Godot ~ The Fragrance of Dark Coffee
I was almost surprised how easy it was, making a living as a PI in Riverside. Sure, it wasn't glamourous. I had to take odd jobs: looking for lost pets, spying on a suspicious boyfriend, but there was always someone angry or hurt enough at someone else to need the Lafayette Detective Agency. One especially odd job came not long after my first case.
It was a cold December morning when the office line rang. Nothing too unusual, except for the voice on the other end.
"Sylvester!"
Mordecai. The kid just can't keep out of trouble. Whatever happened to once bitten, twice shy?
He stuttered out some hullabaloo about the Duchampe Residence and slammed the phone down in less than a minute. Granted, I was considering doing the same, but I usually like a bit of information before I start a case.
The Duchampe family owns a sizeable property in the thick of Riverside, not two blocks east of my office. Most of the older houses in the area had been torn down: sold off to rich suits and converted into department stores or credit unions. But the Duchampe residence has stood tall for as long as I can remember. I put Mordecai on my mental "to-do" list, down at the bottom, and grabbed my coat.
Truffles has been doing a lot better lately. Her and Delibird are a real odd couple; I often catch them together behind the office, scuffling in a snow drift. Not sure if it's the company or the expensive feed, but she seemed well enough to come on the beat. Beat - more like walk, now.
Not that it's become any more peaceful. Riverside has never been well-maintained, and the illegal Pokemon trade has gotten out of control. Can't walk out your front door without seeing some unlicensed yuppie packing a Gyarados. This kid was hardly tougher than his worn out sneakers, but it reminded me of the need for more protection. Can't call for back-up when you're working solo.
I spent some time circling the area, sneakiing through alleyways and behind dumpsters, until I had enough firepower to walk easy. Things ended up a little more undead than I intended, but that's a story for another time.
They weren't all wild mutts though: I ran into this Tyranitar with a collar. By now I was so used to the missing pet routine, I called the owner without thinking.
Turns out the big bruiser was some old lady's lapdog, and he likes to wander out collecting trinkets. I took home the office key in his claws, as well as a small reward for his safe return. As far as earnings go, it was a decent payout for ten minutes' work.
If you're not being accosted by hoodlums, you're being pounced on by rats. Swear to God, I don't know how people manage to live in this city.
Not twenty feet away were a couple of kids playing in the snow. I told 'em to scram, but they wouldn't leave before finding their shovel. These raggamuffins must have a great set of parents.
Truffles managed to sniff it out faster than you can say odor sleuth. Old girl's still got her police instincts. Sometimes I wonder if she understands that we're off the force, or if she interprets it as some kind of extended deep cover op. Extended being the operative term.
Having found myself with a bit too much "back-up," I ducked into the nearby daycare to drop some off. Should've paid more attention to the sign...
Miss Cathy was as perky as ever. I kept my head down and tried to talk business, but she went right to the old hotel. Despite everything, she says, this job's a hell of a lot better than her last one. From most, those words would sound hollower than a Cubone's skull, but Miss Cathy was a straightshooter. I nodded, and handed over some new catches for her to look after.
The hail was coming down hard by the time I got near the Duchampe mansion. Out front, I saw that mall Santa from last time, shaking his bell at every Tom, Dick and Jane that passed by. In the brief instant I glanced his way, he'd already made eye contact and waved me over. I tossed him some change and got back to work.
Inside, the help escorted me out back. Says they won't let Mordecai leave unless he's riding coach in a cop car. I figure that's where he belongs, but that's someone else's job now.
A couple, not much older than the kid, had cornered him in the backyard and took turns blowing out his eardrums. Their accents were thicker than the snow on the ground, and they certainly weren't the type Mordecai usually surrounds himself with. I flashed them my card and asked that they wait inside while I get his testimony, whatever good that may be,
I'll Never Fall In Love Again B
It was basic vandalism, one of Mordecai's many specialties. The Duchampe residence was open for an art show all afternoon: ice sculptures, from a renowned Kalosian artist. After Mordecai had come in, he was left to his own devices out back, and when the sculptor returned to her work, there was nothing left but the slick ground.
As the kid explains it, he came to appreciate the finer things in life, and see if he could stash any in his pockets. He was on his best behavior when he was drawn south by the smell of propane. His nose led him to a cool puddle, and his ineptitude led him to call me for help. Not much to go on, but if I can find the burner, I may have a case.
Only a chump would take Mordecai at his word, so I went inside to question the residents. The matron of the house, Mademoiselle Duchampe, inherited the house from her grandparents, who'd had it built in Riverside over 40 years ago. She frequently traveled back and forth to Kalos, and was currently housing her long-term friend Philippe and talented sculptor Mademoiselle Richler, the charming couple I'd met outside. Seems Philippe had taken up work as Mlle. Richler's assistant, and the two had gotten romantically involved in their time together. The matron directed me to Mlle. Richler's studio on the floor above, where I'd likely find the two of them at work.
I was stopped at the stairs by Duchampe's manservant, who grumbled about my work ethic whilst loitering in the foyer. Despite the approval from the lady of the house, I was forbidden entry to the studio, lest my presence disrupt Mlle. Richler's work. I thanked him for the service and made for the west wing before his lips started flapping again.
Seems Duchampe had long been a supporter of the arts, even before providing tenancy for sculptors. When property owners around Riverside built their estates, they were as powerful as they were paranoid. The mansions were build like fortresses, with hideouts and secret escape routes from every position. By inspecting the artwork...
I'd found passage to the studio, where Mlle. Richler was working. She spoke highly of Philippe, but grew cold when I inquired about Mlle. Duchampe. Trying to keep her talking, I changed subject to the crime. The best witness is a chatty witness, and I didn't want her to lose interest before I got her account.
As she explains, she'd just finished her Meloetta installation the morning it was to be displayed. Mordecai'd managed to sneak in early, and was caught in the backyard standing in the newly-formed puddle. It was about what I'd imagined: no alibi and no other suspects.
With nothing to lose, I breached the subject of Mlle. Duchampe, and of Philippe's affections. Mlle. Richler confessed with a sigh, admitting her relationship had seemed to put a wedge between the matron and the couple. Maybe the scorned spinster took revenge against her replacement by torching the sculptor's greatest work? It was wishful thinking at best - Mordecai was still suspect number one and I'd need serious evidence to implicate Duchampe - but at least we'd found an alternative scenario.
I was getting desperate for information, so I sent Truffles off as one last shot in the dark. She must've felt pressure to impress, since she wouldn't stop 'till she'd sniffed out every square foot of the house. Smack dab in the middle of Duchampe's quarters, she started clawing at the floorboards. I shuffled them around a bit and found they were false: another trap door. After some brief moral contemplation, I opened up the matron's private hiding place.
Inside, I'd found a picture of Mlle. Duchampe and Philippe canoodling. Seems they've become closer than friends, and she's kept the affair tight under wraps. She'd had motive and opportunity, now all I needed was to find the tools of the trade.
In House Jazz A
The greenhouse out back looked promising, but I was held up by some delinquent in a motorcycle jacket.
He was about as tough as he was clever.
Inside, I bumped into a few of his playmates, as well as an older chump overseeing the operation.
Truffles hardly got a sweat worked up before dropping their teams.
Behind them, lo and behold, was the smoking gun: an old propane hand torch.
There was a path behind the estate blocked by an ice block, and I'd wanted to test my new theory, so I loaded it up and fired away. As expected, the ice melted away into a cool slush.
Down the path, I'd found a hollowed out cave used to store Mlle. Richler's materials. There was a frozen pond left in the corner of the "room," and it looked like someone'd gotten into a struggle at the water's edge. I noted the odd detail and went to question Philippe.
Like his lady, he went cold once I mentioned Duchampe. I pressed a bit harder, and when he was backed into a corner, I showed him the picture from under the matron's floorboards. He deflated like a punctured Drifblim, and confessed to having a fling with his old friend.
Reaching into his pocket, Philippe showed me a pair of rings with the most expensive-looking diamonds I'd ever laid eyes on. He'd been planning to propose for months now, and had only recently gotten his hands on engagement rings. The past affair with Duchampe, a potential threat to the wedding plans, was supposed to remain in the past. I nodded in understanding, but reminded him that I will need to use whatever evidence is necessary to conclude the case. There was nothing but utter defeat in his voice as he mouthed his agreement.
Finally, I'd gotten enough information to name a suspect. The tight-shirt summoned everyone to the reading room at my request. I recounted the evidence as I stepped in to tell them.
I never liked questioning witnesses out in public. Interrogation rooms are simple, you, me, and an empty room. When you're out on the field, you see people in groups, and their combined accounts never manage to provide any decent information. But there's one trick you can only use in that group setting to get people talking, and that's to turn them against each other.
When I mentioned the matter of Philippe and Mlle. Duchampe, the room exploded into activity without a moment's notice. Mlle. Richler was as taken aback as she was furious, and even Mordecai pitched in, as if feeding off of the others' energy. I told him to muzzle it and put the pins on the weakest link, Philippe. He was quick with an excuse, that their relationship was in the distant past, and irrelevant to the case regardless. Turning to his bride-to-be, I asked about the hostility she'd sensed lately. Duchampe was quick to deny any ill-intent, but Philippe let slip a word of denial.
The tension was about to bubble over, so I went straight to the heart of the matter, accusing the matron of a need for vengeance to soothe her scorned heart. On a hunch, I brought up the shattered pond, explaining it the aftermath of a quarrel between ex-lovers. Their stunned silence was all the confirmation I needed. Finally, the case came together in my head. I brought out the blowtorch, the vandal's tool, and fingered the perpetrator: Philippe. Emotionless, he confirmed his guilt, and walked slowly out of the room. Mlle. Richler moved to pounce on me, demanding an explanation.
IS-7 Incident (Piano Cover)
Finally ready to propose, Philippe had confronted Mlle. Duchampe about his intentions with Mlle. Richler. Duchampe was outraged, and the two fought near the frozen pond, until the rings ended up falling through a crack. He'd thought them gone forever, until they reappeared in the most unlikely place: the newly carved Meloetta statue. Philippe melted through with the blowtorch, and when his bride-to-be accused Mordecai, he took the opportunity to skirt the blame.
Mlle. Duchampe was finally ready to tell her side of the story. She'd thrown the rings away, into the water used for making ice blocks. Philippe left her alone, as he is wont to do, searching for a tool to safely reclaim them. In his absence, the lady of the house froze them and gave the sculptor new materials for her work.
With her feelings laid bare, Duchampe was free to evict her unwanted guests. Mlle. Richler chased after her beloved, but he was long gone.
I always get the same pit in my stomach after cases like these. The ones where everyone loses, where there's no relieved family members crying tears of joy, no scowling crook getting read his rights. Just cold truths.
A detective's job - my job - is to find the truth of a matter. But was this a truth worth digging up?
"Actually, it's Mrs. Lonardo now."
"...I see. Congratulations on your nuptuals."
"Thank you."
"What brings you back so soon, Philippe?"
"I came to return the money."
"Don't tell me she rejected your proposal!"
"No, nothing like that. But thank you for financing the rings, anyway."
"Hold on. You can't just leave."
"It's a bit of a story. But this detective-"
"Was his name Lafayette by any chance?"
"How did you know?"
"Lue's complained about him, he's interfered with a robbery he set up."
"He's beginning to sound like a thorn in your side."
"Something like that..."