7

"Hello, Officer Stacy. Didn't expect to see you so soon again. Want an autograph? I can even throw in a photo with me~~ I can sign a hundred copies anytime."

Rick smiled, settling into the outermost seat of the private room and beckoning the waiter for a glass of iced juice.

"They definitely want your autographs. Ever since Mr. Stark Jr. donated to the NYPD, lots of people have been reading your book. They all seem to love it."

"I'm here today to deliver your special consultant credentials. You've been holed up at home working on your creation all week, neglecting to visit the headquarters."

George's hands shook comically as he spoke.

"George, please extend my thanks to the chief. However, I don't feel qualified to be a consultant right now. I have no intention of getting involved in any headquarters cases for the time being. You can think of the consultant role as Stark's liaison within the police department. Or perhaps a mascot?"

Officer Stacy regarded Rick seriously before smiling.

"Rick, I'll pass the message along to the chief. You've once again shown your detective prowess."

"Now that business is done, let's talk about something everyone's interested in—the latest developments in the Wisteria Lane tragedy."

"Rick, what were your initial impressions upon arriving at the scene? My team reconstructed the case from multiple angles that morning, and all our conclusions contradicted the statements of the reporter and the victim."

"Traceology, blood spatter analysis, the murder weapon found at the scene, the medical examiner's report—many aspects don't add up. The first eyewitness, Ms. Lillian, reconstructed the incident three times, each time straying further from our evidence."

"As for her husband, Dick—he's quite the sanctimonious character. We've discovered he's hiding something and have requested a polygraph."

"In addition, we found several knives at the scene with cleaned handles. The bloody footprints on the ground don't support Lillian's claim of a break-in."

"Lastly, and most importantly, Lillian mentioned scratching the intruder's arm, but there was only blood from Lillian and the two dogs found at the scene."

George Stacy listed all the uncertainties in one breath.

In summary, the police found no evidence of an intruder.

"So, you're starting to doubt Lillian and Dick?"

"Wait, blood from two dogs? Aren't they treated like children?"

Rick looked astonished.

"Ha, didn't you see the body in the corner? Those housewives treat their dogs like kids. Even call them children."

George chuckled at the great detective before him.

"I didn't wear gloves, so I didn't touch or examine the scene. Damn, does that mean no one was actually killed in this case? Just a minor injury in some nearby small town—why did the NYPD establish a special task force?"

Rick queried with an odd tone.

"Don't view the case so lightly. Lillian was seriously injured that night, coinciding with the police department's charity event dinner. The mayor, council members, chief, and Stark himself were all aware. Stark even pointed out this was a provocation to the NYPD. The challenge now is that the couple's confession doesn't match the on-site investigation findings. They must be hiding a lot, causing the case to stall."

Officer George spoke resolutely.

"You found no traces of an intruder inside the house. How about outside?"

Rick inquired.

"There were no obvious traces outside the house. The back door was secured with wire, and no dust was disturbed. As for the front door..."

George glanced at Rick.

"The front door was trampled by numerous neighbors coming and going. It's impossible to gather evidence there. But generally, burglars rarely use the front door, especially when it remains intact with no signs of forced entry."

Rick had been in the front hall, sipping cider, munching snacks, and observing appearances. Can you blame him? Everyone had already moved onto the lawn; it was too late to make a difference.

"So, what does Consultant Sherlock Holmes think of this?"

Officer George Stacy gazed at Rick expectantly, as if awaiting him to transform into someone clad only in their underwear in the next second.

"I have no thoughts. I'm just a novelist. Solving crimes isn't my forte. I strongly suggest you read my new work. It'll cleanse your soul and free you from blood and conspiracy."

Rick imitated some inane deity's aria.

"Good job, great ideas. Honestly, I was going to ask Pepper to drop your agency contract tonight. After all, Stark Group deals in arms. Yet your story's got me thinking—the Stark Group's media division might benefit from having a great writer. Sometimes, words are mightier than guns."

"I'll seriously consider your future role at Stark Group."

Old Stark rose, adjusting his clothes. Pepper beside him also stood, the stout man exiting the room directly.

"That's all. I'll treat you tonight as an apology for my earlier departure. Pepper will be in touch regarding the publication of your new book. Haha, a child who never grows up. I'll give Tony a copy for Christmas. For now, I'll hold onto the manuscript. Maria's sure to love this tale."

The old man left promptly, Pepper trailing close behind. Before departing, he gave a secretive thumbs-up, perhaps signaling Rick had passed the test.

Left in the private room were News Director Jones, Police Chief George, and Writer Rick.

The two elder statesmen and the junior began imbibing and conversing. As their blood alcohol levels rose, the topics grew increasingly varied.

Jones, his speech slurred, insisted old Stark had come to expel Rick from the group, once again cleaning up little Tony's mess.

George mocked the capitalist style of the old man, opining and forecasting. He believed the elder was concerned Rick might turn into the kind of detective who investigates everywhere, making enemies in Tony Stark's name. Hence, he personally addressed the latent threat. Little did he expect Rick's new work to be a fairy tale.

And Rick explicitly declined his invitation to report to the police station.

"Rick, do you really have no insights on the Wisteria Lane Massacre? Based on current trends, I reckon Ms. Lillian will soon face formal charges, possibly for obstruction of justice."

"Yeah, no outsiders here. Rick Holmes."

Perry reclined in his chair, his saliva drooling onto his tie.

"You're too shrewd. I've no interest in being a detective. Besides, a writer knows nothing about solving cases. As for Dick, did he have insurance? Every crime has a motive. Don't you investigate finances?"

"And why would a mentally sound mother like Lillian conceal the truth about her dog's tragic death? Why would she do it—for her husband, her family, her children? There must be a reason. She'd rather face charges for obstructing justice than tell the truth. Shouldn't we investigate this?"

Rick, his frail body sensing the alcohol's potency for the first time in this world, felt a tad tipsy yet remained vigilant. For instance, he refrained from remarking how such a shocking dog-killing case might prompt SHIELD to investigate for supernatural causes.

"Alright, we've had a good drink tonight. We should do this more often when we've time. This bar's average. When I get a chance, I'll unearth a national treasure and establish a Haitian Infantry Club... specifically for hosting genuine elites from various fields."

Rick exited the bar, moving like a wobbly noodle and hailing a cab to Phoebe's house.

Misunderstand not—he'd rented a room from Phoebe long-term. It usually sat vacant, serving merely as his temporary abode for city visits on business.

Phoebe, the sub-landlord, earned enough from Rick's rent to lease the entire house.

Rick mulled over how to better Phoebe's life. Yet, everyone knew her to be principled. Gifting money directly or meddling in her life proved impossible tasks.

Fumbling to unlock the door, Rick stepped into his room and promptly fell asleep. Phoebe wasn't home tonight; she and her new roommate Monica had caught a late-night discount movie—a real steal, they said.

Perhaps truly inebriated, Rick again dreamt of numerous golden specks slowly entering his mind, accompanied by faint murmurs.

"Haha, what's the worth of treasure on Treasure Island? If I had the treasure map..."

"Dr. Watson truly adores Holmes at heart."

"The author's astounding. How does he concoct such plots?"

"If I were a pirate, I'd take Nini from next door on adventures. Oh, and my dog. Um, and Nini's cat."

"Everyone quiet."

Rick mumbled involuntarily. Indeed, only the golden specks continued their flight, the murmurs vanishing.