Romans & histoires Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency

"Bring the crowbar. He used the bird lock." Bram stepped up, jamming the iron bar beneath the loose hearthstone. With a groan, the floorboard popped upward, revealing a narrow, dust-covered steel compartment hidden beneath the concrete foundation. Sitting inside the dark space was a briefcase stamped with an initial: *D.* Dimitri. My father. I stared at the case, my hands freezing in mid-air. For years, I had searched every corner of this city, hacked every database, and bought out every criminal debt just to find what Commissioner Dimitri left behind before they put a bullet through his chest.

Nails digging right into my palms. Finally, the car pulled up in front of the packhouse. My private investigator was already waiting for me outside. He was leaning against his SUV, a pair of sunglasses framing his eyes. He looked unassuming as always, wearing simple clothes that would make him as inconspicuous as possible. "Walk with me. I don't want anyone listening. in," I said, approaching him. I led him towards the back, where the garden was located. The tall hedges hid us pretty well from view. He reached into his jacket as soon as we were out of sight and pulled out a slim folder and handed it over with an expression that said, Yeah, you're not going to like this.

"The estate became relevant after we received new evidence connected to a cold case." "The Hawthorne necklace?" Richard asked quietly. She nodded. "And Eleanor Rhodes." My heart skipped. Mom. The detective knew my mother's name before anyone introduced me. She turned toward me. "You must be Aya." I nodded slowly. "I'm sorry to meet you under these circumstances." "What do you mean by a cover-up?" I asked. The detective didn't answer immediately. Instead, she accepted the black briefcase from one of the officers and carefully opened it. Inside were several neatly organized folders.

I said, composing myself, and The dark guy spoke. "Dr Jane Richards?" He said, reaching into his jacket to pull out something. He handed me an Id card. "I am Agent Derin Blacksmith from the National Bureau of Intelligence. With me is Agent David Clearbridge, May we have a moment with you, doctor?" he said, and I paused long and hard reading the identity card he had handed over to me. "Am I in any form of trouble agents?" I finally asked them and Derin smiled. "It is a matter of National security, please let us in," he said with a straight face, and I realised the please was a formality, and I had no choice in the matter because they had let themselves in without waiting for me to respond to

To diffuse what was potentially becoming an awkward situation, the woman stood in front of Tom Holmes, kissed him on the lips and then pushed his head down so that he could see down her sweater to the swoop of her lace-covered breasts and the dark valley in between. “Gentlemen,” he said, as if suddenly remembering that we were still there. “You must forgive my manners. Let me introduce you to my wife, Gina. Darling, this is Detective Inspector Paul Silver and John Handful, who is a consultant for the Suffolk Constabulary.” We shook hands. “And what do you do when you’re not a consultant for the police?” She asked me. “I am a private detective.” The statement was too abrupt. Her eyebrow

“I understand. Can’t be too careful in his business.” “Detective, what does this have to do with anything?” I ask. I have stayed standing by the archway that leads into our living room. I lean against the wall and keep my arms wrapped around my middle. “It could be relevant. Your intruder last night might have something to do with your husband’s work.” He takes out a small notebook, flips through its pages. “They call themselves security consultants, but it’s a little more than that, right?” “It’s a privatized military company,” says Gray, entering the room. He has been sleeping, but he doesn’t look it. He’s alert and on guard. The detective is clearly startled, like he expected me to be alo

I responded immediately. He laughed at that, but then took on a serious pensive look. That rattled me a bit. Gboyega was never pensive, he was always smiling and carefree. "You need a detective and I know just the one. He's very good at his job too. Very discreet. He's like a blood hound. He'll dig up all the dirt on anyone, even details that have been hidden in the past." I looked at him, understanding hit me at his words. I knew exactly what he was talking about. He probably used him to get dirt about people he did business with.

He wants to make sure that this death is not connected to the murders a few years ago, including his obsession, Vincent Alderige. "Detective!" A lady oozing with elegance greeted them from the door. They were expecting them. "Please come in." "Good afternoon, Mrs. Halsey?" He hesitantly muttered, confused on how to address their host. The list of the family members was on the folder but no photos were attached. Nonetheless, he continued. "Deputy director Bennett informed us about your wish to see us first before we conduct our investigation." "Thank you, detective. Although I'd prefer miss Halsey," The woman smiled passively-aggressively.

The Local church was an old building, and the graveyard was right next to the church. When Northstar, Elizabeth and Agatha arrived, the funeral service had ended. Three police officers were going around handing posters with a sketch of the suspect asking people if they had a clue about the killings. Agatha detached himself from a group of locals he had started a conversation with and walked towards Elizabeth holding a poster. “Here, look at the sketch made by the human police. It quite matches him,” he remarked jokingly pointing at the priest who was standing in the middle of a group of people, his back towards Elizabeth.

Justice Complex Gary Bates sat in the police officers’ terminal at Justice Complex. He skimmed the room as officer Max Donovan leaned against the file cabinet, referring to the notes of a case gone cold. Glancing across the room, Bates watched Dale Daniels, Walter Newton, and Jennifer Woods with coffees and donuts at their desks. Their stations littered with registers. Bates glared at the three, speculating if they each had something to hide. The detective didn’t trust many people always suspicious of everybody he came into contact with. He even suspected his officers and staff.