Nero Vale’s head office occupied the top floor of a tall, grey building in the heart of the financial district. It suited him perfectly: dull, expensive, and carefully controlled.
Raoul had tried every polite avenue first. Spontaneous visits. Formal interview requests. All of them politely deflected. So he had made the call that finally worked: new information regarding Eleanor Vale’s estate. The promise of money, as always, opened his doors where a dead son had not.
He was getting desperate. He needed to get to Nero. He needed this plan to work. What plan? Raoul hadn't fully figured that out yet. He didn't think he'd get another chance to talk to Nero after this, nor did he think he'd actually get anything useful out of Nero. He had a lot of evidence that could put a guy like Nero in a terrible light, but none of it mattered to the case everyone thought he was still investigating.
He needed Nero booked on something, if for no other reason than to be able to investigate Nero more thoroughly the way Virgil wanted. Doing things by the book wasn't going to get Raoul anywhere.
The lift doors opened onto a wide corridor of pale stone and deliberate minimalism. A receptionist at the far end looked up, her gaze lingering on Raoul’s eyepatch a second too long before she offered a professional smile. “Mr. Vale will see you shortly. Would you like to wait in the lounge?”
“I’ll wait here,” Raoul said, staying near the lift where the cameras could see him clearly. His voice was soft and gentle, which only made the receptionist more suspicious of him.
He didn’t wait long.
Nero emerged from the far door with the measured confidence of a man on his own ground. His grey hair was freshly cut, his brown suit immaculate. He slowed when he saw Raoul had not moved to meet him.
“Detective,” Nero said, covering the distance himself. “You mentioned new information about my late wife’s estate.”
“I appreciate you making the time,” Raoul replied. He kept his posture straight, notepad in hand. “A few questions. It shouldn’t take long.”
Nero’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “We can speak in my office.”
“Here is fine,” Raoul said pleasantly. “The corridor is quieter than I expected. Impressive firm you have.”
The older man’s expression remained blank, but the tension in his shoulders sharpened. “Of course. Here is fine.”
Raoul opened his notepad, eyes on the page. “I’ve been reviewing Eleanor’s medical records. There’s a gap. The months before she died, her regular doctors have no record of the prescription change that appears in the pharmacy logs.” He kept his gaze down, giving Nero the crown of his head. “Small discrepancy. Probably nothing.”
“Probably,” Nero echoed, stiff.
Raoul continued. “The private practice handling those transactions keeps records too. Interesting name that keeps appearing alongside your wife’s file. Alongside the unauthorized changes.” He looked up then, meeting Nero’s eyes. “You know the name I mean.”
Silence stretched, four long seconds.
“My office,” Nero said flatly. “I will not continue this conversation here.”
Raoul felt the shift immediately. He had pushed exactly hard enough. With a small nod, he followed Nero down the corridor, one hand slipping into his pocket to ensure the voice recorder was still running.
The office was large and oppressively minimal. A heavy oak desk dominated the center. Two small sofas, dark walls, deep maroon carpet that swallowed sound. Even the wide window seemed to hoard what little natural light remained, leaving the room dim and intimate. Nero walked straight to the window and stood with his back to the room.
Raoul stayed near the door.
“You’ve been busy,” Nero said to the glass. “Unfortunately, you’re digging in the wrong direction.”
“It’s my job.”
Nero turned. The charm had burned away completely. What remained was cold and sharp. “Your job is to investigate my son’s death. A death with no crime and no clear cause.”
“There is a confirmed cause now,” Raoul said. “Anaphylactic shock.”
Nero gave a low, icy chuckle. “An allergic reaction. That is not a crime, Detective.”
“No,” Raoul agreed quietly. “But the crime is something else.” He waited until Nero faced him fully. “Your wife didn’t have to die when she did, Mr. Vale. Her condition was stable. Someone shortened that timeline considerably, and the money trail leads back to you and a certain GP with very convenient connections.”
Nero’s eyes narrowed. “You have transactions and speculation.”
“I have enough to reopen the investigation into her death,” Raoul said, voice steady. “Enough to tie the juvenile charges against Virgil to your judge friend. Enough to make the will reading very interesting for you.”
The lights went out.
Complete darkness swallowed the room in an instant. Raoul heard movement to his left and shifted right, heart hammering. His hand went to his eyepatch.
He slipped it off and covered his right eye instead. The left eye, kept in shadow for hours beneath the patch, adjusted quickly to the blackness. Shapes emerged. Outlines. Enough to track motion where Nero would be nearly blind.
“Clever boy,” Nero murmured from the dark, voice calm and close. “But not clever enough.”
Something heavy whistled past Raoul’s head. He stumbled, shoulder clipping the desk. Pain flared, but he kept moving, circling to put the heavy oak between them. Nero came again, faster than expected. A blow caught Raoul’s shoulder and drove him down to one knee. He rolled away, the advantage of his adjusted vision letting him anticipate the next swing and slip just clear.
Breathing hard, Raoul pushed upright and kept the desk as a barrier. “You came at the wrong son, Mr. Vale.”
Nero lunged. They collided, crashing into the door. It swung open into the corridor, spilling them both onto the pale stone under the dull red glow of emergency lighting. The entire floor seemed to have gone dark.
Nero rose first. Raoul tried to steady himself, vision still swimming from the fall. Before he could fully stand, Nero’s foot drove forward in a vicious kick, the heel slamming directly into Raoul’s left eye socket with brutal force.
The pain was blinding, white-hot and explosive. Raoul’s legs gave out instantly. A scream tore from his throat as he crumpled to the tiles. The world tilted violently. He was dimly aware of the recorder still running in his pocket, of footsteps and shouting voices filling the corridor, of Nero breathing hard above him.
Then the voices grew louder. Procedure. Commands. Someone was already calling for an ambulance. Nero retreated into his office as security and staff swarmed the hallway.
Raoul pressed his face against the cool floor, blood warm on his cheek, the ruined eye a pulsing agony. He clung to consciousness long enough to hear the words he had engineered.
“You’re under arrest…”
The darkness took him before he could see their faces.