Phoenix

Chapter Twelve - Meeting

DK's Narrative

Deciding to do this privately, I overlapped the coat around my torso with a vow of silence as I did it and went to this neighborhood in Miami. My other Knight brothers have gone for mission's sake and I am going on my own. Nobody would know, even Phoebe, so I dressed adequately.

Hours later, I arrived at the spot – a decent neighborhood with good sewage in it and a bunch of kids. A lot of them. No doubt there was a campus nearby and the people are friendly and accommodating. Yes, it's a good neighborhood.

I am deciding to step up with the feelings I have for Phoebe – the persons she is – but about the person she was; I'm going to find out. I had used a big help with Google and a very distant police station, so I can get as much information without getting caught up by the police. The police won't be expected to understand my job in any case. So, I got this tidy neighborhood nonetheless taking note of Phoebe's memory snaps.

I knocked houses one by one asking whether they know someone by the name of Stella Wright or any of her close relatives. I had gone to five to seven houses before I spotted someone who told me he does. It's been the easiest as I had expected of myself.

The name was "Frank Wright", Stella's uncle according to a woman in floral. He's an engineer and he's living just a few blocks away and so I drove to his house and stopped just as I saw the wild shrubberies around the house, as the woman told me. The house was simple yet more of a man's that a woman's house. I rang the doorbell and someone instantly came out.

"Hi." I said. "I'm George Andrews." A random old-fashioned name I recalled.

"Yes?" The nanny asked.

"Is this the home of Frank Wright."

"Yes, this is. Come in. What is this about?" She reckoned I had some important matter from the manner I dressed for the occasion.

"I am Detective George Andrews. I want to talk to Frank."

"Oh. He's inside." Then she excused me.

I found Frank Wright by the garden. He's too old. He was busy planting a potato just around his floor of dirt. As I approached him, he took his glasses on and came to remove one of his working gloves then looked at me skeptically.

"I am Detective George Andrews. Excuse me, but do you have a little time, I am documenting a case about the Hans Vaughn cruiser. I was told that you were the relative of Stella Wright."

"Oh, yes, she's my sweet niece! A poor thing which to start the conversation. How can I help?"

"I just wanted to know details about her and her death. I am reinvestigating cases related to the incident."

"Oh, so you're not exactly working for her case or are you?"

"Not exactly. But knowing her case might give me a closer look at some cases so if you don't mind?"

"Well, I see, why haven't you come in behalf of her family's case, er? Why only niece's?"

"I'm sorry. I meant her and of course, her family. A few questions, I suppose?"

"Okay. Can I have a second?" He said looking for something.

"Sure. Sure." I nodded.

Minutes later, I was offered a seat and I was face to face with the old man.

"What is it again? Your name?"

"It is Detective George Andrews, Sir."

"Fine. So you want to know what happened with her family?"