by Tom Fowler
I saw Rollins in a bright yellow and blue track suit about half a lap ahead. In that getup, anyone could see him. I noticed a small bulge at the back of his jacket. It reminded me I still didn’t wear a gun to my morning constitutional. Having a bodyguard made for a good excuse not to, I supposed, but I still needed to get into the habit. There would be other cases, other assholes like Rosenberg, and other attempts on my life.
I finished about forty minutes later, the girl I enjoyed following packing it in about five minutes before. At least she smiled at me as she jogged past. I hoped my next case involved a runaway dog. No one would get mad enough to want to kill me over it, unless I incurred the wrath of a salty dogcatcher. I didn’t know if dogcatchers were still a thing. Rollins jogged behind me on the opposite side of the street. He moved like he could have gone another hour without needing water or rest. To be safe, I waited until he was passing my house before I unlocked the door and went inside.
I headed upstairs to shower. I applied a new bandage, hoping I would only need to wear one for a few more days. When I came out, Gloria stirred, and she joined me downstairs after freshening up. I opened the refrigerator and pondered breakfast options. One casualty of my run-in with the pair of assassins had been my stock of groceries. Of all the ways to check out, getting shot while buying toilet paper ranks near the top of the lame scale. I found enough turkey bacon for two, plus all the ingredients for waffles.
While I worked on my waffle mix, Gloria sat at the kitchen table, drinking a glass of orange juice. "I hired a bodyguard," I said.
Her eyes widened, but she nodded and smiled. "I'm glad to hear it," she said. "Where is he?"
"Hell if I know. Outside somewhere, I guess, watching the house. Except when I'm out running, I don't expect to see him unless I need to."
"Then how do you know he's doing his job?"
"He came highly recommended by someone I trust."
She frowned but shrugged when she saw I was OK with the arrangement. "I hope you don't need to see him, then."
"Me, too,” I said, even though a feeling in my gut told me I would.
Chapter 9
I was about to eat lunch when Pauline called. “Can you talk to Zachary?” she said.
“I don’t think he’s a big fan. He didn’t even like my Facebook page.”
“He’s been so . . . withdrawn since this all started,” she said, ignoring my joke. “I can’t get through to him. Katherine can’t. Stanley usually could, but he’s . . . “ Her voice cracked as she trailed off. “You’re a man, and you’re at least a little close to his age. Can you try?”
“I can try, but this isn’t my area of expertise.”
“I understand.”
“And my fees double for counseling services.”
I heard a light chuckle come through the connection. “I think I can afford to pay those rates,” Pauline said.
A bit later, Pauline let me in when I got to her house. “He’s in the den,” she said, “glued to some video game.” She shook her head. “He spends more time with it than he does with any of us.”
“Maybe it’s a good game,” I said. Pauline gave me a look. I smiled. She shook her head again. I got this reaction a lot. “Did you tell him I was coming?”
“No. I didn’t want him to run away.”
“Touché.” I looked in the den. Zachary sat on the couch, his back to us, shoulders and head showing over the backrest. He played Halo 3. I didn’t notice him wearing a headset. “He doesn’t play online?” I whispered.
“No, we never let the consoles online,” Pauline said.
“All right. I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thanks, C.T.”
I walked in and watched Zachary play for a minute. If he noticed me, he didn’t give any indication. He leaned forward as his character approached a slew of enemies. A few seconds later, he’d dispatched them all and not even taken a shot in return. I stopped playing the Halo series after the first one, and while I got good, I never approached those skills. Of course, I made up for it by having chops in more important areas. Zachary sat engrossed in the game. I walked around the sofa and sat on the opposite end. It took him a minute and another two encounters to notice I was there. “What are you doing here?” he said.
“Watching you play Halo 3,” I said.
He smiled a little. “I’m good at it.”
“Yes, you are.”
Another enemy bit the dust. “Did my mother ask you to come?”
“She did.”
“And talk to me?”
“She didn’t ask me to watch you play video games,” I said.
He snorted and shook his head. “She worries too much.”
“Because you don’t need any help.”
“Damn right,” he said. Our conversation, such as it was, didn’t detract from his Halo prowess.
“You have it all figured out,” I said. “Must be nice.”
“I’m a lot smarter than she gives me credit for.”
“I was like you when I was your age. I thought I knew everything and didn’t need help with anything.” Maybe I hadn’t changed a lot in those respects, but I kept the reality to myself.
“Yeah? What happened?”
“Then I lost someone I cared about, too.”
He finally gave me more than just a sideways glance. I saw the veneer crack. The hard look in his eyes—probably practiced in a mirror—yielded to a genuine curiosity. For the first time, I think he saw me as something other than an adversary. “What happened?” Zachary said in a small voice.
“My sister died. I was sixteen. She was nineteen and in college.”
“Did someone kill her?”
I shook my head. “Heart defect. No one noticed it before. They didn’t have the technology to look for it when she was a kid, I guess.” I saw things shimmer and blur in my peripheral vision.
“Wow. That sucks, man. I’m sorry.”
“Thanks. I won’t pretend I know what you’re going through. Even if my father died, everyone’s loss is different, and everyone grieves differently.”
“What did you do after . . . after it happened?”
“I walled myself off,” I said. “Didn’t want to talk to anyone or deal with anything. I didn’t care about school or sports.”
“Were you close?”
“Closer than I would have admitted. We were really tight.” My eyes welled up more. Even now, over a dozen years after Samantha died, talking about her death still hit me like a brass-knuckled punch in the solar plexus. “I had my share of friends, but Samantha was probably my best. I talked to her about anything and everything.”
“Did she confide in you, too?”
“Some. Not as much as I did in her, but she was three years older and had been through a lot more. She didn’t need to talk as much.”
“How did you get through it?” I saw Zachary’s eyes brimming now. I wondered if he had allowed himself to cry since the mess with his father went down.
“I tried to be tough. My parents were destroyed. I wanted to be the strong one.” I paused for a couple of measured breaths. “The reality is I shouldn’t have been. I needed to grieve right along with them. My grades suffered for a quarter before I came to my senses and got myself back on track.”
“And you’re OK now?”
I nodded. “It’s been a while, but it’s also taken a while, in some respects. It’s supposed to.”
A tear slid down Zachary’s cheek. He made no move to stop it. He simply nodded, and then the tears flowed. The controller hit the floor, and he drew his knees to his chest and sobbed. I wiped my eyes and stood. Pauline dashed into the room. She knelt on the floor in front of Zachary. He saw her and collapsed into her arms. She told him it would be OK as he wept on her shoulder. Pauline cried, too.
I let myself out.
I needed to know more, a common theme in my cases. People don’t tell me enough, or I don’t gather enough information at first, or people lie, and what have you. In this case,
I wanted to know more about David Rosenberg. How deep were his pockets? Did he have a cache of backup goons to replace the two I had taken out of commission? How soon would he come after someone in my situation—or someone in Pauline’s—and how hard would he pursue?
As usual, I started my searches online. This time, I wanted to find people who had dealt with the seedier side of Rosenberg. I meticulously organize my bookmarks (one of the few things in my life to get such treatment), and in my “Active Case” folder, I saw the link for the blog with the wonderful title “David Rosenberg is an Asshole.” Unless the founder already tried on a pair of cement shoes, I figured Rosenberg’s reported ruthlessness did not extend to carrying out a Google search.
The post wasn’t particularly well-written, but I found the speculation interesting. A woman created the blog to spread the word David Rosenberg is, in fact, an asshole, especially because he might be involved in kidnapping in addition to loan sharking. The woman and her husband borrowed from Rosenberg for home improvements. Stuff happened, and they were unable to pay. A couple weeks later, their daughter went missing, never to be seen again. The blogger provided few other details. I hunted for them anyway.
Most people are not nearly as anonymous online as they think. This woman registered an actual website, not just a random blog. It made finding her easier. Within a few minutes, I’d gathered all her contact information. It didn’t involve any underhanded methods, either—the information is freely available via WHOIS records. I might know how to find it quicker, but anyone could have looked it up with a little bit of know-how—including David Rosenberg.
I called the phone number listed on the registration. When a pleasant female voice answered, I said, “Is this Anne Horton?”
“Yes, this is she.” Ah, an educated woman.
“Mrs. Horton, my name is C.T. Ferguson. I came across your website dedicated to David Rosenberg today.”
She paused. “How did you find me?”
“I’m a private investigator who shares your sentiments about Mr. Rosenberg.”
“You’re investigating him?” she said.
“Sort of. I’d rather explain it to you in person. Could we meet somewhere?”
“How well do you know Harford County?”
“My GPS fills in the gaps for me,” I said.
“Can it find Java by the Bay in Havre de Grace?”
“I’m sure it can.”
“I can meet you in an hour,” she said.
“I’ll be there. Thank you.”
An hour and four minutes later, I walked into the front door of Java by the Bay. It was more wide than deep, with a counter toward the back, several coffee pots, a menu that would shame a national coffee chain, and a basket of fresh baked items near the register. The small lunch I inhaled before I left needed a delicious slice of carrot cake to be complete, so I ordered one to go along with my vanilla latte. The girl who rang up my purchase appeared to have just finished high school. The woman who sat at a table along the left wall resembled a high school teacher.
She had a serious face, but it became friendlier as she offered me a tentative smile. Her white blouse was buttoned high enough to give her trouble breathing if she leaned forward. She paired it with blue business slacks and brown flats. I carried my coffee and carrot cake to the table. “Anne Horton?” I said.
“You must be Mr. Ferguson,” she said. Her smile broadened. “Please, have a seat.” She gestured with a sweep of her hand.
“Please, call me C.T.”
“Well, C.T., I must say, you’re a little younger than I thought you’d be.”
“I have an old soul and a healthy love of classic rock.”
She chuckled. “I hate to sound so . . . official, but do you have any ID?”
“Sure.” I set my license out for her to see. After a sharp bob of her head, I put it away. “Thanks for meeting with me.”
“You say you’re investigating Rosenberg?” She sneered when uttering his name, making it sound like she snarled it. I understood.
“My client is in a similar situation to yours. The difference is her husband has died, and she can’t make the payments.”
“That’s terrible.” Anne Horton shook her head this time. “We weren’t able to because Peter lost his job. I work part-time, and we live paycheck-to-paycheck as it is.”
“How did you hear about Rosenberg?”
“One of Peter’s coworkers borrowed from him. Said it was easy.” She snorted. “Nothing was easy about it, except getting the money. The bastard makes that part real easy.”
“How long before . . . uh—”
“Before Amy disappeared?” She spared me asking it; I couldn’t think of a way without coming off as indelicate. “Two months. We missed our first payment, told them it would be a little late. Rosenberg’s people said they understood. We paid what we could. And then . . .” She trailed off, sighed, and took a drink of her coffee. I wished I had something stronger to offer her.
“How old was she when it happened?”
Anne looked at her coffee lid as if the answer were written on it. “Sixteen. She just started her junior year at Havre de Grace High.”
“I have to ask, but I presume you never got any proof Rosenberg had anything to do with it?”
“Of course not.” Anne laughed a bitter laugh. “He didn’t know anything about lending money, either. Absolutely no idea who we were or what our story was about.”
“And the police believed him?”
“The sheriff’s office up here worked with Baltimore County on it. They didn’t get anywhere. Either he has a good cover story or some cops on the payroll.”
“Did they take a report?”
“No.” She attempted another bitter laugh but this one died at a chuckle. “They told us they talked to Rosenberg and couldn’t find any basis for a case. One of them even said I’m lucky they didn’t go after me for filing a false report.” Anne took a slow, measured breath. I was almost surprised it didn’t set the table aflame.
“How long has it been?”
“Two years. Amy’s eighteen now.” She wiped at her eyes. “Though I don’t know where she is . . . or if she’s even alive.” Her eyes closed; when they opened, they were wet with tears and pointed right at me. “Do you think you could find her?”
I had a feeling she would ask at some point and really hoped she wouldn’t. Antarctic passes trod by penguins would be warmer than the trail of Amy Horton. “Honestly, I doubt it,” I said. “But I’ll see what I can do.”
“That’s all I can ask,” she said. “It’s certainly more than the police did.”
“I aim to please,” I said.
Now I needed to warn Pauline, as if she didn’t have enough on her mind. Yes, I know your husband got killed, and a loan shark is looking to sink his teeth into you, and by the way, your daughter might get kidnapped if you can’t pay up. I didn’t even have to say it aloud to know how it sounded and how it would be received. Pauline had enough on her mind. Maybe I could talk to Katherine directly.
Pauline gave me her kids’ cell phone numbers in case I needed them in an emergency. This certainly counted. I called Katherine’s cell phone. “Hello?” she said after three rings.
“Katherine, this is C.T. Ferguson. I’m the P.I. your mom hired.”
“Oh, hey. What’s up?”
“Do you have a few minutes? I need to talk to you about something.”
“Can you talk to my mom about it?”
“Not really. This is something I should discuss with you.”
She sighed. Sorry to inconvenience you, Katherine. Let me know how the duct tape and windowless cargo van feel. “Like, I could meet you later. I have a break now, then a lab, then a study group.”
“What time?” I said.
“How about seven?”
“Sure. Barnes and Noble café not far from your campus?”
“I’ll be there.”
She wasn’t.
I surprised myself by being a couple
minutes early. Traffic hadn’t been as bad as I expected, leading to a surplus in my time budget. I used it for watching coeds as they came and went. Some of them could be felons. I needed to make sure they weren’t carrying guns, and verifying this required diligent inspection. Some may call it a burden, but I’m happy to serve.
On my second vanilla latte, I got the inkling Katherine wasn’t going to make it. It was already seven-thirty and not a peep from her. Her lab or study group could have run late, but she would have been raised with the good manners to call in such a case. I tried her cell phone, and it went directly to voicemail. I hung up without leaving a message.
At quarter of eight, I tossed my cup away and started for the door when I saw Katherine walking through the store toward the café. She held out her hands. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “My lab ran over, then my study group did, too. And then my phone battery died, so I couldn’t call you. I’m sorry.”
“It’s OK,” I said. I didn’t add my concern for her well-being and my fears she had been abducted from Goucher’s campus by a cadre of hooded Rosenberg henchmen. “As you may have learned in a philosophy class, shit happens.”
She smiled. “I’m going to get a coffee. You want anything?”
“I’ve already had two, but thank you.”
I watched Katherine as she got in line. She moved with a confidence college boys—and men past the age of higher learning—would find attractive. It helped she was quite pretty on top of it all. If she were to get kidnapped, I didn’t want to speculate what might happen to her. Unfortunately, I figured I would need to once we got into the meat of our conversation.
Katherine sat opposite me a couple minutes later, armed with a drink smelling faintly of caramel. She brushed golden hair off her shoulder. It took all of my miniscule professionalism not to peek at her chest. If she turned away to look at something, the professionalism may crumble under the strain. “So, what’s going on?” she said. “It sounded important.”