Body Broker

by Daniel M Ford

  “Elizabeth” I said. “I didn’t catch your last name.”

  “I didn’t say it.”

  “Could I have it, please?”

  “Bathory de Ecsed.”

  I set my pen atop my notebook and stared at her.

  She stared right back, eyes wide and bland and blameless.

  “You are not a sixteenth century Hungarian countess.”

  She shrugged. “It was worth a shot. Mortimer-Hanes.”

  I could smell the money off of the hyphen in that last name alone.

  “Thanks. You were friends with Gabe?”

  “Gabriel. He didn’t like being called Gabe.”

  “Sorry,” I said. That might be the first piece of useful information I’ve gotten today. “Anything else you could tell me about him?”

  “He was on cross-country and track.”

  “I know that,” I said, sensing that Elizabeth might respond well to a little leveling-with. “I know he ran. I know he didn’t seem to like it all that much. I know he was quiet and his roommate didn’t really know him.”

  “He hates running.”

  I paused in the hopes she would go on. She didn’t, so I said, “He hates running?”

  She nodded vigorously, but didn’t add anything.

  “If he hated it, why did everyone who talked to me talk about it?”

  “Probably because no one asked him what he actually thought. Most people are just waiting for their chance to talk.”

  Mary and all the Saints save me from a teenager performing cynicism.

  “That’s probably true. But if there’s anything you can tell me that’ll help me find Gabriel, I promise you, I’m listening.”

  She looked me dead in the eye then. “I don’t know where he went, or really, why. I hope he’ll come back. I think he will.”

  “He have a girlfriend or boyfriend he might’ve run off to see?”

  “Way to not be hetero-normative about it,” Elizabeth said. “But no, I don’t think he was dating anybody.”

  “Something to do with his parents?”

  “Isn’t anything a teenager does about their parents?”

  On the one hand, I kind of liked this kid. On the other, I had limited time and felt like I was starting to waste it.

  “Look, Elizabeth.”

  “Liza.”

  “Liza, is there anything at all you can think of, no matter how inconsequential it seemed at the time, that might have indicated where Gabriel went?”

  She shook her head. “I’ve texted him, snapped him, sent him email…nothing.”

  I took out another card, wrote my personal cell on it. “Listen. If you hear anything at all from him, please, please call me.”

  “Text,” she said, though she did take the card and slide it into a pocket.

  “Text is fine, too. If you hear anything, think of anything, let me know.”

  “Why do you care? Is it just a paycheck?”

  I decided to try a little brute force honesty.

  “Truth be told, Liza, I get paid via billable hours. Whether I find Gabriel or not doesn’t really affect that.”

  “That’s stupid.”

  “Lot of things are. But I want to find your friend.”

  “Why? Some kind of code of masculinity thing? You said you’d do it, you took the job, so you have to do it?”

  “That’s pretty much it, actually,” I said. My voice sounded lame to my ears. Too quiet, without the confidence I’d been working to project since I walked in. I’m sure I deflated a little.

  “Kind of sad to define yourself based on a job.”

  “Pick the things that matter and live ‘em out, Liza. That’s the sum total of the wisdom I’ve got. So I’m gonna do whatever I can to find Gabriel.”

  “If you say ‘I promise.’” She almost sneered.

  My phone buzzed in my pocket. I glanced at it. A Wilmington area code. I wasn’t entirely sure, but it might have been the number Gen had written on the business card she’d given me.

  “Look, Liza. I’ve got to take this, and I’ve probably accomplished all I can here today. If you think of anything…”

  “Text or fax or send you a courier with a sealed bag or a falcon with a tube tied to its leg, right.” She stood up and stomped out of the room, the pins on her bag jingling lightly.

  I answered the phone.

  “Jack Dixon,” I said.

  “Mr. Dixon? It’s Gen, from the ADI office.”

  “Hi, Gen. You have some useful information for me or is this a social call?”

  A chuckle, but a worried one, I thought. “I would like to talk to you about…that matter. Could you meet me?”

  “I’m a little ways outside Wilmington, but sure.”

  “Well, we could meet halfway.”

  Chapter 15

  Soon I was speeding back north into Delaware. But not before I’d stopped in the main office on my way out, to drop another card with my number on Amy Riordan’s desk.

  She had smiled. Winsomely. I had smiled. Winningly. Small talk was exchanged. Dimples formed on her cheeks.

  I have a strict policy of not trying too hard to pick up anyone I encounter while actively engaged in an investigation. But for Ms. Riordan I think I was willing to make an exception.

  That being said, I thought I should try and find Gabriel Kennelly as soon as I could, just to clear my conscience on the matter.

  Gen had asked to meet in a county park in Glasgow, right off of Route 40. I hadn’t gotten out of the school till after four — lots of kids to talk to, and the only one who’d mattered at all had been holding back. So had Dr. Thalheim, for that matter. Lots to think about as I meandered through rush hour traffic.

  How did people do this every day?

  Eventually I found the park and guided my car into a space. I dug out a key and opened the lockbox, pondering the Taser.

  “Pretty sure I can take Gen, if it comes to it.”

  I slipped a few things into my pockets, but didn’t clip the weapon to my belt, and got out of the car. I discarded the tie and left the pocket square for that casual look.

  She was sitting on a bench within sight of the parking lot, her back to me. I knew it was her, though. Same suit, same excellent fit, same intriguingly sleek haircut. She looked nervous, twitchy, barely at rest. She kept looking at anyone that passed her, and finally back over her shoulder at the parking lot.

  I was never much for sneaking, and the Navy didn’t really teach me camouflage. Bigger than most of the folks around me in most rooms, a beard, ill-fitting suit; I wasn’t anything approaching incognito. She spotted me, stood quickly, and waved.

  She was still wearing her work clothes but had traded out whatever kind of shoes she’d been wearing for vibrant orange running shoes. They stood out against the gray and black she wore, and looked like serious runner’s gear. They were well worn, too.

  No choice now but to approach. She was clearly nervous, practically buzzing with unspent energy. But she did try a smile. Despite her nerves, it was a good look.

  Given how obviously anxious she was, I stayed several feet away — well out of arm’s length. “Everything alright?”

  She nodded vigorously. “Just…can we take a walk? There’s some benches along the trails. I’d rather be in private.”

  I did not like what was happening. Something in my gut. Could be I just didn’t like seeing Gen quite so nervous, fearful I might be the cause. Could’ve been something else. She glanced from side to side as we spoke.

  “Sure,” I said. I decided to cast about for some small talk, in the hopes of calming her down a bit. “You come running here? Those shoes don’t look like they’re for show.”

  She nodded. “Couple of times a week, longer distance. Mix it up with light weights and high-impact at the gym. Y
ou work out?”

  “Every day I can manage it.”

  “Like to run?”

  “About as much as I like dentists and kale,” I said.

  She laughed a little. By then we’d walked into the tree line. “Bench up here,” she said, around a curve of the trail. I could see it in the late autumn shadows.

  And I could see two shadows looming near it that weren’t trees, joggers, or dog-walkers.

  “Gen.” I turned to look at her. She was backing away, frightened.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered, before she turned and took off.

  Even with no warm-up, no stretching, and in office-wear, the lady could move. I’ll give her that.

  I turned toward my suited pals from ADI holdings, who were advancing. I took a couple of steps forward. No point in showing fear, even if I was pretty sure I was about to get my ass kicked.

  I slipped my hands into my pockets while the two guys fanned out in front of me. The earpieces were gone. I did a quick weapons check. Neither had a gun out, nor the bulge of one on their belt. But the fellow with the differently colored eyes and the flat midwestern accent still had his baton. Collapsed, but wrapped up in his fist. Either way it could do some damage. That made him my priority.

  “You’re gonna be fetchin’ your fuckin’ teeth,” he drawled at me.

  “Come get ‘em, Fargo,” I sneered while I slipped my hands out of my pockets. I wished I wasn’t wearing dress shoes as I spread my feet and felt for purchase on the asphalt of the walking path. I wanted to shrug my coat off but I couldn’t take the risk of getting my arms tangled.

  A metallic snap as the baton came into his hand. He rushed forward. I raised my hand and unleashed a stream of law enforcement-grade pepper spray straight into his eyes.

  I squatted and shuffled back a few steps to avoid the cloud. From his sudden gagging I thought some had probably gotten into his mouth.

  “You son of a bitch,” he gasped while his friend barreled straight past him and tried to throw a tackle on me.

  I tried to turn with the momentum, throw out a leg, and toss him to the ground. But he wasn’t having it and got his hands on me. We both stumbled until we were on the grass and my shoes went out from under me on a slick patch.

  He came down with me, tried to headbutt me, but my backwards fall wasn’t totally useless. I was able to bring a knee up into his ribcage a couple of times. He went for my chin, which I’d tucked into my chest, tensing the muscles of my neck. I tried to hip-heist and get my way back to my feet, but dress shoes on muddy grass weren’t designed for that. If I still had any chops, it might not have mattered, but all I accomplished was to nearly get out of his grip and then hurl myself backwards. At least the landing hurt him, as he grunted hard when we hit. He started trying to get his hands at my tucked chin. I threw my weight to one side and pushed with as many limbs as I could get involved. He spun off of me and scrambled to his feet. I followed him and we stared warily at one another.

  He tore off his jacket, so I did the same. He was wearing a hip holster that was mercifully empty.

  “You gonna pepper-spray me like a little bitch?” he snarled.

  “That depends, are you gonna send another guy with a steel baton after me?”

  He came on. I tried a jab. He slipped it to his shoulder and then came the body blows. He got several good ones into my ribs. I got a couple into his, and lowered my head, hard, into the side of his. For a few moments, there was just the snap of sharp breaths, the thud of punches landing. I butted him again, opening a gash along the side of his head.

  I’d like to suggest it was a deadly ballet of athletic grace. It was a lot of sweaty grunting, really, like most of these things were. I’d spent enough time on mats and in cages to know that. I tried to throw him over my hip again, and all I got for it was a chorus of suddenly protesting back muscles.

  He slipped my clinch and tried to back away. All I really had was reach, so I went for it and snapped two jabs into his face. The first one wasn’t square, but the second was, and I saw his eyes widen with it, the sudden shock of pain, the moment of ringing emptiness. Anybody who’s really been hit knows what that feels like and learns to recognize it in the opponent.

  I was ready to move in, pin him to the ground, and choke him out. I could’ve done it. I knew it. I felt it rising in me. He was just stunned enough. I was hurt, but I felt old wrestling instincts kicking in.

  But I hesitated. His eyes cleared. The moment passed, and I readied myself to get even more of an ass-kicking than I already had.

  Behind us I heard a shriek. He looked, still a little in stupor. I backed away and glanced.

  A couple of middle-aged women in walking clothes, light weights in their hands, had come upon the scene. One hitter on the ground, loudly retching and trying to rub his eyes with handfuls of grass. Two more circling each other, shirts torn and grass stained, probably bleeding.

  It must’ve been like stumbling onto a horror movie.

  “Call 911,” one of the ladies yelled, and they turned and made pretty good time down the path.

  We looked warily at each other. “Ain’t neither of us wants to be here when the cops show,” I said. “And you ought to get your friend some medical attention.”

  “That was a bitch move.”

  “You like that word too much,” I spat. I felt my lips swelling and my ribs creaking up. “Are we done here?”

  “Here, yeah,” he said. “Gonna get him fixed and come looking for you.”

  “Good,” I said. “We wouldn’t want little Fargos running around trying to hit everyone with sticks when they get agitated.”

  We warily circled to pick up our jackets. I backed away until I was down the path, then I broke into a jog and made it to the car.

  On the way there, everything really started to hurt.

  Chapter 16

  I had pulled out and driven to the nearest shopping center, where I parked in the thickest concentration of nondescript cars, before I heard the sirens. A single county car went by, followed by a state trooper. The response time was good, if not great, but my guess is the two women hadn’t offered a great description of the combatants.

  I tried a deep breath. I imagined I could hear my ribs cracking. My back screamed in protest. It was going to be an ugly couple of days. I could feel some bruises blooming along my chin, and my neck and back were no picnic. My suit and dress shirt were a ruin.

  I sat back in the seat, wincing. In the meantime, I tried to organize my thoughts by entering them in the app. I entered all the new contacts, typing them meticulously from the notebook. I only entered a few with the tag “priority.” Liza, Dr. Thalheim, Matt Gunter, Dr. Marks. I hovered over typing Amy Riordan in.

  On the one hand, I definitely wanted a chance to speak to her again. On the other, putting her into a case file was, perhaps, crossing an ethical line. There was yet another ethical line in leaving her off, however, since she did know the principal, presumably the client, and may have valuable information.

  “Goddammit,” I breathed as I tapped her name in on my phone.

  By the time I was done entering my list of contacted people, the sun had vanished and the sky had gone purple. I was sore, hungry, tired, probably nursing a broken rib, and I needed to get back to the office. I tapped out a text to Jason, asking him to stay put, since I was bringing the car in.

  My phone quickly pinged.

  Keep it. You’ll need it tomorrow.

  I wasn’t entirely sure that I would, since I had no idea where to go or what to do about this case now. Perhaps sleep would illuminate some things. Sleep and food. Sleep and food and whiskey.

  “The three pillars of a good evening,” I muttered. I started the car up and maneuvered back out into traffic.

  On the way I kept a half-hearted eye out for a tail, but I didn’t think I’d see Fargo and his minder a
gain quite so soon. I’d definitely done a number on him with the spray.

  The extent to which the other, for whom I’d not yet found a snappy sobriquet, had kicked some or all of my ass was worrying. I hadn’t been in the gym to practice, only to lift and run, for a couple of months. My punches were soft, my stances off, and my ground game an absolute shambles. I needed to fix that if I was going to keep catching cases like this.

  That was a problem for tomorrow, though. Just after I crossed the border back into Maryland, I pulled briefly off of 40 and parked in front of a Capriotti’s. I wanted to order an absurdly large turkey, stuffing, and cranberry sub. I stared at the front window of the shop. I could taste it.

  I pulled away, drove back to the marina a defeated man, and lugged myself, my ruined jacket, and the Taser back to the Belle.

  I set the Taser and my phone down on a table I had out on the deck, and went down into the main cabin to change. I threw the ruined suit jacket and pants on the floor. It felt good. Then I bent down and gathered them up, put them on the hanger, and wrapped the blue garment bag around them once again. I got on a t-shirt and some shorts. From my dopp kit in the head I took out a bottle of aspirin and spilled three into the palm of my hand.

  Then to the galley. I considered making a cocktail. Then I took the bottle of rye, pulled the cork loose, and stumbled out onto the deck. I grabbed the last jar of peanut butter out of the fridge, and an apple from the basket on the table.

  I opened the peanut butter, mixed it with a finger, and took a half spoonful. I tossed the aspirin in and sent a gulp of rye after them. Just to be sure they had all the assistance they needed, I sent another.

  When I got halfway through dinner, and halfway through the third of the rye that had been in the bottle, I started trying to piece it all together.

  “If the kid had fled to his dad, there’s no reason to hide that. So why send a couple of pipe-hitters after me? If that was even the dad’s decision. Might just be the standard corporate response to a nosy PI.”

  I spoke aloud, just me and the boat and the water. None of my neighbors in this particular marina lived in their boats.