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When the elevator doors opened, Ella was greeted by a more subdued atmosphere compared to the bustling activity of the ground floor. The corridor was lined with doors bearing polished nameplates, rectangular windows offering views into empty offices. They went down the line until they found office three-hundred.
The blinds were shut.
Ella knocked on the door and said, ‘Mr. Hargreaves? We need to speak with you.’
No response. Ella knocked again, firmer this time.
‘David Hargreaves, this is the FBI. We need a moment of your time.’
A moment of silence ensued before Ella heard the faint shuffling of feet from inside. The door creaked open, and a pair of eyes appeared in the gap.
‘FBI?’ the man asked with a weary voice.
Ella stepped forward, one foot over the threshold. ‘Yes. Are you Mr. Hargreaves?’
‘Yes I am,’ the man said. ‘What’s this about?’
She saw a pair of glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. She saw a face that was apparently thirty-seven years old according to his records but looked like it had seen its fair share of winters.
‘We have some questions regarding your recent real estate purchases, specifically some garages. And there are a few other matters we need to discuss,’ she explained, firm but non-threatening. ‘May we come in?’
‘It’s not a good time right now.’
‘We’re not asking, Mr. Hargreaves,’ Ripley said. Ella detected no subtlety.
‘Uh… okay,’ David said and opened the door a few inches wider. Ella got a good look at the puzzle master; crumpled brown suit, white shirt, cheap sneakers. A mismatched getup, as though he’d chosen each item of clothing by spinning a wheel. Ella pushed her way in, not giving David a chance to second-guess his decision.
‘Why such a bad time?’ she asked. The office was a box room, so small that David’s desk connected to the bookshelf beside it. There were no additional chairs, just a stool weighed down with a pile of books. Ella checked the spines and saw they were all puzzle books.
Hargreaves retreated back to his desk, hiding behind the faded pine. His hands fidgeted slightly, and his eye contact was non-existent. ‘I was working. I don’t like to be disturbed.’
‘Working on what?’ asked Ripley.
‘Tomorrow’s game. The Wednesday Word Scramble.’
Ella scanned the room; framed puzzles on the walls, stacks of magazines that looked like they’d been hoarded for centuries. The environment spoke volumes about the man before her – a mind that thrived in the complexities of patterns and enigmas. Perhaps an obsession that went beyond the boundaries of the job.
‘This is your full-time job?’ asked Ripley.
David's expression shifted subtly, a flicker of recognition, perhaps, or concern. ‘Yes. Why?’
‘Just curious,’ Ripley said. ‘We need to ask you some questions in relation to an ongoing investigation. Do you recently purchase a garage on Hampton Road?’
David glanced between the agents, deer-in-the-headlights look, before confirming. ‘Yes, I did. I needed storage.'
Ella leaned against the wall, observing the cramped space and the man who occupied it. ‘Why so far away?’ she asked.
‘Cheap,’ David said, picking up his pen and nervously tapping it on his paper. Ella discretely inspected his work and saw a grid filled with letters, many spaces still blank. No ciphers that she could see.
‘To store what?’ she asked.
David gestured to the bookshelf beside him. ‘Puzzles. References to work from. What else?’
What else, Ella thought. She could sense his anxiousness, but such a response wasn’t an indication of guilt. If she wanted to dig deeper into his psyche, she needed to go nuclear.
‘Mr. Hargreaves, can we ask what school you attended?’
‘Lincoln High. Why?’
