A Little Lunch

As they trotted out of the university, Onew took a good, long look at his friend. Instantly, he felt shamed by how wrapped up he had been with himself and with the case: there were dark circles under Minho’s eyes, and haggard, worried set to his ordinarily bright face. An intervention was necessary, and it was about time he took upon the leadership that had always been required of him. He wasn’t about to become an authoritarian, but he could look out for them as best he could. “You are tired and anxious,” Onew stated plainly, “Let us go out to lunch.”

“But we have so much more –”

“And that will all be quite pointless if your mind isn’t in shape,” Onew responded, placing a hand on Minho’s shoulder. “Now, I recall that there is a good place to lunch around here, let me see…”

Almost sullenly, Minho followed after Onew’s lead – after they nearly walked down three dangerous alleys, took four wrong turns, and at one point, nearly stepped onto a bus that would take them into the countryside – and soon they found themselves settled into a crowded restaurant in one of the more down-trodden areas of the city. It might have shocked a member of the upper class to see someone of Onew’s stature happily scooting past working-class men and women to find a seat on a rather dirty table, but Onew had never been one to abide strongly by class distinctions. After all, if he counted amongst his friends an ex-criminal and back-alley doctor, an intrepid journalist part-time underground fighter, a dandy police sketch artist that had never so much as held a gun, and a country bumpkin ballet dancer turned police officer, to exercise judgment would have only been hypocritical.

The owner of the establishment, a man named Ok Taecyeon who’d they’d once cleared of murder, clapped Minho on the back happily, causing the younger man to break into a wide smile. “Still carting around that rich dimwit you take care of?” he commented rudely, as Onew made himself appear rather guileless and foolish, a not altogether hard task. “Make some room, you lot, I’ve got a friend here!” 

In a matter of moments, they were sandwiched between a variety of people on a pair of rickety stools, two steaming bowls of broth settled down in front of them. Minho’s was considerably bigger than his, seeing as Minho could eat the supplies of an entire army if he felt up to it. “You don’t seem insulted,” Minho said with a grin.

“Oh no. If I’m being taken care of, then naturally, you must be paying,” Onew responded with a wink, spooning the hearty meat broth into his mouth without a care for the state of his coat (somewhere, Eugene twitched, sensing a future laundry trip she would need to make). “Besides, I do recall that you too felt strongly I was a rich dimwit at our first meeting.”

“You were bothering me and following me about while I was out trying to expose a crime to the police,” Minho laughed, “Forgive me for not immediately accepting you were truly a detective.”

“Well, first impressions are usually grossly misguided. Now! Tell me what is on your mind.”

Minho’s face shifted. “It’s nothing of –”

“Damn your pride to hell, Choi Minho,” Onew said sharply, “This isn’t a damned competition to see which of us is the toughest of the lot. If you’ve something weighing on you, speak it now – you certainly know my problems.”

“You don’t mention much either.”

“I’m learning that nothing I do can bring the dead back to life,” Onew told him simply, “And I will have to live with that fact, without blame and without fault. I understand that clearly now, even if, yes, I do feel immensely guilty and rotten and that I could have done something. There you go.” 

For a few minutes, Minho said nothing, swirling his broth mechanically. Onew let him take a moment to collect his thoughts, seeing the dark cloud that seemed to hang over the ordinarily cheerful man. Finally, Minho spoke, “I am…more worried than you can imagine about this case. And who the murderer might be. Sometimes…” 

Shaking his head, he raised his eyes to look at Onew. “And I know you’re concealing information from us all.”

Onew pursed his lips, not denying this accusation. “Quite a lot of information is available. It is simply a case of placing it all together.”

“You are infuriating,” Minho said, half in frustration, half in affection.

“I try to be. And have you not thought that I do not have all the answers yet?” Onew continued at Minho’s dumbfounded expression, “Always I am going back and restarting my process. Too often people conceive a certain theory, and then they attempt to make every fact fit that theory. No, if the theory does not work, it must be discarded. And the facts that do not fit – those are always significant.”

“But you must have some idea of who it must be,” Minho said doggedly.

“I have – precisely because I have noticed several salient points that are quite visible if you should care to see them. I have mentioned two of them already.”

“The easel that was moved and the telephone call,” Minho recalled, “I can think of a third one.”

“Oh? Do go on.”

“The pearl bead in Yifan’s dresser,” Minho stated through a mouthful of food, “We’ve been ignoring that point all this time. It could be nothing, but a man li