Mr. Samson was a firm believer that secrets, like fine wine, needed air to breathe before they could reveal their true flavor. The secrets of the Walter household passion, betrayal, and ambition had all led him to one man: Lorenzo. The man who sold comfort to the city's distressed wealthy.
Samson found Lorenzo in a corner booth of a chic, dimly lit bar favored by Tredex City's artistic and affluent set. Lorenzo was everything Mr. Walter was not: charming, relaxed, and possessed of an easy, almost languid confidence. He wore expensive, soft Italian leather and his dark hair was perfectly tousled.
"Mr. Lorenzo," Samson greeted, taking the seat opposite him without waiting for an invitation. He offered a slight, exaggerated bow. "I am Mr. Samson, the eccentric detective who specializes in finding truth in the debris of other people's emotional wreckage. You, sir, are a very interesting piece of debris."
Lorenzo smiled, a slow, practiced gesture that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Detective, I am merely a friend to many troubled souls. Particularly those trapped in financially binding, emotionally barren marriages. I offer a sympathetic ear and, on occasion, a suitable distraction. What can I do for you?"
"You can tell me how many people you were comforting in the Walter household,"
Samson countered, his tone conversational, as if discussing the weather. He pulled out a piece of his trademark dark chocolate and theatrically unwrapped it with his left hand. "We know about Mrs. Walter, Eleanor. She sought solace from her husband's cold control. But Miss Penelope, Theodore's fiancée, she also sought your sympathetic ear, didn't she?"
Lorenzo's smile tightened, a barely perceptible tremor beneath the surface. He took a sip of his neat whiskey. "Penelope is a sweet girl. Theodore is....rough. She was clearly unhappy. I offered her advice. Friendship."
"Friendship that involved whispered promises and the intimate discussion of their future, should the tiresome obstacle of Mr. Walter be removed?" Samson pressed, chewing the chocolate with a sound that was slightly too loud for the intimate bar. "You had access to the wife, the fiancée, and a clear view of the family's finances. That, Mr. Lorenzo, is a beautiful triangle of opportunity."
Samson leaned forward, dropping his voice. "Mrs. Walter gains freedom and a significant settlement. Penelope gains her freedom from Walter's dictates and a much happier Theodore. You, Mr. Lorenzo, gain continued access to a very comfortable lifestyle, funded by two grateful women. The perfect arrangement for a professional charmer."
Lorenzo finally lost his cool. He slammed his glass down, though he quickly glanced around to ensure no one was paying attention.
"You have no proof I did anything but talk to those women!" he hissed. "I am a friend! Walter was a tyrant! He controlled their money, their movements, even their clothes! Everyone in that house wanted him dead!"
"A common desire does not make you innocent, Mr. Lorenzo," Samson observed calmly. "It merely means the pool of suspects is large, and your motive is among the cleanest: simple greed and passion."
Samson reached into his pocket and produced the glassine envelope. He held up the tiny gold-and-green thread from the Founders Sash.
"Tell me, Mr. Lorenzo. Do you recognize this? It's the embroidery from the sash of the Most Honored Man. The one Walter wore to remind everyone of his pride. It was torn from a garment or the sash itself near his body. This suggests the victim was not merely pushed, but was in a struggle over the symbol of his power."
Lorenzo squinted at the thread, his handsome face momentarily etched with confusion. "No. I haven't seen that. Why would he be wearing that absurd thing? He only wore it in public."
"Indeed. Unless he took it out for private vanity," Samson suggested. "Or unless someone else took it out, knowing how much it meant to him. Tell me about your movements, Lorenzo. Where were you in the early hours of July 13th?"
"I was at home. Alone," Lorenzo stated quickly. "I can't prove it. My business requires discretion, Detective. I don't punch a clock."
Samson smiled, a sudden, wolfish expression. "Discretion is the first defense of the guilty. You were at the estate that night, weren't you? Not comforting Mrs. Walter, but perhaps meeting Penelope. Chris mentioned he saw you two weeks ago. Were you there to pass messages? Were you involved in a scheme to discredit Theodore, perhaps, to clear the path for Penelope's hand, and Walter's money?"
Lorenzo shook his head vehemently. "I have never been to the Walter estate! I met Eleanor and Penelope in public. Never at the house! I have an iron-clad rule: no direct contact with the victim's territory."
"A very sensible rule for a professional paramour," Samson conceded. "But rules are made to be broken when the stakes are high enough. Let us assume, for a moment, that you were there, late that night. Perhaps you saw someone. Perhaps you witnessed a struggle. You are the man who moves in the shadows, Mr. Lorenzo. What shadow did you see move at 3:30 AM?"
Lorenzo leaned back, a flicker of genuine fear and calculation in his eyes. He hesitated, his internal debate clearly visible. The need to protect himself was warring with his need to avoid implicating his sources of income.
"I saw nothing. I wasn't there," he repeated. "But if you're looking for someone who had motive and direct access to that house... you should focus on the Mayor."
"Mayor William," Samson said, raising an eyebrow. "How convenient. Your motive is passion and money. His is power and money. Please elaborate."
"Walter was pressuring William," Lorenzo said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "He was going to reveal something at the Economic Summit about the Tredex Development Fund. Something illegal.
Walter had the evidence, and he was threatening to expose William if the Mayor didn't cut him a much larger, and shadier, slice of the profit. William needed Walter silenced, and he needed it before that summit."
Samson nodded, confirming his earlier suspicions. The political and domestic plots were now merging. The core conflict was control and the imminent threat of exposure.
"Thank you, Mr. Lorenzo," Samson said, standing up. "You have given me the final, necessary piece of context. The pressure was not just domestic; it was civic. The victim was not just a tyrannical father; he was a dangerous financial rival."
Samson immediately returned to the Tredex Municipal Building. Ms. Cynthia was still working, an island of efficiency in a sea of political pretense.
"Ms. Cynthia, I have just had a rather stimulating conversation with Mr. Lorenzo, the city's favorite distraction," Samson announced, sitting on the corner of her desk. "He claims Mayor William had a powerful motive for silencing Mr. Walter: the threat of exposure regarding the Development Fund."
Ms. Cynthia did not even look up from her paperwork. "Mr. Lorenzo is a known liar and rake, Mr. Samson. His testimony is worthless."
"Perhaps," Samson mused. "But it aligns with the Mayor's evident anxiety and Theodore's report that Walter was preparing a hostile announcement. Now, I asked you for information about two things: the Mayor's movements on the night of July 12th, and the lock on Mr. Walter's study where the sash was supposedly kept."
Ms. Cynthia sighed, finally pushing her papers aside. "The Mayor's official record shows he was working late, alone in the office, until 1:00 AM, and then drove himself home. No witnesses. Regarding the sash, I contacted the Walter family lawyer. The sash was kept in a reinforced glass display case in Mr. Walter's study. The lock mechanism was mechanical and required a unique two-digit code."
Samson's eyes lit up. This was the critical detail he needed. "A two-digit code. Not a key. Something someone could easily observe Walter entering, or something a trusted employee might have."
"The housekeeper and the Gardner were aware of the code," Ms. Cynthia admitted grudgingly. "It was Walter's late wife's birth year. An odd sentimentality for a man who seemed to lack it."
"Sentimentality is simply another form of control," Samson declared. "It ensures only the staff who have been there forever can gain access. This means the number of people who could have intentionally retrieved the sash or the garment it was torn from is now very small: Eleanor, Theodore, Chris, the Gardner, and the Housekeeper. Unless the killer managed to steal the code from Walter himself."
He tapped his chin with his left index finger. "And what about the Mayor's son, Theressa? You mentioned he was a frequent guest at the Walter Estate. Does he have a relationship with Chris? Or Penelope?"
"Theressa is Chris's friend. They played golf often. Theressa is a good boy, a student. No involvement in this mess," Ms. Cynthia stated firmly, a little too firmly.
Samson smiled, a slow, knowing smile. The labyrinth was not about passion or money, but about the gatekeepers—those who had access to both the domestic secrets (the birth year code) and the political secrets (the Development Fund).
"Ms. Cynthia," Samson concluded, standing. "The stage has shifted. We have eliminated the amateur. We are now looking for a killer with a precise plan, access to the house, and the knowledge of Walter's vulnerabilities both financial and sentimental. The key now lies with the last people to see him alive, the staff who were in the house, and the one person who knew the Mayor's legitimate and illegitimate secrets: the Mayor's own son, Theressa."