The Dominant Motive: An Alex Goldfinger Mystery

Chapter One

Summer 2023

I STARED AT IT FROM ACROSS THE ROOM. I prayed for it to work out whatever its problem was, so as not to disturb my peace of mind any longer. After much speculation, I concluded that all the poking and prodding and deep, piercing glances wouldn't change what had to be done. I took a deep breath and got up from my desk chair. Exhaling, I walked across the room and turned off the switch to the air conditioner. I went to the kitchenette to grab a paper towel and mopped up the sweat accumulating under my breasts. I fetched myself a cold drink of water, returned to my desk and turned on the radio. According to the local news, Toronto was suffering from record-breaking temperatures that were steadily climbing each day. On this swampy July morning, with the humidex factored in, it already felt like 44 Celsius. For the second week in a row, the mayor, now in his third term, officially declared the city to be in a state of heat emergency.

"Perfect." I grumbled.

When I inherited the air conditioner, I was warned by the building superintendent, Frank Fury, that it wouldn't work unless defrosted like a manual defrosting freezer. Now it wasn't working at all, which shouldn't have surprised me considering how old it was. I'd been worrying about the old girl breaking down permanently for a while now. I guess you can't expect much when you rent space in an old building furnished with outdated appliances.

My office is located in the historical Oddfellows' Hall building at Yonge and College Streets. Oddfellows' Hall was constructed in 1891 and was influenced by Gothic Revival by architects, Dick & Wickson. My suite is located on the south side of the third floor. My view faces College Park, an art deco landmark built in 1928 and designed by Ross and MacDonald. I texted Frank. There was no immediate response, so I grabbed my bag and made my way to the front door. My plan was to take my impatient little self to the nearest hardware store to purchase a new air conditioner and if I was lucky, I'd have Frank install it. If he wasn't available, I'd do it myself and book an appointment with my chiropractor. When I opened the door to leave, a questioning face stared back at me.

"Is this the office of Kenneth Millar?" queried the man.

"Yes and no." I said flatly.

A look of confusion spread across his face. He looked up at the sign on the door for reassurance and looked back at me.

"The sign says—"

"I know what the sign says," I replied irritably. "This was Millar's office. I've taken over. I haven't changed the sign yet."

"Oh. You're a private investigator?"

Insulted, I smiled.

"What can I do for you?" I asked, impatiently waving my keys, hoping they'd provide a minute breeze. While his mouth moved, I decided I was going to buy a handheld fan along with the air conditioner, and vowed not to care what it looked like.

"My name is Asher Hayworth"

Asher's eyes followed my keys, as I continued to jangle them in front of our faces.

"Would it be possible to come in and talk to you, Miss—?"

I studied the man. He began to look familiar to me. He had a look of desperation, like he wanted to talk to me as much as I wanted a working air conditioner.

"It's Goldfinger. You can call me Alex and you can come in, but it's going to be uncomfortable. My air conditioner just broke down, so don't say I didn't warn you. "

I opened the door wide permitting Asher to join me in my sweltering office. As he crossed the threshold, it hit me. I knew who this man was and I knew where I'd seen him.

******

Kenneth Millar is a deceased private investigator, and like myself was licensed by the Province of Ontario. He was my mentor and former boss. When he died, I inherited his business, Millar Investigations. I'd been working for Millar full-time as his administrative assistant for just over three years when he died. Cancer of the appendix, they said. He knew he was dying and never told me. He didn't want me to treat him any differently. You see, our relationship was built on him pitying me. I'll be damned if I'm gonna let you pity me in my final days. Don't be pissed, Kiddo. I'm leaving you my business, for Christmas sake.

"I keep his goodbye-letter-slash-will-framed on the wall behind my desk." I said, proudly pointing to the crookedly hung frame.

While I spoke, I made coffee and Asher listened, but his eyes were scanning his surroundings. My office is drab and outdated. It is furnished in coffee-stained carpeting, dark wooden veneer furniture, and heavy draperies. While the office certainly looks like a place where old furniture goes to die, it's functional and on some level, I find it comforting. It reminds me of the man who changed my working life forever by encouraging me to get my private investigator's licence and mentoring me while I worked with him as his assistant.

"You know, you could do a lot with this place," Asher said. "It wouldn't take much more than a fresh coat of paint." He continued, while running his finger across my desk, collecting dust along the way.

"I kicked around the notion of redecorating after Millar died, but the business and trying to fill his shoes got in the way, so I filed my interior design dreams away too." I explained while pulling a carton of lactose-free milk from the mini-fridge.

I poured the milk into two mugs along with the freshly brewed coffee. I didn't know if Asher was lactose intolerant, but I knew I was and I knew it wouldn't hurt him to drink a little enzyme-infused milk. I passed a mug to Asher and sat down across from him.

"What can I do for you?" I posed my question for the second time that morning.

"I assume you know who I am," Asher said with a hint of embarrassment.

"I do. I've seen you on the news and I've read a bit about your story. Why don't you fill me in?"

"I don't really know where to start." Asher said to his mug.

"Start at the beginning." I suggested.

"I was five years old the last time I saw my mother. My parents spent the evening arguing while I was in my bed playing with my stuffed animals, pretending everything was fine. When I heard banging and my mother screaming, I put my head under my covers, closed my eyes, and hummed myself to sleep. I don't know how much time passed, but when Mark woke me, he told me my mother went to the corner store to buy marshmallows and that she would make us hot chocolate when she came home. I thought it was a strange time for my mother to suggest we have hot chocolate, as it was dark outside my bedroom window. I was never allowed to have hot chocolate that late at night. My mother always said it would prevent me from falling asleep. I never saw her again. Mark killed her that night and disposed of her body while I slept. I know it and I want you to do what the police haven't done, which is find him."

I studied Asher Hayworth while his words escaped his mouth. He displayed an emotional detachment, referring to his biological father by name only while recounting the traumatic memories of the night of his mother's disappearance and death. There was a palpable edge when asserting who he believed was responsible for his mother's demise and what he wanted from me.

Asher was a good-looking man with a jaw that I could see clenching when he wasn't speaking. He had deeply set, electric blue eyes that were both sad and mesmerizing. I wanted to look away out of a discomfort that I had yet to identify, but I worked to hold his gaze. He had developed deep forehead lines that were too cavernous for his age. He dressed casually, in designer jeans and a striped, cotton button-down shirt. His sandy brown hair had a light dusting of grey that curled around his ears. He smelled clean and looked well-groomed. While he was a troubled man, he was also a determined man that believed his childhood memories to be factual and truthful, despite not actually witnessing the crime. His self-conviction made me believe him too.