by Keith Yocum
The glory days of limitless investigative freelancing had given way to new politically correct processes and Dennis, for one, was not adept at patience.
Yet he knew he had to cut it out, for there was not much to Dennis’s life except work: chasing Agency miscreants to the corners of the Earth was a full-time job that kept him busy. He was afraid of what might happen if he lost interest in work.
Polishing off his drink, he raised the empty glass to the bartender and jiggled it, the universal sign for “more alcohol please.” He worried how in the hell was he going to do his job if he couldn’t use his old methods. They were the only tricks he knew. Any silly investigator could sit down and politely, respectfully ask questions of a conniving, lying subject. Hell, the entire IG’s office was full of those kinds of investigators.
What worried Dennis more, really, was Marty’s attitude about his old methods. His boss seemed unusually serious about his threat. In fact, Marty had stopped into his office right before he left on this assignment and gently warned Dennis, again, that he needed to follow the new protocols.
“I’m not kidding, Dennis,” Marty said. “Do you roger me on that?”
“I copy you,” Dennis said. “I’ll be Little Goody Two-shoes.”
Dennis swirled his drink for the twentieth time and looked around the mahogany paneled bar, its varnish reflecting the bright afternoon sun streaming through the windows. He flinched at the wattage of the Australian glare and took another sip.
***
It was hot and he looked at his watch. Today Dennis was going to visit Garder’s abandoned apartment. The Australian agent was late. The fact that he had to be observed by a friendly was bad enough, but now the guy was late.
A maroon Toyota sedan pulled up. A woman behind the wheel leaned forward in her seat and waved at Dennis. He approached the car, and she rolled the window down.
“Are you Dennis Cunningham?”
“Yep.”
“Righto, I’m here to pick you up,” she said.
Dennis settled into the passenger seat. The woman smiled and reached out her hand. “I’m Judy. Nice to meet you.”
“Thanks.” Dennis shook her hand. “We’ll meet your boss at the apartment?”
“My boss?”
“Yeah, your boss. Is he going to meet us there?”
“Were you expecting to meet my boss today? I wasn’t told that.”
“Yes,” Dennis said. “I’m supposed to be shadowed by an Agent White.”
“I’m Agent White, Judy White. I’m your Australian Federal Police contact here in Australia.”
Dennis looked at the woman for several seconds. “Oh. Sorry. I don’t know why I was expecting a man. My boss suggested it was a guy, but what does he know?”
“We have female agents in Australia. I presume the United States has plenty of female agents. In fact, I’ve met several in your FBI.”
“Yes, we’ve got plenty of women in law enforcement. I’m sorry if I was confused.”
Judy kept her eyes on the road and tried not to betray a sense of unease she felt toward the American. He had only been in her car five minutes and she could feel her jaw muscles tighten with tension. Why do I always get these awful assignments? she thought.
She tried small talk with the Yank, but it was useless; he simply grunted an affirmative or shook his head for a negative. Judy was thankful the apartment was in Subiaco, a suburb near Perth, so the ride was less than twenty minutes.
***
The apartment complex was modern with several two-story brick buildings arrayed around a small parking lot. Judy led him to a ground floor apartment that had a large band of yellow police tape across its door. A policeman sat smoking a cigarette on a white plastic garden chair.
“G’day,” he said, standing up.
Judy showed him her badge, and he pulled the tape back. She entered the musty, dark living room and turned to find Dennis had disappeared. She walked back outside and found him standing on the sidewalk near the complex’s small fenced swimming pool.
Dennis scanned the parking lot, the position of Garder’s ground-floor apartment in relation to other apartments, the sidewalks, the large hedges, and the main street forty feet away. Part of what he and the other inspectors did was simple police work and since this case involved a disappearance, he needed to at least go through the motions, if for no other reason than to occupy his increasingly agitated mind.
Looking up, he saw the Australian agent in the doorway.
“Sorry,” he muttered as he walked into the apartment. “Just needed to check the layout.”
Judy put her purse on the couch and pulled out a small, spiral-bound note pad.
“Um, let’s see.” She peered at her scribbled writing. “AFP was contacted on October 12 by the American Embassy in Canberra. The Yanks—excuse me, the Americans—reported a consular employee named Geoffrey Jansen was missing and requested local aid in finding him. The Americans feared foul play and were anxious to recover his body.”
Dennis stood in the middle of the living room and found himself looking sideways at Judy. He wondered how old she was. She was about five foot six or so, had medium-length sandy-blonde hair and seemed like a model for a health club advertisement, he thought. Dennis noticed the calves on her legs were sharply defined, as were the muscles on her arms that were exposed in her white sleeveless blouse. She had a slightly upturned nose that made her look vaguely like a schoolgirl.
“AFP later learned that Mr. Jansen is of special interest to the US intelligence services, and according to the US–Australian Security Pact of 1967, American security investigations on Australian soil—except those at diplomatically protected facilities—must be observed by an official Australian designee.”
She looked up. “I’m the designee.”
“I kind of figured that.” Dennis smiled. “Can we turn on some more lights?”
Judy went into the small kitchen and turned on a few lights.
“Assume the place was dusted?”
“Yes, I believe you have the report,” Judy said. “No other prints except those of Mr. Jansen.”
“I guess we don’t need to wear gloves then,” he said, sitting down on the couch. He picked up a newspaper. It was dry as parchment and crackled as he opened it.
“Every attempt was made to leave everything the way it was when Mr. Jansen disappeared,” she said.
“No word on the car?” he said, standing and walking into the kitchen.
“Nothing, which is unusual.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, we don’t have a populous state. Western Australia has about two million residents, and most are clustered around the coast. We would normally pick up a stolen car quickly—unless it was broken down for parts.”
“What kind of car did he have?”
She looked at her notes. “A Toyota Camry.”
“That’s not a fancy car.” He opened each kitchen cabinet, looking at the stacked plates and glasses.
“No, not particularly.”
Dennis opened the refrigerator. “Not much food in here. Did the guy eat out a lot?”
“I’m not sure. You might want to ask his consulate friends about that.”
Dennis walked into the bedroom and turned on the light. There was a single wood dresser against the wall, an open closet, a double bed, and a small bedside table with a clock radio on it.
“The apartment was furnished?”
“Yes.”
Dennis looked through the closet, sliding the hanger of each piece of clothing to the left, including several Hawaiian shirts, a dark blue suit, a blue blazer, and several white dress shirts.
He opened the top drawer of the dresser and pulled out a large, leather-encased box.
“What’s this?”
“Watches, I believe.”
“Wristwatches?” He flipped it open.
“Yes.”
“Jeeze, the guy liked watches: must have more than a half dozen here.” He pi
cked up one—it had a black leather strap and a large, stainless steel housing. “These must be worth something. Did anyone price these?”
“No,” she said. “We could do that if you like?”
“Not yet.” He closed the box and put it back into the drawer.
Rifling through the second drawer, he pulled out a folded pair of white jockeys. He unfolded the underwear and looked at the crotch area closely.
“What are you doing, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Checking.”
“Checking for what? I’ve never seen anyone do that.”
“I’m looking for signs of discharge. A guy who has a wild sex life invariably comes down with the clap or urethritis, and the discharge will stain the underwear. From the look of this guy, he’s still a virgin.” For a moment Dennis wondered if he was being rude but quickly dismissed it.
“I see,” she said.
Dennis threw the underwear into the drawer and walked back into the living room. Standing in front of the TV set, he looked around the room again. “This place looks pretty normal to me: nothing out of the ordinary. No signs of a struggle. He wasn’t robbed here because the watches are still there. Seems that he left expecting to return.”
“Yes, that’s our judgment, too,” Judy said.
“What kind of homicide rate do you have in Western Australia?”
“Well, recently the rate has jumped a bit, I’m afraid. We’re dealing with these violent drug gangs now. There were perhaps sixty or so homicides in the state last year.”
“Jeeze.” Dennis laughed. “We have that many in New York City each month.”
“Well,” Judy said, “we’re not that big of a nation.”
“You’re big enough to have swallowed Mr. Jansen.”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“Can you take me back to the hotel?” He looked around one final time.
“Of course. Do you still need the apartment preserved as it is? The landlord would like to rent it.”
“Let’s keep it just a while longer. Is it under guard twenty-four hours a day?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Let’s get out of here.”
Chapter 5
Judy dropped the American off at the hotel and drove to her office on Wellington Street in Perth. She found it amusing that the AFP’s modern concrete and steel office in Perth was across the street from the red-brick colonial-style Art Gallery of Western Australia: crime and art, opposites perhaps, but also perversely similar in their reliance on creativity.
“I don’t know why men like that make me so uneasy,” she mulled. “Maybe it’s the ‘Yank thing’—he’s so bloody sure of himself.”
“Hello, Judy,” the receptionist said. “Simon called. He needs to speak to you.”
She went into her small office and closed the door.
Damn, she thought, what could possibly be wrong now?
There was a knock on the door.
“Judy?”
“Come in.”
It was Calvin Miller, her boss. “How did it go with the Yank?”
“God! He’s a bloody disaster.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” He sat down. “I really am. I know you don’t need this kind of trouble.”
Judy resisted the temptation to complain about the assignment. Neil, one of the other investigators, had a light load these days, and she knew that Alex, the other investigator, was wrapping up the Bunbury auto-theft-ring case. Let it go, she told herself.
After Miller left, she reached for her office phone and dialed the stored number for Simon, her sixteen-year-old son. Even though he was in school, she would leave him a voice mail.
“Hello, Mum,” Simon said.
“Aren’t you in class?” she asked.
“No, today’s a House day, don’t you remember?”
“Oh yes, of course. But what’s wrong? Cyndi said you needed to talk to me.”
“Right. Um, Dad said he couldn’t take me this weekend. He’s been called out of town on business. Can I come home this weekend? Please!”
“Simon, I may be called away on business myself,” she said. “I know it’s difficult being in boarding school but given the situation it’s best for all of us. The last time I let you come home and stay by yourself it was a bitter experience for me, do you remember?”
“Mum, you keep bringing that up! I’ve learned my lesson. It won’t happen again, I promise. All my mates are going to be around this weekend. Please, Mum!”
“So help me God, Simon, if you slip up once more, you’ll be in serious trouble. Do you hear me?”
“Then I can come home?”
“Yes.”
“Mum, I love you.”
“I’ll pick you up after school on Friday, but if I have to work, you’ll need to take the bus home.”
“Right. Ta, Mum.”
Judy hung up and put the cell phone next to her keyboard. That bastard, she seethed. I bet Phillip’s just running off to Margaret River for a dirty weekend with his tart. That bloody bastard.
***
Dennis sat in a small office used for temporary assignments at the consulate. It barely had enough room for a gray metal desk, a black metal chair behind the desk, and a matching chair in front. He doodled on a small notebook, methodically drawing concentric circles, then filling them with hatching.
The door opened, and a young man put his head in. “Is this the right office?”
“Depends who you’re looking for?”
“A man named Cunningham.”
“I’m the guy.”
The young man came in and closed the door. He sat facing Dennis across the desk.
“Um, hi,” he said.
“So you’re Jonathan Roby?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Are you the Jonathan Roby that’s Geoff Jansen’s best friend?”
“I don’t know if we’re best friends, but we’re, like, you know, good friends.”
“I’ve talked to some other people here, and they confirm that you two did a lot of things together,” Dennis said. “Like going to clubs, bars, the beach: things like that.”
“Yeah. We did a lot of stuff together.”
Dennis went through a long list of questions, asking about other acquaintances in the consulate, women they dated, anything at all that would connect Garder to a person involved in his disappearance, or suggest a motive.
After thirty minutes of questioning, Dennis said, “So what happened to your buddy?”
“Man, like I have no idea,” Roby said. “It’s the weirdest thing. He just stopped coming to work. I mean he would sometimes be gone for a long time. Once he was gone for, like, three weeks. He’d usually check in with me. But one day he was here, and the next he disappeared. It’s just weird.”
“Anyone you know who might be interested in ‘disappearing’ your friend?”
“No! Geoff was a really cool guy who didn’t create much trouble.”
“So what kind of drugs did you guys do?” Dennis asked.
“Excuse me?” Roby said, eyes widening.
“You know what I mean. You guys must have done some drugs.”
“No,” Roby said. “We didn’t do drugs.”
Dennis noticed the young man’s eyes darted minutely, and then refocused upon Dennis. Idiot, he thought. He doesn’t even know how to lie.
“You mean to tell me that you and Geoff didn’t even smoke dope? Just a joint every now and then? Give me a break, Roby.”
“Honestly.” He sat forward on his chair. “Really.”
“Roby, you want me to authorize a lie detector test for you? Is that what you want?”
“You can do that?” Roby asked.
“Of course,” Dennis said.
“Christ!” Roby ran his hand through his short blond hair. “My career is going to be ruined.”
“Look, just come clean with me about you and Geoff, and we can skip the lie detector. Once we schedule one of those things, the results go into the official record
. Get my drift, Roby?”
The young man stared long and hard at Dennis, his face a mix of despondence and fear, then clasped his head with his hands, looked downward, and sighed.
“OK, so we smoked dope every now and then,” he said, his voiced muffled by his hands.
For just a moment Dennis felt a tinge of compunction for the young man who was getting bullied by a veteran investigator, but it was fleeting.
“I can’t hear you, Roby.”
Roby sat back in the chair and crossed his arms in front. “We smoked a little dope. Not much at all really. Every couple of weeks we might share a joint. Wasn’t a big deal.”
“Who bought the dope?” Dennis asked.
“Me.”
“Geoff never bought any and shared it with you?”
“No, I bought it and rolled the joints. He didn’t mind smoking pot, but it wasn’t his favorite activity. I think he only did it because I did.”
“Where’d you buy the dope?”
“From a neighbor—you’re not going to get her in trouble, are you?” he said suddenly, startled.
“No, I don’t think so. Is she American or Australian?”
“Aussie. Can we please leave her out of this?” he pleaded.
“Probably,” Dennis said. “What other drugs did you and Geoff use? Ecstasy? Coke? Amphetamines? Heroin?”
“Hell, no,” he said. “I’m not a druggie. I just like getting high every now and then. Don’t make it sound like we were hardcore druggies.”
“And Geoff? What was his drug of choice?”
“Wine.”
“You mean wine from grapes, or is that a nickname for another drug?”
“No, I mean wine from a bottle. Geoff was a real connoisseur about wine. I guess there are some great wines in Australia, or at least he said so. Hell, I could barely get him to drink beer. If he did other drugs, I never saw it.”
Dennis drilled into the drug issue hoping to pry something useful; he would ask a tough, nearly outrageous question and then ask increasingly mild inquiries, winning Roby’s confidence, and then spring another tough question.