The Murder of Elliot Sunday

apartment 451

"I take it you don't know."

I blinked up at Sunday. He was looking at me again, and I hoped he hadn't seen me looking at his shirt. I couldn't let him know that I had noticed.

The game is afoot, a voice from my memory said, and I smiled inwardly.

"So. Do you?"

I blinked, frantically trying to rearrange my thoughts and figure out what he was talking about. "Oh. Yes. Who was killed." I gave a little shrug. "I mean... it's hard to say."

Sunday gave me a hard look. "Do you have a picture? A description? Anything?"

I'm the detective here, I thought sourly. Maybe he would know something, though. "He looked enough like you that I maybe would have mistaken him for you if I hadn't already met you," I said at last.

Sunday raised an eyebrow. "I see."

"Same haircut, same skin tone, probably about the same height, but a little more..." I struggled to find the words, a blush heating my face.

"Handsome?" Sunday asked dryly.

"I mean, when you put it in those terms..." I waved my hand at him, laughing uncomfortably. "But... yes. He was... rather good looking."

Sunday nodded. "I see."

I realized I'd been hoping for some sort of reaction from the man, but all I got was cool silence. Finally, I snapped. "So? Do you know him?"

Sunday shook his head. "I don't think so. The only man I know fitting that description is my brother, and unfortunately, he is very much alive and well."

I didn't miss the unfortunately thrown into that statement, but I nodded, not taking a note. To me, note-taking during an investigation was a careful balance between actually remembering things and not giving away what one thought was important.

An ex-girlfriend. A brother. Did Sunday have more enemies?

"What's your job here?" I asked.

Sunday looked down. "I am head of finances for the Twelfth Star company."

"And what does Twelfth Star do?" I asked, taking my first real notes.

Sunday drummed his fingers on the desk. "Business things."

"Ah." I made a mental note to look into the company later. "And nobody here would have a reason to murder you? Or not murder you, I guess?"

"Oh, no, there are certainly people who would kill me here," Sunday said. When it became obvious that I was waiting for clarification, he sighed. "The CEO. My secretary. The head of human resources."

I blinked. "And you're sure these aren't just petty spats? These people would have a legitimate urge to kill you?"

Sunday nodded somberly. "Oh, yes. The CEO lost to me in a game of chess several months ago."

I was about to let loose on him, but then I saw the faint smile playing around his lips. He was joking with me! Somebody had created an extremely convoluted and nonsensical plot to kill him, or at least pretend to, and he was joking about it!

I wanted to be angry, and yet...

"It's getting late," Sunday said, standing. "Would you mind if we continue our conversation tomorrow?"

"No problem," I said. "When can I come over?"

Sunday hesitated for a moment. "Would 8 work?"

"8 am?" I asked, jotting the time down in the corner of the notepad.