Prometheus: Annihilation

Chapter 1

Peter Connor was one of my oldest and dearest friends, but sometimes I really had to hold back to keep from punching him square in the jaw.  Now was one of those times and my self-control was genuinely being tested.

"Amy and I are so glad that we took that step," he was telling me, in between bench press repetitions.  He was on his back on the incline bench in the small fitness room of the Boston Fire Department station, in which he spent a clear majority of his time as the station chief.  We were far enough into our workout that he struggled just a little bit each time the bar bounced off his chest.  His pulse was visible on the left side of his temple.  One more word about how I should propose to the only woman I had been with since college, who I had been living with every day for the last six years.  Just one more word and I would be left with no option but to press down on the bar over his bare neck, instead of helping to lift it up.  We were currently benching close to 350 pounds.  The way that inclines were, that would be more than enough to choke the words right out of him.

He hoisted the bar up onto the brackets on the stand with a huff, sat up and turned to face me.  "All I'm saying, Ace, is that you should maybe shop for a ring.  You don't want to lose her just because you were too slow putting a ring on it."

I could feel the pulse in my temple now.  Through gritted teeth I half-smiled.  "We have been through this before Pete, both me and Nic and you and me.  When the time is right, we will both know it, and we will take that step.  Until then we do not want to be forced into something just for a piece of paper that isn't that important to either of us."

Peter Connor rolled his eyes, making it that much harder to control my knife hand, that had already established itself on my side, from striking his throat.  I had killed men in combat with less.  He shook his head.  "Just don't wait too long," he said, "Amy told me that Nic has been mentioning it more and more frequently recently.  They had dinner just the other night, and Nic had outlined everything she wanted in your wedding."

Now it was time for me to roll my eyes.  "You are so asinine, buddy.  Come here."

Peter stood up and followed me as I walked over to the wall past the treadmills that housed the small lockers.  I opened a locker, found the beige cargo shorts I had been wearing before our workout, and pulled out the ring that I had purchased on my way to meet my friend.

Peter's eyes opened wide as he looked at the shiny one-carat diamond engagement ring in my palm.  "I wasn't going to say anything until it was official, but you had to keep opening your mouth about it."  I stuck the ring back in my shorts pocket and slammed the locker door with a loud clang.

Peter was smiling like a school boy.  I decided on holding off on asking him to be my best man.  I wouldn't be able to handle the gloating.

We walked back to the bench.  I added ten-pound plates on either side and sat back on the old bench.  I had the bar up off the clips, down and back up again before he had positioned himself behind my head.  I knocked out ten repetitions without breaking a sweat.

"So, how's the new business coming?" he asked as I racked the weights back on their stands.

"It is going," I said.  "We have all the materials that we need.  We have the backing of Mayor Donnelly and the higher ups.  We are just waiting for a first case."

Peter took the extra weights from the bar and sat down on the bench.  He looked up at me with a grave look on his that I had not seen in quite a while.  "I may have that perfect case for you," he said, leaning back on the bench and lining his hands up on the ridges of the bar.

"I'm listening," I said, taking the spotter position behind the bench, hands underneath but not touching the forty-five-pound bar.  He lifted the bar up over his chest with an exhale.

"Do you remember Grace Warner?" he asked.

I nodded.  "Your friend, the doctor.  What was she again?  Didn't she pass away a while back?"

He spoke through gritted teeth as he pushed the bar back up to the top position.  His face had broken out in a sheen of sweat.  "Yup, leukemia.  Three years back.  She was a radiologist."  He grunted again and placed the bar back up on the rack.  Peter stretched his chest out against the metal of the bench before continuing. "Anyways," he said, "her former brother-in-law is a well-respected businessman with companies all up and down the coast.  His son, Adam, was a student here at Massachusetts State.  He passed away mysteriously a month ago.  We responded to the call.  Well, Wyatt, the brother-in-law disagrees with the official story."

I was doubtful that this could turn into a good case for us, but I probed, "What is the official story?"

Peter looked up at me.  "He was pronounced D.O.A. on his couch at his apartment.  The official story is that he was intoxicated and slipped on the ice, hit his head and bled out internally."  I noticed the look on his face change, "Wyatt saw the body the next day, though," he continued, "and immediately ordered a private medical exam."

I was curious now, but still not sure how this was turning into a case for us.  "You saw his son the day of.  What did you think?"

Peter shook his head.  "I don't agree with writing it off as an accident.  I saw the kid's body.  He was bruised all over.  He was involved in something brutal around the same time as the hit to the head.  Now whether the bleed was from an accidental slip on the ice or from something a little more...criminal...I don't know the answer to that."

The pieces still were not coming together.  "I understand the question...but I'm not sure how we fit in."

Peter smiled.  "Well, I started talking to Wyatt when he found out I was the senior responder that night.  He found me during my next shift, and we talked for quite a while.  Adam was his only son.  Wyatt is kind of a big-wig.  He was understandably upset.  I spoke to him.  We realized we had some mutual friends.  He called me last week and said he had heard about your, um, experience.  He asked if I could get you to commit to meeting him if he flies in with the possibility of your investigating Adam's death."

I thought about it.  On the one hand, if Adam's death was intentional, where was the justice in just calling it an accident and not following through with an investigation?  That was the problem law enforcement often faced.  Resources were too slim.  If something looked like an accident, but it was not, it would often fall through the cracks. We wanted to be able to provide justice to those who may not otherwise receive it.  I liked the idea of the case. 

On the other hand, if it was just the case of some drunk kid falling and hitting his head and being too inebriated or stubborn to seek out medical attention, then we would be wasting our own resources. 

On the third hand, I thought, we did not currently have anything else that we were working on.  If we could help this man get to the bottom of the loss of his only son, we should do it.

"Thanks for looking out for us, buddy.  Give him my number.  Let me talk to Harry and Nic, and we'll set some time up to meet with him."

Peter smiled and nodded.  Our workout complete, I gave him a man-hug, and he said he would give Wyatt my number.  We chatted for a couple more minutes.  His phone rang abruptly as we were getting dressed in the locker area.

"Yes, sir," he said after a moment, "Actually, he's right here with me...I did...he did...he wanted me to give you his number...yes, sir, he has a partner that he wanted to talk to before he made any set plans," Peter said into the phone, glancing in my direction.  He covered the microphone with his palm.  “Do you want to talk to him now?"  he asked me.  I nodded and gestured for the cell phone.  "He'd like to talk to you now, Wyatt.  Yes, sir..." he placed the phone in my hand.

"This is Ace Cooper," I said.

The voice on the other end of the phone had a slight Mid-Atlantic accent.  He spoke in a deep, deliberate voice; his words were spoken carefully, and his grammar was academically eloquent.  "Mr. Cooper, Wyatt Carlton here.  I would like to meet you in person," he said.
I knew that I still had to talk to Harry about the case and that I wanted Harry with me to meet Wyatt Carlton. 

"Yes, Mr. Carlton, that is what Peter had said," I paused for a moment, "I need to bring my partner, Harry Gittleman, up to speed.  When would you be available to meet?"

There was silence on the other end of the line for a moment.  Not complete silence.  I could hear what sounded like someone flipping through a book, possibly a calendar.  "I can fly in tomorrow night," he said, "would you be able to meet me at Logan?"

"That should work," I said, "can you send me a text with your flight number?  We can meet you at the gate."

Peter was shaking his head.  It sounded like Wyatt laughed through the phone.  "That won't be necessary, Mr. Cooper, I will be flying in on my jet.  Just meet me at the Legal Seafood Restaurant in C Terminal.  We can sit and have dinner, and I will tell you everything."

A private jet?  Peter was not kidding when he said this guy was a successful businessman.  "Yes, Sir, that will work.  Harry and I will meet you there.  Six o'clock too early for you?"

The sound of papers shuffling again.  "I will meet you there at six tomorrow evening," a slight pause.  "Thank you for doing this," he said.

I responded likewise, said goodbye, and handed the small flip-phone back to my old friend.  Peter said goodbye to Wyatt Carlton and smiled at me.  "Did I mention that he has a private corporate jet?  Oh, and apparently, a fleet of six yachts, too."

I packed my workout gear into a small duffel bag and winked at him.

"A pleasant surprise," I said.

We said our goodbyes.  Peter headed upstairs towards his corner office, and I walked out the front door and into the brisk Boston air.  I had to get home and fill Nic and Harry in on what may turn into the first real case of our private firm.