Maxwell Hartwell left the Emerald Lounge with Elena Voss's urgency burning a hole in his pocket. The night had deepened into an inkier version of itself, clouds masking the moon like a thief's glove.
He headed towards the scene of Victor Kane's demise, an upscale apartment complex called The Marlowe, which towered over the West End like a sentinel. Its windows shimmered against the skyline, secrets stacked floor upon floor.
The lobby of The Marlowe was all polished marble and disdain. The night concierge, a wiry man with a complexion that suggested he saw sunlight more by accident than intention, looked Max up and down with evident disapproval.
"I need to see the residence of Victor Kane," Max stated, his ID flashed with a practiced ease.
The concierge eyed the badge, then Max, skepticism etched across his narrow face. "Police have already been through," he sniffed, handing back the ID. "Cleaned up the mess too. You're a bit late for scavenging, aren't you?"
Max's lips twitched into a shadow of a smile. "I'm not here to scavenge. I'm here to understand."
"Upstairs, then," the concierge relented, pressing a button that sent a golden elevator down to them with a muted ding. "Penthouse suite. Can't miss it."
The ride up was a swift, silent ascent into the heart of wealth and privacy. The penthouse door was ajar, a violation in itself. Max pushed it open, his senses on high alert.
Inside, the apartment sprawled like a fallen kingdom. The cleanup crew had done their job: no bloodstains, no signs of struggle. But the air still held a whisper of chaos, a scent beneath the sterile surface—a mixture of cologne and fear.
Max moved through the rooms, his eyes catching on the little imperfections left behind. A vase of flowers stood too perfect on the mantle, their blooms a stark contrast to the emptiness of the space. On the desk, a photo frame faced down, as if looking away in shame.
He paused, fingers tracing the edge of the frame before flipping it over. It was a picture of Victor Kane, arm around a woman whose laugh was a frozen echo in the still air. Elena Voss. Her eyes in the photo held a spark that her presence in the bar hadn't shown. A puzzle piece fell into place with a silent click.
A noise from the other room snapped Max back to the present. He set the frame down and moved towards the sound, his steps silent on the thick carpet. In the threshold of the bedroom, he found a young man, early twenties at a guess, frozen like a deer in the harsh glow of the overhead lights.
"Who are you?" Max's voice wasn't loud, but it carried the weight of authority and threat.
The young man swallowed, his adam's apple bobbing in stark relief. "I—I'm Danny. Danny Rivers. I was a friend of Vic's."
"A friend with a key, or a friend who breaks in?"
Danny's gaze flicked to the window, then back to Max. "He gave me a key. Said I could crash here when the city got too much."
"And tonight, the city got too much?" Max asked, his tone flat.
Danny nodded, desperation creeping into his eyes. "I didn't know he was dead until—" His voice broke, and he looked away.
"Until you walked in on his cleanup," Max finished for him. He watched Danny, noting the genuine grief that seemed to wrinkle the boy's face. "If you were close with Victor, maybe you can help me understand who might have wanted him dead."
Danny ran a hand through his hair, leaving it disheveled. "I don't know. Vic... he dealt in memories. Made a lot of money, but made a lot of people angry too. Dangerous people."
"People?" Max prompted.
Danny hesitated, then spilled, "There's a list. He kept it hidden. People who owed him memories, big names. Some of them... you don't cross without consequences."
"Where's the list?" Max's question sliced through the thickening air, sharp and direct.
"In his safe. Behind the painting in the office. I—I can show you."
Max followed Danny back to the office, his mind ticking through each piece of information like a seasoned gambler counting cards. The painting—a cliché hideaway that spoke of Victor Kane's flair for the dramatic—swung aside to reveal the safe.
As Danny worked the combination, Max's thoughts were already racing ahead. A list of debtors in a city fueled by memories was more than a motive for murder. It was a roadmap to power, and possibly, to a murderer.