The next day was, as it happened, Vincent Vale's birthday.
Raoul had learned this from Violet. She'd made an offhand comment as he was leaving, and he'd heard it mentioned it while recounting her last conversation with the victim.
'Vincent's at the rooftop restaurant. The one above the café. He always goes there on his birthday.' She'd paused and shrugged helplessly. 'Don't ask me why.'
He hadn't asked. There was no point. Raoul would have his conversation with Vincent in soon enough.
The restaurant sat above the same café where Virgil had spent his last afternoon. Quiet in the early evening, still relatively empty. A scenic corner of the world, though too pricy for Raoul to pass by regularly.
Vincent Vale was at a corner table, positioned with his back to the window and the last of the evening light falling evenly across the room rather than into his face. A glass of something dark in front of him. A plain navy jacket hung over the chair opposite. One glass. No reservation card. No company.
It seemed Vincent's birthday tradition was a rather quiet one. Raoul almost felt bad interfering. But he wouldn't get anywhere without learning more about the case.
He looked up when Raoul approached and said nothing, which Raoul took as an invitation.
"Mr. Vale." He greeted as he sat at the table. "I'm Raoul Boa. I'm investigating—"
"I know who you are." Vincent's voice was low and flat, not unfriendly, just careful. Everything about him seemed careful and precise, except for his gaze. Raoul thought he was imagining it, but it looked like Vincent was looking past him. "Violet told me."
"Of course she did." Raoul sighed.
"I thought she was lying about the eyepatch." Vincent noted with a perked eyebrow. "You seem a bit young for something like that."
"I get that a lot."
"The eyepatch specifically?"
"And my age. Though I hope we can both agree not to make it a problem, yes?"
Vincent hummed, seemingly in agreement, then fell silent for a few long seconds. "l hope so as well detective. Though it seemed this case might prove difficult for someone as... inexperienced as yourself."
Raoul looked at him. Vincent had his sister's eyes, for the most part. But where hers were quick and expressive, Vincent's had the quality of murky water. Unclear and difficult to gauge or read.
Vincent reached for his glass and found it a half-inch from where his hand went first. A small recalibration. Smooth enough to be nothing. He picked up his glass and said nothing further, which Raoul was beginning to understand was its own form of communication.
"So Virgil. I understand you're the one who found him." Raoul began. It seemed like there was no point dragging things on with this man.
"I did."
"Walk me through it."
Vincent set his glass down and described it plainly. He'd had reason to check on the studio. The door was locked. He had a key. He'd gone in and found Virgil at the piano, which hadn't immediately alarmed him. Virgil fell asleep at the piano occasionally, had done since he was small. It had taken him a moment to understand that this time was different. Virgil's description wasn't enough to paint a picture for the detective. He wasn't as forthcoming with details as Violet, but Raoul wouldn't fault him for that yet.
"You didn't go to the studio often." Raoul noted. It wasn't quite a question and Vincent understood it.
"No." Vincent followed with a pause that lasted a little too long. "We were not as close, he and I. Not as close as we should have been. I suppose I regret that."
Raoul noted the phrasing. Not we drifted apart. Not we were both busy. He was holding himself responsible for something beyond his allegedly busy schedule, even if he didn't outright say it in plain terms.
"So what got in the way?" he asked.
Vincent turned his glass on the table. It seemed the man was buying time, perhaps turning his response around in his mind. There was something slightly off about the way Vincent looked at the detective. His gaze had been a degree past center. It seemed Vincent was looking just alongside Raoul rather than directly at him. Raoul couldn't have named the feeling it gave him precisely, but he noted it anyway.
"My father." he said at last, "He is a very effective person. Effective at acquiring things, effective at maintaining appearances, effective at making people feel that their circumstances are the result of their own failures rather than his interference." He turned the glass once more. "My mother spent the better part of forty years documenting the evidence to the contrary and planning appropriately."
Raoul's eyebrow arched up, an involuntary response he was a bit self aware of. "The will."
"Among other things, yes." His eyes moved toward the window. Below them, Raoul now realized, was the street-level entrance to the café where Virgil had taken his last lunch. He didn't know if Vincent had chosen the table deliberately, or if it was just a striking coincidence. He wasn't sure which answer troubled him more.
"Your sister seems to think she's the only one favored in it." Raoul said. "Do you know why?"
"She's the only one mother didn't worry about." He said it without bitterness, undoing the detective's rather weak poker face again. "Violet has an extraordinary talent for being exactly who she is. It's very difficult to damage someone like that." A pause. "The rest of us were easier to get to."
Raoul nodded slowly, giving himself a few seconds to think through his next question. "Your mother passed recently it seems. How did she pass?"
Vincent's unclear eyes narrowed just enough to be barely noticeable. Then he leaned forward a few inches. "Illness, Detective."
"Illness?"
"According to her doctor, yes."
Before Raoul could follow that thread, a hand came down on Vincent's shoulder.
Raoul saw him first. A well-dressed figure crossing the restaurant. Slow, confident, almost arrogantly so. He tracked the man for a full five seconds before the hand came down on Vincent's shoulder. Vincent hadn't moved or shifted his gaze.
Now, Nero Vale was not a large man. But he took up space with the particular certainty that the room existed for his benefit. He was well-dressed, well-maintained, and wearing the smile of a man who had practiced it until it worked on almost everyone.
"Vincent." He squeezed his son's shoulder once. It looked more like a reminder than a greeting. "I need a word."
Vincent's shoulders tensed a bit, probably due to Nero's grip on his shoulder. At least that's what the detective assumed until he saw Vincent's face. For a moment the man's otherwise careful expression broke. Raoul couldn't read it correctly in the short time he had with it.
Just a few seconds had passed before Vincent's expression reset to its default. He rose without argument and reached for his jacket, declaring the end of their conversation there. He looked at Raoul once for a few seconds then walked toward the far end of the restaurant.
Nero watched Vincent walk far enough to be out of earshot. Then he turned back, as though he'd only just remembered Raoul was there.
"Detective Boa." He let the name sit a moment. "Please forgive my rudeness. Nero Vale, or rather Mr Vale to you." He didn't offer his hand.
Raoul narrowed his eyes at the audacity of the man before him, though he didn't bother to comment on it. Before the detective could get a word in, Nero continued: "I have to ask why on earth you bothered with a case like this? No clear crime, no clear motive. What exactly compelled you to take it on?"
He asked it with the smooth curiosity of a man making pleasant conversation. Though Raoul knew better than to believe even that. Nero's eyes didn't match his tone.
"Do you think there's no crime to be found here?"
"Personally no, I don't. However far be it from me to dissuade you from your investigation." Nero leaned forward and continued with a chilling whisper. "You still haven't answered my question, boy."
"Professional interest." Raoul's tone had shifted. He sounded colder, harsher, though this only amused Nero.
"Professional interest? And a conflict of interest perhaps?"
Raoul's one visible eye narrowed at the man standing across from him. "Professional interest." he repeated through gritted teeth.
"Of course." Nero held his gaze one beat too long. Then he smiled, nodded once, and walked away.
Raoul sat with his untouched water glass and a sour aftertaste. Below the window, evening foot traffic moved past the café entrance.
Vincent's last words before the abrupt end of their conversation. 'The rest of us were easier to get to.'
"The hell have I gotten myself into?"