Westly finished off the last of his blunt and crushed it under his heel. His pain slightly subsided. His nose had not fully healed since his encounter with Jordan Vernal. Even though the weed helped, it did not take away the guilt or the grief. It had been three months since the name Dying Star had returned to his life. He had thought he buried all trace of him. The guttural cackling of Star’s laugh still echoed in his brain, along with the mounds of saliva, that would cluster around the corners of his mouth. He hoped the sleepless nights would not return, and yet knowing Star’s spirit was manifesting in another, he was sure they would.

It was early morning. The sun was peaking up over the mountains creating a crisp pink glow. Westly was sitting on the hood of his 1998 Toyota Supra. The color was originally fog gray, but years of mountains and dirt roads had given it more of a beige coloring. He had backed it under a tree, the last tree before the edge of a hill that stretched out through the fields of Highlands Ranch. Highlands Ranch was an extended settlement of Denver. Where he was going was Centennial, another suburb of Denver, yet closer than Highlands Ranch. Why Oliver had made him park in a warehouse parking lot in Highlands Ranch, which was not even a twenty-minute drive from Centennial, baffled him.

He pulled out his phone and scrolled to Holly’s number. No texts in three months. Tanya would tell him that watching someone’s head explode is enough to make anyone stop talking for a while, even someone with Holly’s background. He slid to the main menu and began crushing candy. The familiar glimmer of a maroon minivan turned around the bend from the warehouse and slowly moved into the spot next to Westly.

Once the van was securely in the spot it backed up and repositioned its tires before backing into the spot again. Several more back and forths before the engine slowly fizzed out. A man stepped out of the minivan. He was about forty. Pale ginger hair that was cut short to an almost perfect buzz cut save for the thickness of the sideburns. He was dressed in a brown sport coat and dress pants. His shirt, which was yellow white, came to his thin neck and was securely fastened at the top. He grabbed a canvas book bag and threw it over his shoulder. Straightening his coat, he made his way to Westly. Westly didn’t stop crushing candy to look at him.

“I think you forever cemented that van into that spot by all of the tar you shaved down,” Westly said with a smirk.

“Ha. Ha. Ha,” the man said sarcastically, unamused.

He produced a document from the canvas bag and handed it to Westly.

“Mr. Olenick wants you to sign this.”

“What is it?”

“Mr. Olenick has heard of your…antics from Albuquerque to Vail and he wants you to behave yourself accordingly. Have you been smoking weed?”

“Oliver, you didn’t say he was a fan. What does he think I will do?” Westly responded mockingly.

“Just sign the damn document Wes,” Oliver said rolling his eyes.

“Hold up you’re my lawyer, why didn’t you tell him there was nothing to worry about?”

“First of all, Wes, I am REI’s lawyer not yours, and secondly since Vail we are in even more hot water regarding corruption than before.”

“Robert told me he wouldn’t make things worse for me. At least that’s what he said under the shock blanket, he could have changed his mind afterwards.”

“Not Robert. Brookstone. He is livid you weren’t able to prevent his daughter from getting blinded. He feels you handled the case sloppily.”

“Screw him. His daughter would be diced like bacon if it wasn’t for me.”

“Wes-”

Oliver’s words were cut short as a black stretch limousine pulled around the corner. It did not slow its hasty speed until it was right upon them. Slamming the breaks so violently the back of the limo arched off the ground. Oliver turned back to Wes.

“Sign or we don’t get paid.”

Westly scratched his eye with his middle finger and took the document out of Oliver’s hands. He signed the document on the hood of his car. Once the last wave of the signature was finished and he handed the paperwork back to Oliver, the limousine door opened. A heavy-set man in a full suit motioned them to the car. Oliver handed the document to the man. The man looked at Westly.

“Detective Gibbons?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you armed?”

“What do you think?”

“Wes!” Oliver snapped.

“Please turn over your firearm to me for the entirety of your time at Olenick estate. It will be returned to you once you leave.”

Westly shot a glare at Oliver, who shrugged and nodded. Westly pulled his silver 30-30 revolver out of his coat and shoved it against Oliver. Oliver rubbed his chest before he handed it to the man. The man motioned them into the limousine. As they stepped in and shut the door, Westly pointed at the gun.

“Just so you know if you crush that, it wasn’t cheap. So maybe not keep it in your back pocket.”

The man seemed unamused and stuffed the firearm under the seat. The limo rolled forward and they began. The man inhaled and looked at Westly with contempt.

“Have you been smoking marijuana, Detective?”

“It’s Colorado. You are likely just smelling the entire state. We have the holy trinity of weed pine and honey to make your car smell like you are on top of a mountain,” Westly snapped.

“Wes-,” Oliver stammered.

The obese man chuckled under his breath briefly before returning to his scowl.

“Your brash demeanor might work for those divorcees who are looking for some excitement, but Mr. Olenick will not tolerate it. Are we clear?”

Westly leaned back in the limo.

“Let me out.”

“Wes!”

“No, as far as I am concerned, Mr. Olenick’s only priority is control and he can bully the police for that. Next light, drop me off and I can walk back to my car.”

“What Detective Gibbons is trying to say is that he doesn’t work well in a box and if Mr. Olenick wants the best performance it might do him well to allow Detective Gibbon to process in his own way,” Oliver said, trying to save face.

Westly leaned back and pounded on the window that separated them from the driver.

“Stop here!”

The driver stopped. Westly kicked open the door and stepped out.

“Good luck.”

The obese man burst into tears. Lowering his large head into his hands. Westly shot a glance at Oliver, who was equally perplexed.

“Please don’t leave Detective. Mr. Olenick is desperate. The victim is his son. His ten-year-old son. He wanted to make sure this investigation didn’t turn into a circus because he didn’t want to tarnish the memory of his boy.”

“Damn it,” Westly mumbled as he stepped back in the car and shut the door. They continued.

“I think we got off on the wrong foot. My name is Anthony Fowler. I am the butler for the Olenick estates. I was the one who suggested we get in contact with REI given your history. But Mr. Olenick said if we bring you on, he wanted to make sure everything ran smoothly.

Westly signed, rubbing the still loose cartilage on his nose.

“Walk me through what you know.”

Anthony nodded.

“Last week, I was caddying for Mr. Olenick at the Clear Water Country Club. We had finished the front nine and were starting on the back-”

“What time was this?” Westly interjected.

“Um, I think a little past 8am but I am not sure.”

“Continue.”

“So, we made it up to the tenth green. It is a dog leg left so we couldn’t see it from the tee box. But when we got there it was…so awful. The boy was laying on his back in the center of the green. His skin it was…so yellow like jaundice. His mouth was open and…the flag was… stabbed into the boy’s mouth through the back of his neck down into the hole.”

Anthony started sobbing again.

“Did the boy have a medical condition? Liver or kidney issues,” Westly asked, trying to stay on topic.

“No, that is what the police asked. He was very healthy.”

“Where was the boy supposed to be at this time?”

“I am not sure. I think he was staying home from school with a cold.”

“Mr. Olenick have any enemies, anyone who wanted to hurt the boy?”

“No everyone loved him. He was a brat sometimes, but what kid isn’t.”

“Not what I asked. I asked if Mr. Olenick’s enemies wanted to hurt his children?

“Not that I can think of. His business is textiles, not many murders in that type of business.”

“How were his hands?”

“I am sorry?”

“The boy’s hands how were they, were they folded, laid flat, above his head. What?”

“They were at his sides.”

“What was he wearing?”

“He was wearing his pajamas. Does any of this really matter?”

“If you want me to catch the guy, yes they do. Who else is in the family?”

“There is Mr. Olenick’s wife, Molly, the boy’s mother. His other son Brandon, who is 13. His brother Graham and his sister Roxane. All were present at the estate at the time the boy was found dead.”

“How far is the course from Mr. Olenick’s estate?”

“Only two blocks, I think. Mr. Olenick is Clearwater’s most active member. So, they helped him build the estate close to the course.”

“So, none of the family can be ruled out.”

“You think a family member might have been responsible?” Anthony asked in shock.

Westly nodded, attempting to gaze out of the heavily tinted windows. They were pulling off the interstate into the heart of Centennial. The glass towers and well-manicured lawns were a staple of the tech center that Centennial had built its reputation around. They crawled through the heavy traffic, a mixture of massive pickup trucks to smart cars creating an odd blend in the traffic. The Brookstone tower hovered over the road, its dark glass glimmering like a dark cloud with sparks of sun peeking through. They rolled past it into a cluster of trees that overcast the road, creating a natural tunnel that, once under, blocked the rest of the city from view.

“Detective Gibbon, the police have already questioned the whereabouts of the family during this time. If Mr. Olenick were to be grilled about it again, it would likely end your employment with us.”

Westly turned his head back to Anthony with a stern frown.

“Why did Mr. Olenick hire me if he did not want me to investigate?”

Anthony stroked his chin.

“I informed him of your work and he desperately wants to find the sadistic soul that stripped his child from him.”

“Poetic,” Westly said in disbelief.

They turned through a large iron gate heading down a weaving ravine. Several golf holes peaked themselves from the side of the mountains, mirroring the hills of Scotland, with the embedded rustic of Denver high desert. The road wrapped itself into a large cul-de-sac. In the center of the cul-de-sac was a statue. The statue was a modern rendition of the classic discus man. The body was not that of a human though more of a flowing stick figure. It was white, with a giant “O” in the place of the discus. At the head of the cul-de-sac was a tall house. It was robin egg blue on the front turning into a paler blue as the color wrapped around the house. The façade was complicated to say the least. A large white staircase protruded from the door, spanning outward in an arch. Two metal rails mirrored on either side of it. The door was olive, from a distance appearing to be brown as the sun hit it. The left side of the door facing the street had three windows on the first floor, four on the second, two on the third, and one on the fourth level. To the right, four windows on the first floor, one on the second, three on the third, and nothing on the fourth. Each window had a pale sea foam green curtain concealing the contents of the house.

The lawn had several hedges. Two in the front were carved in the shape of a swan and another was a bear. At least that is what Westly guessed as there a handful branches sticking wildly out of the them from the poor craftsmanship. The left side of the house had vegetation flush with woodwork and climbing up around the windows. The right however only had the swan hedge. The roof was nearly an “A” frame as the corners reached from the fourth level all the way to the second. It was black with thin metal spikes rising up from its entire border. The bright greens and blues of the house contrasted the roof. The roof looked have been severed from another house and placed on the top this one with no regard for how it looked from the street.

The limo came to a stop. Westly reached for the door before Anthony caught his wrist.

“Detective, please understand. Mr. Olenick may seem to have no regard for the life of his son. But he does. His pride may not let him show that.”

“I will do my best, but I will also do my job,” Westly responded.

They stepped out of the limo. The sun had fully risen. The bright glow of the morning light made the sea foam green curtains nearly impossible to look at. Westly shielded his eyes they made it up to the door. Anthony pulled open the large olive door. The main atrium was also robin’s egg blue, the tile floor was white to mimic the whiteness of the staircase. Anthony led them into the living room.

The living room was sea foam green. Not the sea foam green that curtains had been stained with but a white bleached sea foam green making the whole room feel like one giant menthol cigarette. The furniture was all white. Even the wooden furniture such as the end tables and book cases. The floor had changed from the white tile from entry way to a teak colored fake wooden floor. From out of the living room the back yard sprawled open to reveal a flag on a green not even 50 yards from the property.

The family was sitting in the main room. On the couch were a man and woman, both in their mid-forties, both dressed formally, and both on their phones, unaware anyone had entered the room. Across from them was another woman. A little older maybe closer to 50. She had radiant auburn hair. The vibrantness of the hair coupled with her age made it obvious it was dyed. She had her laptop open and was paging through the internet slowly on the track pad with her index finger. A boy of about 13 was on the floor. Dressed in white basketball shorts and a blue formfitting shirt. On his ears were large headphones. He had his phone turned sideways, mimicking the sounds of a race car as he tilted the phone to and fro.

The back door slid open. A fifty-year-old man stepped through the door. He had on a black polo and a white flat cat that rested snugly on his bald head. He was stocky yet not obese. He had a partially grown goatee which was splashed with salt and pepper around his chin. His right arm was covered in sleeve tattoos down to his wrist. The tattoos were blue and red flames crawling down his arm. He was carrying a nine iron and hooked it over shoulder as he walked into the living room.

“Who are you jokers?” He grumbled looking up and down at Westly and Oliver.

“Mr. Olenick, this is Detective Westly Gibbons he is here to assist with your son’s, you know.

“Spit it out Anthony. DEATH. My son’s death!”

The woman in chair began wailing hysterically, slamming her laptop closed, and rushing out of the room. Westly glared at Oliver.

“I should have got out of the limo.”