Pack of Vultures (Marta x Blanc)

Chapter 5

A/N: sorry this is super short guys! I've been super busy and been writing what I can when I can.

Blanc was out the door so fast, Marta hadn't even risen from her place on the floor. She didn't comment on it, just scurried behind him and his excited energy.

"Where to first, Holmes?" She grinned.

The smile and reference to his earlier reference made him giddy like a schoolboy. He suppressed that emotion, assuming it to belong to the sudden lead he felt he'd caught.

"Neighbors. Elliot and Wagner's already seen 'em, but I wanna get another look myself."

"Right, analyze them ourselves rather rely on others," she fumbled through her bag on her shoulder for a second before nodding to herself. "Good, I've brought my notepad and pen."

Benoit was in awe of how quick she was and how easily she was prepared for any situation. By golly, this woman was the perfect partner in crime.

"The feathers are still botherin' me." Benoit Blanc said as he opened the door to the apartment building to let her inside. "And I got a feelin' the neighbors know a thing or two."

"Do we know when we'll get the results? I know you said raven, and I believe you, but we have to be safe."

"Elliott says he'll call me when he can. I doubt they have that information at the moment. Analyzin' ain't easy."

They hurried through the street towards the Nichols' home, which - despite being of a much higher quality and square footage to the meager apartments Marta was living in - was very close. Only a few blocks and Benoit was practically running there.

He couldn't stop thinking about the feathers. It was the middle of winter, evident by the snow and pink that touched Marta's ears and nose. Common ravens aren't known to migrate like that of their feathered companions, however they do not flock throughout the day. What's more, ravens in Massachusetts prefer the cliffs and trees, not the bustling city atmosphere Benoit found himself in. And there is the obvious fact that a bird did not plant their feather inside the flesh of the neck, suggesting someone took it. But raven feathers don't just fall off.

Benoit Blanc lost himself in his mind, imagining this as a puzzle. Marta wanted to know his thoughts and expressed as much.

"The murder itself's a knot on a line of thread, it don't make total sense but it has a way to unwind. But the details - the feathers - were where the thread frayed, making it damn near impossible to easily pull it apart. I just don't know," Benoit explained, gesturing wildly with his hands when appropriate.

"If we can get the frayed edges, we can pull the knot apart."

"Yes ma'am."

They arrived at the Nichols house and Marta made the executive decision to start with the orthodontist on the left. The pair knocked on the front door, listening to the incessant parking of a Doberman, and were greeted by a cheerful man.

"Well hello there," he said. Marta noted his Minnesotan accent and friendly disposition.

"Hello sir, I'm Private Investigator Benoit Blanc and this is my colleague Marta Cabrera, we were hopin' to ask you some questions 'bout your neighbor. Mrs Nichols?" Benoit flashed a charming smile to the orthodontist.

"Well you are lucky! Today's my day off, you two come on in and we can get situated in the sitting room."

Benoit and Marta were both glad to be rid of the cold winter and into the warm house. Benoit observed the man and immediately deduced he wasn't the killer. While Benoit believed everyone to be capable of murder - as seen over and over again in the cases he's covered - this orthodontist was far too honest. He was already telling the truth in every sense of the word.

Yes, the man could be lying. But Benoit didn't think so.

"What's your name, sir?" Marta said.

The orthodontist smiled, "I'm Quinn Lawson dear, but you can just call me Paul. It's my middle name."

Paul led the duo to a living room where he quickly gave them cups of steaming coffee. His room was warm and vibrant with life. Photos of smiling families and dozens of childrens or middle grade novels lined the shelves. Everything seemed well loved and warm. There wasn't another word for it. Paul gave off a sense of warmth and comfort, and Benoit knew that he didn't have anything to do with the murder of Mrs Nichols.

The Doberman came and sat beside Marta on the floor, laying his head on her feet and looking up with big brown eyes. Benoit knew Marta was fighting every instinct to smother the dog in kisses, and it made him smile just thinking about it.

"What can I do for you folks?" Paul finally broke the comfortable silence.

"Let's start with you. Where you work, family, connection with the victim, you know."

Paul nodded, "I'm an orthodontist at the Boston Children's clinic, been doing for, oh let's see, 12 years? Yeah that'd be right, just after Mary's sister got married."

"Mary? Your wife?" Marta asked.

"Yes. We've been married for 29 years and I love her to death, oh I guess that's not appropriate-"

"No worries Paul," Benoit chuckled slightly. "Did you know the Nichols personally?"

"Not really. They moved in a few years ago and we had dinner with them every now and then. But we weren't close. Don't matter if we were close or not, I can't believe someone would do that to Mrs Nichols. She was kind to us. And killing someone just isn't okay."

"Where were you that morning?"

"I was at work by 6 am, my secretary Isabelle has my records if you need. She wasn't there when I left. I came home early when Mary rang for me, she'd seen the body."

Marta asked the next question, her hand poised over her notebook and catching each detail. "Had you heard anything the night before? Any shuffles, cursing?"

Paul mused for a second, "I didn't hear anything like that. But Mr Davidson just to the right of the Nichols had his birds making noise in the night. Mary couldn't sleep, we could hear it two doors down!"

Marta and Benoit looked at each other, silently making the same note. They thanked Paul for his time, and his delicious coffee, and left the home to question the ornithologist - Mr Davidson. As they made the brisk walk, Benoit began to speak his ideas.

"I'd forgotten that ornithologists study birds. The same creature that leaves a feather 'footprint' if you will."

"It's possible the feather came from him. Which makes him suspicious. But, we don't know what kind of birds he raises," Marta pointed out.

"Indeed. Let's not be brash."

The duo approached the home and knocked. The door quickly swung open by a frazzled looking middle aged man, not much younger than Benoit himself.

Benoit Blanc made to speak but something caught him, the sight of a large black raven perched above a sofa just feet from the front door.