BURDEN OF AN ANCIENT OATH by Joshua Brown (best fiction novels to read txt) 📗

“Why bother bringing it up with me if you already did this?” I finally asked as the laughter subsided.

“Because I knew you’d say no,” even though I just scolded her, Gwen still gave me an offhanded seductive wink.

“Tomorrow at noon, I’ll be there.”

I didn’t expect to see Gwen at the office when I got back from my interview with Delores. That was probably for the best, too. Still, I ventured into the early morning New York traffic in hopes of finding any scrap I could to benefit this case.

Chapter 13

Jack

Delores Carlisle worked in a dimly lit antique store that sold trinkets of all sorts. Nestled between two high-rise buildings, the store only got light from one front window. It reminded me of a horror movie, where a mysterious old man would work behind the desk, ready to deliver some information on the atrocity plaguing the main cast.

And in some ways, I hoped it held true. I wanted Delores to give me something, anything, that might benefit me on this case. We all needed a break in it, which could help us get one step closer to justice. This time, it wasn’t just taking a toll on me, but everyone in my crew.

I’d never been so lost on a case. Not even when there was some strange draw, I always managed to find a way around the obstacles and bring down the criminals.

Delores Carlisle was my first and only saving grace.

The antique store had a simple layout. On entry, I was met by furniture, trinkets, old African masks, beautiful lamps, and ornate vases all around. They’d all collected dust over the years of never being purchased, and the sight of many sent shivers down my spine. Towards the end of the store was a single counter with a cash register atop it.

Much like the rest of the store, it was old. A single TV hung from a wall mount to the left of the register. It faced towards the back, where a door hung open with a light on.

Delores was singing a song when I entered. Some long-forgotten, 1950s love track that fell by the wayside to more popular songs of the era. Her voice was shrill, off-key, and displeasing to the ear.

The TV, a cheap flat screen, played daytime soap operas. I guessed it the Days of our Lives, but I knew nothing about TV, let alone what bored housewives watched.

“Excuse me,” I called over the noise. There was a bell at the front door that rung out with my entry, but over her own voice, I don’t believe Delores heard me. She missed my first call too.

“Excuse me,” I shouted louder. “I’m looking for Delores Carlisle.”

She yelped in the back office, making noises as if she was almost dying. “I’m so sorry, I couldn’t hear you over the TV.”

I knew it was a lie.

Stepping out of the back office, Delores Carlisle stood no taller than my chest. Her neck was a pocket of fat that extended from her cheeks and chin, down to her chest, without definition. Her body was round, her face was wrinkled, and her teeth were stained a grey-yellow. Her lips were painted red, with makeup covering her face that wasn’t near the right shade to her actual skin tone. Delores wore an oversized shirt that looked more like a dress and still somehow managed to be too tight, exposing rolls upon rolls.

In one hand, she held a cup of coffee, maybe tea, while the other held two danishes between the fingers. One oozed a red jelly from where a bite was taken out of it.

I felt sick just looking at her.

“Delores Carlisle?” I asked.

“That’s me,” her voice, still shrill and painful to listen to. “Who are you?”

She had a thick accent that I couldn’t place. I almost put it somewhere out of the United States but didn’t enquire on it.

“I am Detective Jack Mercer. My secretary, Lauren, called this morning about my arrival,” I replied.

“That’s right,” she said. “You wanted to speak to me about my car, was it?”

“I did. It’s part of an active investigation into a case. From surveillance footage from my apartment complex, we tracked the car back to you,” I paused for a moment, drawing my recorder from my pocket. “Would you mind?”

“Not at all,” she said.

I turned the recorder on, setting it down on the counter before continuing.

“I was wondering if you have any idea who has your car? I understand that you put a report out on the vehicle being stolen a few weeks ago, only, not long after the whole case seemingly disappeared. What was the reasoning behind that?” I asked.

“Yes, it was my son who took it. He said he left me a note, and he wasn’t lying. I only found it a few days after he told me,” she snickered. “He’s a little rascal, my Oscar, but I love him to bits regardless.”

Delores seemed utterly oblivious to the situation. As if it hadn’t clicked that her son might’ve been implicated in something far more severe than I was letting on. Knowing this, I decided to roll with it, rather than tip her off that he was a suspect in these crimes.

“And he still has the car now?”

“Well, I’d hope so. Otherwise, I’ve been taking the bus to work and back for nothing,” Delores huffed, taking another bite of her danish. “Why? Did something happen to my baby boy?”

“No, ma’am, I don’t believe anything’s happened to your son. I was wondering if you could tell me more about him though? What does he do for a living? I don’t suppose he stays at home if he’s got your car, so I’m just curious to learn more about him.”

“My little baby, Oscar, is a writer,” she said, pulling