Twenty-Three

I stepped back into Edge City, and I was immediately hit with the industrial air. I always felt as though I had more energy when I was in Fantasy Park.

I figured there was nothing else I could do except to confront Jackson. I had enough evidence to point to him. There was no point in dragging this out any longer.

I hailed a taxi and made my way to Jackson’s industrial park. He didn’t just own one business, he owned many. He really did dabble in a bit of everything.

The cab pulled up to a large, chain gate. The top of the border fence was laced in razor wire and there were multiple guard towers lined along the fence. The guard in the kiosk next to the gate had a gun strapped to his shoulder.

“I’m here to see Jackson Speers.” I said as I sat in the back of the taxi.

“Mister Speers is a busy man, sir. I doubt you’ll be able to get onto him.” The tween’s voice had a squeaky quality to it.

“Tell him I’m here to question him about the murder of his friend, Heston Barclay. I need to interview him, name’s Vincent Clay.” The guard popped back into the kiosk.

“Yeah okay, you’re good to go through.” The guard flipped a switch and the gate swung open with a loud clang.

It felt as though we were driving through some military compound. It was spartan in design. Although the buildings had different shapes, there was nothing else to differentiate them to each other.

“Do you know which building we’re going to?” the driver asked.

“I get a feeling, its that one.” I pointed past his head at the building that was ahead of us. A man in a white suit and red gloves stood at the entrance, a cane in his left hand.

The taxi pulled up and I got out of the cab. The man that I assumed was Jackson Speers stood there, unmoving.

“So you’re the detective looking into the murder of my dear friend?” the man’s voice had a melancholic tune to it.

He was about my heigh, maybe exactly. Though it was hard to tell with the crocodile skin boots he wore. His white suit was pristine and clean, as though it had never seen a speck of dirt before in its life.

His gloves were red and the shirt underneath his suit was also red. He wore a skinny mauve tie, and his platinum blonde hair was swept back and fell past his shoulders. He had no facial hair and his teeth looked perfect; it was unsettling.

I eyed his cane. I started to play through my mind over and over again what it was I wanted to get out of Jackson. If I needed to, I would fly into a fight and get that cane first. I hoped I was preparing my mind properly as I thumbed the mushroom in my pocket.

“Do come in, Mister Clay, and we’ll have a chat about Heston. I’m eager to hear what you’ve learned about the events.”

Jackson led me into the building. The interior was just like the rest of the compound. Empty and drab. No exciting colours, no artworks, no plants. Nothing.

I followed him down a long hallway, our feet echoed on the marble floors.

“So what do you need to ask me?” Jackson asked. He didn’t slow down or look over his shoulder as he spoke.

“I’m gonna cut straight to it, Mister Speers. I have two witnesses placing you at the scene of the crime. Of you being with Heston Barclay and Vulug in that alleyway. I have information that states you and Heston had a falling out. It’s a weak motive, but it’s a motive. I think you were jealous and killed your friend. Tell me otherwise.” I wrapped my fingers around the mushroom.

“Well, it sounds like you’ve got this all figured out then. How can I possibly convince you that I had nothing to do with Heston’s murder?” His tone was imposing, malicious. I detected the slightest hint of sarcasm.

Jackson shot out of the hallway and into a room with no door. I followed after him. The room was ridiculously over-decorated. Everything that one could imagine a wealthy person would have, was in this room.

Jackson sat in a black high-back leather chair covered in golden buttons. He pointed to another chair in the room, one that looked like it was falling apart.

“Do have a seat. I hate it when someone stands when they talk to me while I’m sitting. I find it extremely rude.” Jackson played his hand over the gem on the top of his cane.

“Vulug swears he didn’t murder Heston. They were great friends, and call it a hunch, but I believe him.”

“So it comes down to my word against an orc’s? A dim-witted boxer with an alcohol problem. And me, a powerful businessman that supplies thousands of jobs and millions of dollars to the world’s economy.” He gave me a grin that seemed far too wide for his face.

“Are you trying to imply that one’s social status has something to do with their honesty?” I asked. My hand was still closed around the mushroom. I watched his hand on the gem but would not look at it directly.

“Not at all.” I clapped his hands and sat back in his chair. Within moments an elderly looking butler entered the room and carried a silver tray. On the tray was a row of different sized cigars and a crystal bottle with an amber liquid inside it.

“So what are you saying?” I asked. I declined the alcohol but helped myself to a cigar. The butler lit it for me and left the room.

“Simple. I’m a human, he’s an orc.”

“Ah, so that’s your problem. I was warned you hated the fairyfolk.”

“Don’t you? If they never arrived unannounced, you’d be a much richer boxer. You’d still be riding the winds of your success, not fighting for scraps in that warehouse.”

“So you’ve done your homework on me, good job. Now convince me you didn’t murder Heston Barclay. What can you tell me?”