You wake to the telephone ringing and reluctantly role over to answer it. The alarm clock shows 5:00am. You groan and ask who’s calling. It’s Keller again. Says he’s still in Oregon but there’s a fellow in Boston that wants to talk to the feds. Says he’s got real important information. “Can’t even wait till noon?” you ask. After all, it’s your day off.  Keller says the guy’s position is a bit shaky so you have to take his statement today as soon as possible. You tell him, yeah-alright.

When you get to the address that Keller gives you this time you find your self in the ritzy part of town and standing at the door of a beautiful colonial style mansion. An older lady answers the door and after glancing at your ID badge leads you into the foyer. As you wait there you look about at the marble sculptures that line the shelves.

Sculpture. Now there’s an art form worth praising. Creating lifelike beauty from cold hard stone was something everyone could admire. The more time and detail you put into sculpture the more lifelike it became. Life…now that was something you could understand people spending money on.

The gentleman arrives then, interrupting your thoughts. He is dressed in casual clothes but, it’s the kind of casual clothes that cost more than a hundred pieces per label and makes a man in a suit feel underdressed.

He begins talking with a faint Indian accent.

“It’s the third death in less than a year,” he says offering you a cigarette. You accept it and he follows the offer with a match.

“There was an article in newspaper a few months ago about a girl who fell from the penthouse roof. Three years earlier was the story about the servant found dead in the garage."

You realize how much you miss cigarettes and then wonder why you've never heard about these other deaths.

“The first one was Jillian Peters, fourteen years old I think…got a pair of golden eagle wings for her birthday. She was living in the Estavio building. Those apartments cost a fortune you know, and you have to go through a lot of screening and interviews in order to rent one.

“The Peters family lived on the floor directly below the pent house. The door to fire escape was supposed to be set with an alarm but I guess it hadn’t been working for some time. They say the girl found her way up to the roof that way….had been up there many times in fact. Then, one day, she gets too close to the edge and takes a tumble.”

The gentleman pauses and watches as you take a heavy drag.

“Are you sure she wasn’t just trying to fly?" you ask suddenly, "That happens a lot with some of the younger ones who get the wing graphs.”

The only reply you get is a cold blank stare.

“The second one was the late Dr. Savage’s first butler," He continues,

"Malachi Alexander had served the Doctor loyally for nineteen years…that’s right, started just after the boy was adopted…then one day there is an accident in the parking garage and the butler is found dead. The report said he was attacked by someone trying to steal the Doctor’s car. They never did find enough clues to make an arrest.”

“Did they do a trace on the car?”

“The car wasn’t taken.”

“How did they know it was a car thief then?”

“You tell me, Agent Jerry.”

“Neither one of these incidents came up when we did our investigation.”

“That’s because some one with a lot of money made sure they got buried the moment the public lost interest.”

“But, you never lost interest.”

The man smiles slightly..

 “How do you like my collection, sir?”

You start at the strange question and then realize that he is gesturing to the marble figures.

“It is impressive.” You admit.

“I have another collection I would like to show you.”

You follow the man in to the long hall lined with imitation painting and then into another room. This room is lined with shelves on every wall and in the center are two sofas facing each other with a coffee table between them. On the shelves are hundreds of books that have the special quality of museum artifacts, ancient yet well preserved.

“I collect original works of poetry,” The man explains as he picks up a book from the table.

“My tastes tend towards the sort that has the most elusive meaning. Take this one for example.”

The man hands you a sheet from the book. You study the folded page on which is written a simple poem.

You read the poem over twice and then turn the paper over. The material is common recycled notebook paper. It has no signature and no other writing. You return the piece to your host.

“What is it?” You ask.

“It was found by Mr. Peters, slipped under his apartment door, the day after his daughter fell to her death. He offered it to me for a sizable amount after reading an ad I had placed in the New York times.”

You are silent as your thoughts run this information through. Then, the Gentleman hands you second piece of paper.

The handwriting is the same.

A kindly man, a gentleman’s gentleman A peaceful heart so full of kindness A credit to servant’s everywhere A truly god fearing saint   I’d offer my gold, but good men are priceless I’d offer my heart, but it hardly compares I’d offer my soul, but it is not my own I offer instead the simple truth   This man was my mentor and dearest friend This man was loyal and ever trustworthy This man was killed for secrets held This man never said a word                                WAA Co.

“That one was received by Alexander’s widow in Manhattan. Post marked the same day as his death.  Mrs. Alexander died shortly afterwards from heart failur and her daughter, a good friend of mine, passed that poem on to me.”

This one has no signature either. This paper is heavier stock than the first though. You hold the letter up to the light and make out a faint watermark in the lower corner. The letters WAA Co. are visible.

You take pictures and notes, then, you thank the gentleman and leave. As you speed down the highway, the man’s last words are ringing in your head.

“There’s a secret in that Estavio building, Mr. Jerry, and someone is willing to do anything to keep it hidden. If I were you I’d start at the top.”

You consider his words as you pull into the headquarters’ parking lot several hours later.

Well...there were a lot of tops in this case. Just which one was he referring to? Dr. Savage was head of one the largest art guilds in the world and the richest man alive...you could say he was at the top. Then there was the penthouse...that was very literally at the top-

You consider this carefully as you mind starts to piece things together.

There was one more thing...