Mythology Rebooted
Chapter 136 - 94: Press F to Enter the Tank Directly

Chapter 136: Chapter 94: Press F to Enter the Tank Directly

"As far as I know, the lady is not Mr. Bart’s first wife, and she’s about the same age as Mr. Bart’s daughter. Is there a story behind this?"

"The lady hired a detective, and the eldest son did too. They both suspect that Mr. Bart was killed, and each suspects the other to be the culprit, is that right?"

"Oga, who do you think is more suspicious?"

On the way to the study, Wayne asked about matters related to the case, trying to find a breakthrough with the maid. She did not disappoint him, telling a story of intricate resentment within a wealthy family.

But as to who was most suspect, that was not for a maid to know. From her words, everyone was suspect, yet no one was.

Wayne sorted through the relationships a bit. The deceased, Myron Bart, lost his first wife ten years ago and after seven or eight years of wandering, settled down and remarried a plain-looking model;

Madam Marina, a professional model who retired at the height of her career to marry a straightforward businessman, transforming into a lady of refinement;

Hayden, the eldest son, a typical representative of the wealthy who loved to frolic and had a poor relationship with his father, steadfastly stayed at the old home after his father’s death, never leaving;

Steward, the second son, an academic failure and third-rate soccer player, who usually stayed away from home, also remained at the old home without leaving after his father’s death;

The third child, and the eldest daughter Heidi, was indeed the family’s elite, performing well in the family company and having a decent relationship with her stepmother. After her father’s death, it was she who took up the company’s burdens.

"Way more complicated than the Lando Family, but I’m not at all surprised. Read too many novels about wealthy family disputes, huh?"

Guided by the maid, Wayne arrived at the study located above the cliff. Opening the window, one could see the waves crashing against the dark rocks, with the outer wall being perpendicular with nowhere to set foot.

The maid continued her story, which was the usual narrative: a midnight murder without a witness, a locked-room suicide, everyone had an alibi.

A month had passed since the incident, and even if Wayne had a keen nose, he could smell nothing anymore. He felt that the lady’s commission was somewhat redundant; even if it was murder, all the evidence had been destroyed. It was too late to investigate now.

Following this train of thought, Madam Marina and the eldest son were conspirators, engaging in an affair, and to prevent the eldest daughter from inheriting everything, they colluded to kill the husband/father and then each hired a detective to pretend their own innocence.

Wayne was not guessing wildly; Madam Marina’s demeanor had been too cold recently. When he tried to inquire about the case, she had simply sent a maid to him, showing no interest in solving the case.

"Detective, have you found anything?"

A blonde man, in his early thirties with handsome features and a mature yet youthful appearance, walked into the study. His eyes were melancholic, his nose confident—a contradiction yet natural.

Wayne glanced at him, surprised that an exemplar of an everywoman’s heartthrob actually existed, possessing killer looks and charm that could ensnare women of all ages. If the man before him had appeared on the cruise ship, Wayne might not have been able to maintain his role as the third male lead.

"Allow me to introduce myself, Kell Polo, from Lundan."

"Wayne."

"I hear you’re from Lundan, too. How interesting. The White Glove Association rarely issues missions to two detectives at the same time. Especially when an invitation is sent to one, and then a few days later, another is sent out. It’s quite injurious, isn’t it?"

His words were pricking, full of competitive desire.

Wayne listened with a sense of helplessness. His situation was complicated and was a last-minute arrangement by someone; it was not that the White Glove Association believed he was superior.

The two detectives shook hands, and Kell, curious, examined Wayne and suggested, "How about it, Wayne? Would you like to go out for a drink? I’ve collected some information that might be of use to you."

"Do you really think it’s alright to just give me the clues you worked so hard to gather?"

"No problem, as of now, besides us two, no one cares whether Mr. Bart committed suicide or was murdered."

"..."

You must have investigated quite a bit, you cheeky fellow!

After pondering for a moment, Wayne agreed.

----

The black sedan left the manor and arrived at a bar in Crescent Bay. Kell ordered a beer, while Wayne opted for a juice.

Just as Wayne expected, Kell’s handsome features were devastatingly effective, drawing the attention of numerous ladies in the bar.

Kell raised an eyebrow at Wayne, unabashedly flirting with the surrounding women, soon hooking up with a rather large and corpulent...special service worker.

Wayne sternly glanced at the special service worker, with her gaping mouth, flat nose, freckled face, and portly figure, with strong arms. In no way did these traits conform to mainstream aesthetics.

Buddy, your taste is a bit too heavy, isn’t it? Are you severely short-sighted, or did you leave your glasses at the crime scene?

"Kell, does that lady have anything to do with the case?"

Wayne felt it necessary to ask, just in case the famous detective did this on purpose, his aesthetic normal, and that it was all for gathering information.

"No, she has nothing to do with the case. I just purely want to investigate her body," Kell replied with a provocative brow lift, seeing Wayne’s dumbfounded expression, he explained, "This is the allure of street food; it feels dirty, but it’s irresistible. I call it human nature, the pleasure of breaking taboo."

To put soliciting in such euphemistic terms is quite a feat for you.

Wayne couldn’t retort. Seeing Kell and the special service worker sending signals to each other, seemingly ready to head to an alleyway to "deepen their communication," the juice in his hand immediately lost its appeal.

Covering his face with his hand, he said earnestly from the heart, "Kell, I wasn’t referring to her profession, but her looks. You deserve better."