claimed Black was a murderer and involved in drug smuggling and all sorts of other illegal activities, yet had somehow remained above the law. The person claimed to have personal knowledge of him, but said pictures of him were very rare. They'd managed to get a photo of him from a newspaper. Sure enough, it was Neal. I saved the picture to my computer and printed it out. I'm glad I did, because the next time I tried to find the thread, it no longer existed. When I searched the user's name, his entire profile had been deleted.

I didn't know what to do with my knowledge that the infamous Fenton Black owned an escort agency. Should I tell him I'd stumbled across his true identity? Go to the police? The thread had said no one had ever managed to bring him down. What if I could help?

After talking to some friends, I finally decided I couldn't ignore what I knew, although I felt I owed it to him to at least talk to him about it first. Maybe it was all just some sort of misunderstanding.

I wrote him an email, making it seem like a funny joke that the client had introduced him as Fenton Black. I played ignorant, like I didn't know it was really him. He responded almost immediately, saying he didn't know what I was talking about, that he hadn't been at the symphony at all that night. I knew he was lying. I'd looked him right in the eye and shaken his hand.

I still don't know what I'll do with this information, but if Fenton Black is as dangerous as everyone seems to think he is, then I could be at risk. I'm placing this letter in a safe place along with the other information I collected and printed out.

If anything suspicious happens to me, please take this information to the police.

Signed,

Paul Flynn

My heart was pounding as I flipped through the other pages. The first sheet was a blown-up, grainy copy of the same Fenton Black photo I'd seen in Jake's room. It had obviously been printed out, and at the bottom, in Paul's handwriting, were the words, "Fenton Black."

The next few sheets were, as Paul had said, printouts of web pages. I didn't take the time to read them.

I looked up at Mrs. Flynn, who was staring down at her hands clasped in her lap.

"I think I need to take these to the police," I said softly.

She looked up at me. "Does it...does it explain Paul's murder?"

I hesitated, not wanting to make promises when I wasn't sure. The letter certainly seemed to imply Fenton Black was behind Paul's death, but I couldn't be positive.

I shrugged. "It seems to, but I don't know. I have an appointment with the detective in charge of Paul's case later this afternoon. Is it okay if I take this to him?"

She nodded. "Yes, of course."

We quickly finished up at the bank, and I drove Mrs. Flynn back home. After seeing her inside and thanking her profusely for her help, I headed back to Chris's. She and Kevin weren't back yet, so I sat on the doorstep to wait.

When they eventually showed up, Kevin looked cranky and Chris frazzled.

"Hey," she said, catching sight of me. "How'd it go?"

"Very well. How was the orthodontist appointment?"

Kevin glowered at me.

"Don't ask," Chris said. She unlocked the door, and we all filed inside. Kevin immediately disappeared to his room. "He hates having his braces tightened, and I hate being his mother."

"You could always move out," I said.

She sighed. "Nah. Dad needs me. Maybe someday when Kevin's a little older. So anyway, what happened with Mrs. Flynn?"

"Well, I think I may have gotten enough information that your promise to Detective Evans won't be a complete fabrication."

"What? That's great! What did you find out?"

I quickly outlined everything I'd learned at Mrs. Flynn's and what I'd discovered in the safe-deposit box.

"So you think Fenton Black killed Paul because Paul discovered who he was?"

"I think it's possible, at least. It's the first solid clue I've come up with. I'm going to turn the letter over to the detective when I see him."

"I think that's a good idea. It sounds like you could be in danger, and your friend Jake too."

"I knew that already. What I still can't quite figure out is the connection to Jake. How did Jake meet this guy? It sounds like Jake is totally Black's type, though. He went after Paul, flirted with me... He clearly likes them young and blond."

We tossed around more ideas for a while until Chris glanced at her watch. "You'd better leave if you're going to meet Detective Evans on time."

"You're not coming?"

"No, I'd better stay here with Kevin. It'll be dark soon, and I don't like to leave him alone at night."

"Oh. Okay." I was disappointed and a bit nervous at the prospect of seeing Evans alone. "You'll at least give me directions, right?"

She laughed. "No, I thought I'd let you find it for yourself. By the way, you're not meeting him at the station. He said, and I quote, 'If I have to waste time with some amateur sleuth, he can talk while I'm eating dinner.'"

She gave me the directions to the place where I would find him.

The restaurant turned out to be a little hole-in-the-wall Irish pub. A neon sign in the window proudly proclaimed that they served — what else? — Killian's Irish Red.

I pushed open the door and stepped into a dimly lit room. Round tables sat in the middle of the floor, while old-fashioned, red vinyl-upholstered booths lined the walls. The place was doing a brisk business, with almost every table full. It only took one look around to see I was the youngest person there by at least a couple of decades.

A geriatric waitress carrying an empty tray stopped near me. "Can I help ya, sugar?"

"I'm here to meet with Detective Owen Evans," I said.

She pointed out a man sitting alone in a corner booth at the far back of the restaurant. He was intent on his hamburger and wasn't looking up.

As I approached, I took him in. He was on the far side of middle-aged and had to be nearing retirement, but he appeared to be in pretty good shape physically. He was just starting to expand a little in the middle, and meals like that greasy burger and mountain of crinkle-cut fries weren't going to help any. He had salt-and-pepper hair that was a little on the shaggy side, as if he'd missed a haircut or two. Although his face was lined, it didn't make him look old, just interesting. He was wearing a slightly rumpled suit with a fresh ketchup stain on the lapel.

"Detective Evans?" I asked when I reached his table.

He looked up at me. "That's me. You Kendall?"

He looked tired. The bags under his eyes had their own luggage.

I nodded, and he inclined his head towards the seat across from him. "Have a seat."

I sat down and tried to organize my thoughts, but before I could speak he asked, "So you're a friend of Chrissie Silver's, huh?"

"Chrissie..." I had to struggle not to laugh. I wondered how long it had been since he'd seen Chris. She definitely wasn't the Chrissie type.

"Yes," I finally managed. "Thank you so much for agreeing to meet with me. As Chris...sie may have explained to you: I'm a private investigator and I've been hired to look into Paul Flynn's murder."

He gave me a very unimpressed stare before taking a bite of his hamburger. I waited while he chewed and swallowed.

"I hear you think you know who the killer is," he finally said, before taking another bite.

"Well, I have a strong suspicion. I think a man named Fenton Black may be involved. I believe he uses the name Neal to run the escort agency Paul worked for."

Evans swallowed and chased it down with a gulp of his soda. He eyed me for a moment then said, "You think. You believe. You suspect. You got any proof, or you just wasting my time?"

I pulled out Paul's letter.

"Paul left this in a safe-deposit box. His mother opened it today and gave it to me to pass on to you."

I was stretching the truth a little, but I hoped he wouldn't find that out.

He reluctantly set his burger on the plate and wiped his hands before picking up the letter. He read it over slowly while I fidgeted impatiently in my seat.

When he finished, he drummed his fingers a few times on the table, then went back to his sandwich again.

"So, um, what do you think?" I finally asked.

He stared across the table at me while he chewed slowly and deliberately. "I think it's interesting but circumstantial at best. For all I know, you typed that letter up. Flynn didn't even sign it. It's just his name printed at the bottom."

I blinked. It hadn't even occurred to me that the detective wouldn't believe me.

"You can ask Mrs. Flynn. We went to the bank a few hours ago. The letter was in a safe-deposit box."

"How'd you know about the box?"

"I found a note Paul had written that mentioned it. I just had a hunch there might be something important in it."

"A hunch, huh? And you found the letter this afternoon?" I nodded. "So what proof did you have this morning when your friend called me and badgered me into agreeing to this little tête-à-tête?"

"Well, she may have overstated my case when she said that..."

"So, essentially, you're wasting my time."

"No! I mean, the letter—"

"The letter proves nothing."

"Why don't you just let me tell you everything I've found out? Then you can decide if there's anything to it or not. You're not losing anything, since you have to finish eating anyway. If you still think I'm wasting your time when you're done, I'll pay for your burger and leave you alone."

He took a huge bite of his sandwich, making about half of what was left disappear in one gulp.

"Deal," he said. Or at least that's what I thought he said, his mouth being a little full.

Since he wasn't leaving me much time to talk, I didn't want to waste any of it. I outlined my investigation to date as succinctly as possible, leaving out such trivial details as tampering with evidence and breaking and entering. Even without those particulars, it added up nicely — or so I thought. What really mattered, however, was what the detective thought.

When I finished my recital, he swallowed the last of his burger and signaled the waitress over. I held my breath as she approached. I was certain he was going to tell her to give me the check and walk out, leaving me with nothing more than I'd arrived with.

He surprised me by ordering a chocolate milkshake and a cup of regular coffee.

"You look like a chocolate kind of guy," he said after she'd left. I nodded my agreement, still too surprised to know what to say. "I have to give it to you; you've done a good job on the investigation. Knowing PIs like I do, I suspect you left out a few things, but that's neither here nor there. Unfortunately, you've also left out the most important part. You don't have any evidence. So you suspect this Fenton Black character? So what? What do you want me to do about it? I can't go after this guy just because you say so."

"The letter—" I tried again, but he broke in.

"So Flynn thought his pimp was also a drug lord? Not a big shock there, if you ask me. It doesn't necessarily mean the guy had anything to do with Flynn's murder."

"I...I know Black is involved..."

"How? Another hunch?"

I frowned. "I know I can get the proof. I just need more information."

"What kind of information?"

"Do you know who Paul was dating?"

"I didn't know he was dating anyone. Everyone we spoke to said he was single."

"You didn't speak to his clients."

"His clients? You make it sound like he was a dry-cleaner. He was a prostitute."

The waitress came to pour his coffee, and I waited until she left to continue.

"I know what he was, and I really don't see how that makes any difference. Why does it matter what he did for a living? He was a nice guy, a good person. Everyone that knew him loved and respected him."

"Obviously not everyone."

I was annoyed that I'd walked into that one. I'd made the same point several times myself.

"One of his clients told me Paul was dating someone, but he didn't know who. Then, when I spoke to Paul's mother today, she told me she'd met his boyfriend and said his name was Tom Jackson."

"That's great. I'll look into it."

"I'd like to talk to him myself."

"I'm sure you would. I'd like a pristine 1967 Ford Mustang. Too bad we'll both be disappointed."

I decided to change tactics slightly. "What about Paul's cell phone?"

"What about it?"

"Maybe the boyfriend's number was in it."

He shrugged. "It's possible."

"Any chance you could give me the number?"

"Absolutely not."

"Why not? What if it helped solve the case?"

"It could also help me lose my job. I can't just run around handing over key evidence to everybody who asks."

"How is Paul's boyfriend's phone number key evidence?"

"The cell phone was taken from the murder scene, that makes it — and its contents — evidence in a homicide investigation."

"Have you at least contacted everyone in it?"

He gasped melodramatically. "Gee golly! You know what? We didn't even think of that. It's a good thing you came along to remind us how to do our job."

I gritted my teeth in frustration. I jumped as the waitress dropped a large glass of chocolate milkshake in front of me with a loud thunk. I hadn't even seen her coming that time.

"You don't have to get all snotty about it," I said when she'd gone. "I was just asking. It didn't lead anywhere?"

"Nobody knew nothin'."

"Can you at least tell me if Tom Jackson's number was in it?"

He sighed. "You don't give up, do you, kid?"

"Nope."

"Even if his number is in there, we've already talked to him."

"You've already talked to a lot of the people I have, and I found out much more than you did."

He didn't look too pleased at that reminder, but he couldn't argue with its validity.

"I won't tell him where I got the information, I promise."

He pressed his lips together and silently whipped out a small notebook from his inside jacket pocket. The notebook was almost identical to the one I carried.

I felt a little thrill to see that a professional police detective used the same notebook I did. Then I remembered that I used one because a retired police detective taught me.

I pulled out my pad while he flipped through his pages. Wanting to be ready, I waited with pen poised over paper.

"There was no Tom Jackson in the cell phone," he said. I felt my heart drop. "But there was a TJ. Damn, you are one lucky son of a bitch. We did talk to him, and his full name was Thomas Jackson. He claimed he was just an acquaintance of Flynn's and didn't really know him."

He rattled off a phone number, and the notebook vanished back into his pocket.

"Just one more thing," he said. "We're going to have to question him again. I could order you to leave him alone until after we've had our crack at him, but to be honest, I have a feeling you'll get more out of him than we would. Chances are he'll be a lot cagier getting questioned for a second time by the police, especially if he was less than truthful the first time around. You haven't spoken to him before, you're in an unofficial capacity, and you're closer to his age — all of which makes you very nonthreatening."

"What are you saying? You'd like me to talk to him first?"

"I didn't say that...officially. However, if you do talk to him before I can get in touch with him — which probably won't be until tomorrow at this point — I would expect you to fill me in on your conversation afterward."

"Of course. I'll tell you everything I find out."

"You'd better,"" He threw back the last of his coffee and signaled the waitress. "He's picking up the check," he told her as he stood up.

I gaped at him. "The deal was I would pick it up if you thought I didn't have anything to offer."

"And you didn't. All you gave me was some speculation and allegations without anything to back them up..." He belched. "…and a bad case of heartburn. Thanks for dinner."

He nodded at the waitress, who was busy keeping a professionally bland smile on her face, and walked out.

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