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Evelyn, who had been hovering nearby, was quick to defend her employee. "Yes, Arthur can be peculiar, but he's a good person at heart."
"Thank you for your time, Evelyn," Nick said, rising from his chair. He handed her a business card. "If you remember anything else or hear anything that might be relevant, please give me a call."
Evelyn nodded politely, escorting them to the exit. As they left, Nick couldn't help but notice Arthur behind the bar, anxiously watching their departure as he polished glasses with shaking hands.
Once outside, Nick shoved his hands in his pockets, his mind working overtime to process what they'd just witnessed.
"You know, Christian," he said, his voice low and thoughtful, "I don't buy that bartender's story for a second. My gut tells me he's lying to us. Did you see how nervous he got when he saw Rose's photo? Something's not right here."
An idea began to form in Nick's mind. Maybe they needed to speak with Arthur again, but not in the bar. After a brief discussion with Christian, they decided to return in a few hours, at the end of Arthur's shift, hoping to catch him alone and perhaps more willing to talk.
With their plan set, the detectives made their way back to Nick's police car, parked across the street from the Green Vault. As they climbed in, both men felt a mix of anticipation and unease. They were on the trail of something – but what that something was, and where it might lead them, remained to be seen.
Chapter 5
Darkness had fallen over Austin, the streetlights casting long shadows across the quiet streets. Nick and Christian sat in tense silence, their eyes fixed on the entrance of the Green Vault. Finally, they spotted Arthur leaving the bar. The bartender had changed out of his work uniform, though he still wore the same black pants. He'd donned a sweatshirt, its yellow hood emblazoned with the image of a sleek sports car. As Arthur set off down the street, the detectives quietly exited their vehicle and followed at a discreet distance.
"Arthur, wait up," Nick called out as they drew closer. "We need to talk."
Arthur froze mid-step, then slowly turned to face them. His nervousness was palpable, his voice shaky as he spoke. "What do you want? I've already told you, I don't know anything."
"You see, Arthur," Christian said, his gaze steady and penetrating, "the problem is, we don't believe you."
Arthur's fingers on his left hand intertwined anxiously, and he began to rub his nose with his right, his eyes fixed on his shoes. Nick decided to change tactics, his tone becoming more friendly and approachable.
"Look, Arthur, I can see you're not a bad person," Nick said gently. "Please, just tell us what you saw that evening. Whatever it is, it's important."
Arthur's face contorted, the internal struggle visible in his features. It was clear his conscience was troubling him, and he seemed to be on the verge of deciding that coming clean was the right thing to do. When he finally spoke, his words came out haltingly, his lips tight with stress, slightly distorting his speech.
"Okay… yes, I saw that girl that evening," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "She was sitting at the bar with a guy. He was drinking alcohol, and she… I think she was drinking juice, but I can't remember exactly. They argued for a long time, and then they had a fight. After that, the girl left crying. The guy left almost immediately after her." Arthur paused, swallowing hard before continuing. "When I heard on the news that she'd been found dead, I got scared. And today, when I saw you in the bar, I knew right away why you'd come."
Nick and Christian exchanged a significant look. They believed Arthur's story, but now they needed to convince him to give an official statement.
"Arthur, can you describe this guy?" Nick asked, his voice calm but urgent. "We need to go to the station and create a composite sketch. This man could be the killer we're looking for."
"Yes, I'll help," Arthur agreed, his voice trembling but determined.
They made their way to Nick's police car and, within half an hour, were seated in the station's interview room, working with a sketch artist to bring Arthur's memory to life. Two hours passed as they painstakingly pieced together the suspect's features. When they finished, Nick stared intently at the composite sketch: a man in his mid to late thirties, with a distinctive zigzag-shaped scar on his cheek, light shoulder-length hair, thick eyebrows, and narrow eyes set in an oval face with sunken cheekbones.
After thanking Arthur for his cooperation and seeing him safely home, Nick called Christian over to examine the sketch.
"Does he look familiar to you?" Nick asked, a hint of recognition sparking in his own mind.
A grin spread across Christian's face as he leaned in, his hand resting on the back of Nick's chair. "Without a doubt, that's Bradley Force!"
Information from the suspect's file:
Bradley Force, known in some circles by the nickname "Fox." Thirty-six years old, born and raised in Austin. His record shows a pattern of delinquent behavior stretching back to his adolescence, with multiple incidents of hooliganism and petty theft, often in the company of his friend Steven Cooper. Bradley's childhood was marked by instability; he entered the foster care system at age twelve and, despite being adopted, never quite settled into the role of the dutiful son. His biological parents had their rights terminated, and Bradley reportedly never saw them again after entering foster care. As an adult, Bradley has led a dissolute lifestyle, with no record of steady employment.
Steven Cooper – Bradley Force's closest associate and lifelong friend. They were classmates throughout their school years. Unlike Bradley, Steven had a relatively stable childhood and was known as an obedient child until he fell in with Bradley in their teens. Steven's personality is notably submissive; he tends to follow Bradley's lead in most situations. Born in St. Paul, he moved to Austin with his parents at the age of seven. Physically, he's described as heavyset, with prominent upper front teeth, curly dark hair, and light-colored eyes. He stands at medium height, roughly the same as Bradley.
A crucial detail suddenly clicked into place for Nick and Christian: Bradley and Steven had been classmates of the murdered Rose Saltano.
"Christian, you're right on the money – it's definitely Bradley Force," Nick said, his voice tight with the urgency of their breakthrough. He began shutting down his computer and reaching for his jacket. "We need to question him immediately. We now know for certain that he was the last person seen with Rose, and Arthur's account confirms there was a conflict between them that evening."
"Should we inform Jeffrey about what we've learned?" Christian asked, his brow furrowed with concern.
"Yes, but let's do that this afternoon. It's crucial we question Bradley first. We should head to his place right now." Nick was already halfway to the door when he noticed Christian's hesitation. His colleague was clearly struggling with how to delicately suggest that they both needed rest after their long day.
"Nick, it's five in the morning," Christian said gently. "Maybe we should at least go home for a few hours of sleep. We'll be sharper after some rest."
Nick paused, considering Christian's words. As much as he wanted to pursue this lead immediately, he knew his partner had a point. Exhaustion could lead to mistakes, and they couldn't afford any missteps at this critical juncture of the investigation.
"You're right, Christian," Nick conceded with a sigh. "The morning is wiser than the evening, as they say. Let's get some rest and hit this fresh in a few hours."
Chapter 6
The next day dawned bright and clear, a gentle breeze carrying the sweet songs of birds through the air. It seemed almost perverse that nature could be so beautiful in the wake of such tragedy.
Nick placed a call to Christian, instructing him to meet him directly at Bradley Force's residence rather than stopping by the station first. They converged on the southern part of town, an area known for its age and history. During the day, this neighborhood was typically quiet and peaceful, most residents away at work. The streets were lined with trees imported from Europe, lending the area a quaint, almost old-world charm. The houses were predominantly single-story structures, many clearly over three decades old.
Leaving their car parked at the curb, Nick and Christian approached a weathered, beige wooden house that had clearly seen better days. It stood slightly askew, its windows grimy and opaque. The scent of decaying wood hung in the air, a testament to years of neglect.
The detectives rang the doorbell, its muffled chime barely audible through the thick wooden door. After a moment, it creaked open to reveal a short, thin woman with gray hair cut close to her scalp. She wore a long, shapeless gray robe that seemed to swallow her diminutive frame. Nick estimated her age to be somewhere between sixty-five and seventy. Her face was set in an expression of extreme displeasure, as if their very presence on her doorstep was an affront.
This, Nick realized, must be Bradley Force's foster mother. Her lack of surprise at their visit spoke volumes – clearly, the police were not unfamiliar visitors to this household.
"What do you want?" the woman demanded, her voice high and grating.
"Good morning, ma'am," Nick began, striving for a polite tone despite the woman's hostility. "We need to speak with your son, Bradley. We have a few questions for him. May we come inside?"
"No!" she snapped, her voice rising even higher. "I haven't seen him in ages. I have no idea where he is or who he's with!"
Her words dripped with indifference, a stark contrast to the heated tone of her voice. At that moment, a black cat slunk out of the house, winding its way around the woman's ankles.
"Damned cat!" she exclaimed, scooping the animal into her arms. Without another word, she simply slammed the door in their faces.
"Well, she's clearly got some issues," Nick thought to himself, shaking his head with a heavy sigh.
"What now?" Christian asked, looking as perplexed as Nick felt.
"Steven's house isn't far from here," Nick mused. "Let's check there. Maybe our guy is hanging out with his buddy."
Steven's residence proved to be remarkably similar to Bradley's – another single-story structure showing clear signs of age and neglect. The only notable difference was its color, or what remained of it. Years of rain had stripped away so much of the paint that it was difficult to determine its original hue, leaving behind a mottled patchwork somewhere between blue and gray. A rusty, unlocked gate stood sentinel before the house.
They rang the doorbell several times, but were met with only silence. Nick took a walk around the perimeter, peering into windows and listening for any signs of life within. The house appeared to be completely vacant, giving the impression that it had been abandoned for quite some time.
"You know, Christian," Nick said, his voice laden with concern, "I really don't like the fact that these two have vanished right after Rose's death. Could they really be involved in this?"
Christian shrugged, his expression a mix of doubt and resignation. "I don't know what to think, Nick. These guys are Grade-A jerks, sure, but murder? Especially Rose, who they've known since school? She's the sheriff's daughter, for crying out loud. I can't imagine they'd have the guts for something like that."
"Maybe you're right," Nick conceded, though he couldn't shake the feeling that they were missing something crucial. "But we still need to find them. Let's head over to Jeffrey's place, then back to the station. We need to dig deeper into Bradley and Steven's backgrounds. Clearly, our information on their current whereabouts is outdated."
As they made their way back to the car, Nick couldn't help but feel a sense of urgency. They needed to locate Bradley and Steven before Jeffrey took matters into his own hands. The grieving father's barely contained rage was a powder keg waiting to explode, and Nick feared what might happen if Jeffrey got to the suspects before the police did.
Chapter 7
Nick and Christian finally arrived at the Saltano residence, the weight of their fruitless search hanging heavy between them. As they approached the front door, it swung open to reveal Mary Saltano. The sight of her nearly stopped Nick in his tracks. In the short time since Rose's death, Mary seemed to have aged a decade. Her hair hung limp and lifeless, so dirty it resembled straw more than human hair. Her black loungewear, clearly unwashed for days, hung loosely on her frame. But it was her eyes that truly gave Nick pause – red-rimmed and swollen from endless tears, they seemed to bore into him with a single, desperate question:
"Have you found the killer?"
The raw anguish in her voice cut through Nick like a knife. He felt the full weight of their lack of progress, knowing he had little of substance to offer this grieving mother.
"Hello, Mary," Nick began, his voice gentle. "We're doing everything in our power, but I'm afraid we don't have any definitive answers yet. What we do know is that Bradley Force was likely the last person to see Rose alive. We have a witness who saw them together at the Green Vault bar. There seems to have been some kind of argument between them. We're trying to locate Bradley now, but it appears he and his friend Steven are no longer living at their known addresses."
Nick watched Mary carefully as he spoke, noting how she seemed to sway slightly on her feet, as if the weight of her grief might topple her at any moment. His heart ached for her, knowing all too well the inadequacy of his words in the face of such profound loss.
As Nick finished speaking, Jeffrey appeared behind Mary, dressed in his sheriff's uniform. From his expression, it was clear he had overheard everything. Without a word, he ushered the detectives into the living room. Christian's eyes widened slightly as he took in the garish red wallpaper, a stark contrast to the somber mood permeating the house. Nick, however, had eyes only for Mary, overwhelmed by the depth of her suffering. "God, you wouldn't wish this on your worst enemy," he thought to himself.
Jeffrey, barely containing his rage, began pacing the living room, muttering unintelligibly under his breath. Mary sank onto the couch, her head bowed, a picture of silent despair. Nick took a seat beside her, while Christian stood awkwardly at the entrance to the living room.
"Mary," Nick began gently, "can you tell me about Rose's relationship with Bradley?"
At the question, Mary's composure crumbled entirely. She buried her face in her hands, her body wracked with sobs as guilt seemed to consume her. Jeffrey, in stark contrast, erupted in a shout that echoed through the house:
"Our daughter had nothing to do with that loser! They were just classmates, nothing more! I forbade her to associate with those two good-for-nothings. I told her they weren't her equals!"
"Jeffrey," Christian interjected, his voice calm but firm, "if that's the case, why was Rose with Bradley at the bar? Our witness reports an argument between them, followed by some kind of physical altercation."
Before Jeffrey could respond, Mary's voice cut through the tension, quiet but clear:
"Rose told me that Bradley had been persistently trying to court her. He'd been chasing after her since their school days, but Rose never reciprocated his feelings. I… I don't understand why she was with him that evening."
Jeffrey collapsed into an armchair opposite the couch, looking as if he'd been physically struck by this revelation.
"What? Why the hell didn't you tell me any of this before, Mary?" he snarled, his face contorting with a mixture of anger and betrayal. "I would have dealt with that punk long ago!"
"Rose begged me not to tell you," Mary replied, her voice barely above a whisper as she rubbed her knees nervously. "But who could have imagined he would… that he would kill our little girl?"
"Hold on," Nick interjected, his tone calm but authoritative. "Mary, let's not jump to conclusions. We can't say with certainty that Bradley is the killer. Right now, we have no concrete evidence against him, only the testimony of a witness who saw them together that evening."
Mary's sobs intensified, and suddenly she appeared to be on the verge of collapse. Her head was spinning, and she looked as if she might faint at any moment. Jeffrey, his anger momentarily forgotten, rushed to help his wife up to their bedroom on the second floor. He gently laid her on the bed, covering her with a blanket. Mary's body shook uncontrollably, prompting Jeffrey to give her a sedative to help her sleep.
"I don't want to live anymore, Jeff," Mary whispered, her voice fading as the sedative began to take effect. "I don't want to…"
Her words trailed off as she drifted into an uneasy sleep, the combination of exhaustion and medication finally overtaking her. Nick and Christian waited downstairs, and after a few minutes, Jeffrey descended the stairs, his face a mask of barely contained emotion.
"How's Mary holding up?" Nick asked, genuine concern in his voice.
"I gave her a sedative," Jeffrey replied, his tone flat. "She's asleep now."
"Alright, then Christian and I will head back to the station. We'll try to get more information on Bradley and Steven's whereabouts."
Jeffrey's demeanor suddenly shifted, his eyes blazing with a dangerous intensity. "Do whatever you want, but I have not a single doubt that he killed my daughter! I'll find him myself if I have to."
Nick felt a chill run down his spine at Jeffrey's words. The sheriff's mood was volatile, unpredictable. It felt as if he was planning something rash, something that could jeopardize the entire investigation.
"Jeffrey, please," Nick implored, his voice stern but tinged with understanding. "Don't do anything stupid. We'll sort this out ourselves, and whoever's responsible will answer to the full extent of the law." Nick and Christian were already at the door when Jeffrey advanced on them, his index finger raised in a threatening gesture.
"I am the law!" Jeffrey shouted, his face contorted with rage. "I'm the sheriff of this godforsaken town!" Spittle flew from his mouth as he yelled, some of it landing on Christian's polished black shoes.
Christian grimaced in disgust, pulling a tissue from his jacket pocket to wipe his shoe clean. Nick tactfully pretended not to notice the exchange.
"Jeffrey, we understand your emotions," Nick said, his voice tinged with exhaustion. "But please, try to calm down. Your wife needs you now more than ever. We'll keep you informed of any developments, alright?"
"Fine, agreed," Jeffrey replied, his glare still filled with malice. But behind his eyes, a different plan was already taking shape…
As soon as Christian and Nick left for the station, Jeffrey stormed out of the house and climbed into his pickup truck. He headed towards the outskirts of town, his mind racing with dark thoughts. Just before reaching the city limits, he veered left onto a narrow paved road that cut through a dense stretch of forest. After about a mile, he made a sharp right turn. There, in the middle of the woods, stood a large, imposing mansion.
Jeffrey harbored secrets that had long made him unpopular in town. Many suspected he took bribes and turned a blind eye to petty crimes, but his biggest secret was his connection to a particular gang known as the Hawks. This large, well-organized group operated across multiple states, with high-level connections that kept them largely untouchable. Their primary business was arms trafficking, and their leader was known only by the nickname "Bison." His real name remained a closely guarded secret.
Bison was an imposing figure – a tall, athletically built African American man with a shaved head. His arms were a canvas of intricate tattoos depicting various weapons. At forty-seven, he cut an intimidating figure. He had a wife and two sons living in a mansion in Caracas, Venezuela, where Bison himself had been born. From childhood, Bison had been shaped by the streets, clawing his way up through a life of crime to reach his current position of power. He had no tolerance for empty words or actions, holding his people to the highest standards of loyalty and efficiency.
Jeffrey and Bison's relationship stretched back eight years. Mary's late father had been an influential figure in town with powerful connections, and it was through these connections that Jeffrey had first made contact with Bison. In return for Jeffrey's cooperation, Bison had pulled strings to ensure Jeffrey became the sheriff of Austin in 2015. Jeffrey had played his part well, keeping the local police oblivious to the Hawks' existence. As a cover, Bison owned several grocery stores and gas stations in Austin and neighboring towns, effectively diverting attention from his true operations.
It was to Bison that Jeffrey now turned, desperation driving him to seek help from the dangerous man he both feared and relied upon.
Chapter 8
An hour later, Jeffrey found himself standing before the entrance of the sprawling two-story mansion. The light-colored edifice resembled an impregnable fortress, secured behind an expensive stone fence. A small army of burly guards in black suits patrolled the grounds, their watchful eyes scanning for any sign of trouble.
Jeffrey pulled up to the gates, stepping out of his vehicle with forced confidence. The security detail, recognizing the sheriff, allowed him to pass without issue. Two particularly imposing guards were tasked with escorting the visitor to the house.
As they entered, Jeffrey was struck anew by the opulence of the interior. The massive living room resembled a tropical oasis, complete with a central fountain surrounded by lush vegetation. Subdued lighting cast long shadows across the space, while a large parrot squawked loudly from its ornate cage suspended from the ceiling. The green walls were adorned with expensive frescoes, and the air was cool and crisp thanks to state-of-the-art air conditioning. Oversized dark green leather sofas and armchairs lined the walls, facing an enormous flat-screen TV that dominated one wall.
At the far end of the living room, a grand staircase of expensive white stone with dark wood banisters led to the second floor. The upper level opened onto a long, straight corridor. Its walls matched the green theme of the lower level, with large potted plants lining the hallway. Several closed doors of dark, richly stained wood were visible, with a large panoramic window at the corridor's end. Jeffrey was led through the first door on the left – Bison's office.
The office dеcor was a stark departure from the rest of the house. A gleaming black floor reflected the bright light from a hanging crystal chandelier. Fresh air wafted in through a large open window, carrying with it the muffled conversations of the guards at the gates. Light gray walls served as a backdrop for an impressive array of weapons – Bison's prized collection, which he treated as a hobby.
The man himself sat behind a massive black wooden desk, lounging in a large dark leather chair. He wore a white tank top that emphasized his muscular physique, a thick gold chain hanging around his neck and resting on his chest.
The most striking features of the office were two Japanese katanas mounted on a stand behind Bison's desk. Opposite sat a slightly smaller black leather chair for visitors. Every detail of the room exuded expensive taste and power.
"Leave us," Bison commanded the guards, who promptly exited the office. "Well, hello Jeffrey. To what do I owe this unexpected visit?"
Bison's tone was all business, tinged with an underlying strictness that put Jeffrey on edge. Despite their long association, Jeffrey genuinely respected – and feared – Bison. He spoke softly, almost pleadingly, as he took a seat in the chair opposite the crime lord.
"I assume you've heard about what happened to my daughter?" Jeffrey began, his hands resting nervously on his knees.
