Paradox Lost

by Libby Drew

  He waited until they were pressed into a tight circle. In the background, Crank droned on, oblivious to Reegan’s emerging crises. Reegan held up his hand and yelled over the cacophony. “Where is Silvia Panitierre? The young blonde with the gray skirt. Anybody seen her?”

  “She was just here.”

  Reegan rolled his eyes at the helpful bridegroom and spun in a circle. Damn Maxie to hell a thousand times. He’d have no chance of finding her in this mess. In the distance, Crank finished his speech and lifted a hand to the crowd. Cheers sprang up around him as the cameras tightened their focus, bringing the president’s face into sharp relief.

  She could be anywhere. She could be fifteen feet away, and Reegan wouldn’t be able to see her. Fighting panic, he thumbed open the controls on his bracelet and set the command to ping Silvia’s device. Hard. She deserved it for wandering off.

  The beer-addled woman yelped, twisting in pain. “Something just bit me!” she slurred.

  A clammy sweat broke across Reegan’s brow. He spun the woman around and stuck a hand in her pants pocket. The moment his fingers brushed the bio bracelet, he knew. Silvia hadn’t gotten lost. The bitch had bolted.

  “Everyone back to the church,” he snapped. He was tempted to hit the call button again when the complaints started, but refrained. It wouldn’t help matters. Nothing would. Short of a miracle, Reegan’s days at Blast in the Past were over.

  Chapter Two

  The last time Saul had been to the Lincoln Memorial, two years ago, he’d had a sister, a job he loved, and a secret crush on his partner.

  All he had tonight was a nearly defunct PI business, a middle-aged secretary who fancied herself Angela Lansbury, and a year’s worth of regrets. He couldn’t even say why he’d bothered coming, other than to see Crank, an ex-Marine like himself. They’d served in the same places, at the same times. They’d even stood side by side in combat. Now one of them was the leader of the free world, prepared to guide his country into an era of peace and prosperity, while the other would spend the night on the pullout couch in his rundown office, thinking about the unopened bottle of vodka in the bottom drawer of his desk.

  He tilted his face to the nearest big screen, smiling despite his dark thoughts. Crank laughed into the microphone, then reached for his wife, pulling her to his side. Together, they waved at the crowd. People cheered and clapped.

  His battered ego could only take so much. Skirting the Veteran’s Memorial, he headed for 21st Street, pushing through the mass of people. Better to catch the Metro early. Downtown would take hours to empty while people waited in lines hundreds deep to ride the train home. Saul would rather walk a hundred miles than be stuck in that mess.

  He pulled the zipper high on his leather coat and stuck his hands in his pockets, using his shoulders to push his way up the street. He’d catch the train at Foggy Bottom. From there, it was a short ten-minute ride to the office and his dysfunctional relationship with his vodka bottle.

  A figure came barreling at him from the right, and Saul instinctively ducked, lunging to catch the woman before she fell. He glimpsed frightened green eyes and smeared lipstick before the woman mumbled an apology and darted away. Saul stared after her until her bright blond hair was lost in the chaos, then turned to look back the way she’d come.

  He knew what someone on the run looked like. Her pursuers should have been easy to spot. He peered through the crowd, scanning the passersby, but nobody seemed to be following her. Maybe he’d called it wrong after all.

  Saul rocked back on his heels, blowing into his hands. It did little to dispel the chill that gripped his heart. He was losing his edge more and more every day. Damn it, he hated giving the idiots at the precinct something to gloat about. And they’d gloat loudly, especially if his business went under. There’d be no saving it if things didn’t turn around soon.

  This little fieldtrip was the last thing he needed. Go out and relax, Cammie had said. A night off would do him good.

  A case would do him good, but Saul made it a habit not to irritate Cammie, so he’d schlepped downtown. The woman worked for nothing and was the best admin he’d ever met. She pretty much owned his soul.

  He made it home in fifteen minutes and jogged up the steps to the building that housed Kildare Consulting and Investigations. Catchy name that sounded more at home on the side of a downtown high rise. Instead, Saul’s business enjoyed three joined rooms on the first floor of a nondescript brownstone. One of those was a four-by-eight shoebox housing a toilet, shower and sink. The other two masqueraded as front and back offices of a respectable business. Saul slept on the pullout couch in the back office, though he never pulled it out. More trouble than it was worth most nights.

  Cammie sat behind her desk, plump and competent, glasses low on her nose, humming over a piece of official-looking stationery. She clucked her tongue as Saul hung his jacket on the rack inside the door. “You’re back early.”

  “Didn’t want to get crushed on the Metro.” He craned his neck to catch a glimpse of the paper in front of her. “What’s that?”

  Cammie spun it around. “An advertisement.”

  “For?”

  “Oh, Saul.” She peeled off her glasses, letting them swing freely on the cord around her neck. “For you. For the business.”

  Not this again. “Cammie, for the type of work we do, the less people who recognize me the better. It’s really not helpful to advertise.”

  She folded her wrinkled hands under her chin. “Then how do you expect to get clients?”

  “Word of mouth.” Which hadn’t been working well so far, but when the majority of surveillance cases were referred from defense lawyers, most of whom hated his guts, that wasn’t unexpected. The bulk of the rest of his caseload would traditionally be referred from the law enforcement community. That was a dry well too after his messy break with the MPDC.

  Cammie pursed her lips and settled her bifocals back onto her nose. “Seems counterproductive to me.”

  Saul gave in to a sad smile. For an Agatha Christie wannabe like Cammie, Saul’s absent caseload was torture. “One of these days,” he said, coming to sit on the edge of her desk, “you’re going to get tired of working for nothing and find yourself a real job.”

  “And leave you to manage all of this on your own?” Cammie spread her hands, encompassing the scarred desk, shabby chairs and dusty ficus tree in the corner. “I wouldn’t be able to sleep at night.”

  Affection burst to life in his chest. Cammie had appeared out of the blue one day, made herself comfortable behind the small reception desk, and had never left. Saul hadn’t been advertising for help. He couldn’t afford it, for one. Two, his phone didn’t exactly ring off the hook. He’d emerged from his office that morning to find a young man sitting rigidly in one of the waiting room chairs, thick file clutched to his chest. “Ah, Mr. Kildare,” Cammie said, smiling over her shoulder. “Your next client is here.”

  Since he hadn’t had a client in three weeks, he did the only thing possible. Thanked the strange old lady behind the desk and escorted the man into his office.

  What Cammie did all day to keep busy was the sort of mystery best left alone. Besides “aspiring private detective,” Saul had no idea of her qualifications. The few people who found their way to Kildare Consulting always stayed to hire him, no matter their diverse needs. He hadn’t been the best math student, but he knew a common denominator when he saw one.

  Now if he could only get her to stop tagging along on stakeouts.

  He swept the papers into a loose pile and dropped them in her drawer. “Go home, fairy godmother.”

  She frowned at the empty desk as though it might bite her. “I suppose I could. Catch the big speech on my DVR. Is it worth it?”

  Saul opened his mouth to lie, then shrugged. “Wasn’t really paying attention. Sorry. My mind was on other things.” Like the two months of rent due on the place. And the unopened bottle of Stoli buried in his desk drawer one room away.

  Ca
mmie pursed her lips but stood to gather her coat and black faux fur hat. Miss Marple had nothing on her. Saul held her purse until she’d buttoned up, then escorted her to the door. “Take the day off tomorrow. You deserve it.”

  “So you can get through your hangover in peace?”

  The air rushed out of Saul’s longs. Christ, sometimes he forgot about the steel balls the woman hid under her pleated skirt. “Not fair,” he said quietly.

  Cammie tucked her purse into the crook of her arm. “Things will turn around, Saul. Stay strong. It’s just a date on a calendar.”

  The worst day of his life, and there had been some doozies since. March 25th would never be just a date on the calendar to him.

  “The seal on that bottle had better be intact when I get here in the morning.”

  It had crossed Saul’s mind more than once that if Cammie had been his AA sponsor the first time he tried to quit drinking, his life would have turned out a hell of a lot differently. Maybe he’d still have a promising career. Maybe he’d still have a lot of things. “Go home and watch McAfee’s speech, woman.”

  His words held no heat, and Cammie smiled, patting his cheek as she passed. “See you in the morning.”

  He turned the lock behind her and headed for his cold, dark office. Streetlamps threw mustard-colored light into the cramped space, accentuating the thick layers of dust on his desk. The stacks of books, papers and cameras gave the office an air of authenticity, as though real detective work happened here. And more than once a month. The dust told the real story.

  Saul didn’t bother with the lights, taking the four familiar steps to his desk and sliding between it and the pressed-wood bookcase. His neighbors must still be downtown celebrating. For once, the building was quiet. No sound filtered through the walls or ceiling. The tick of the radiator and the whir of his laptop’s cooling fan were all that broke the silence.

  Bending slowly, Saul found the pull for the lower right-hand drawer and slid it open. He’d had the vodka out just a few days ago. It hadn’t been a moment of weakness then. More an affirmation. That he could survive this, maybe even beat it.

  No sugarcoating his motives tonight. He wanted to get drunk. And tomorrow, when the regret was heavy, he’d decide whether or not to buy another bottle. And whether or not to open it immediately.

  The frosted glass felt ice cold in his palm, but it wasn’t until he lifted it to his forehead that he noticed the sweat dripping from his face. His hands shook as he rolled the bottle across his cheek. It would be so easy to crack the seal, unscrew the cap and take a taste. Saliva flooded his mouth.

  His fists tightened around the bottle’s neck until he was afraid it would shatter in his grasp. Forcing the fingers of one hand to relax, he reached in his pocket for his cell phone, pressing Send twice to call the last number dialed. Cammie’s.

  It went straight to voice mail, and Saul laughed under his breath. He’d tried. The phone clattered onto the desk as he tipped the bottle upright and curled his fingers over the cap. “Sorry, Cammie,” he whispered.

  In the other room, someone began to pound on the door.

  Chapter Three

  Reegan soothed the group’s irritated grumblings, using the tools he had at his disposal. By the time he’d escorted his remaining fourteen charges from Blast in the Past, no one was threatening to sue. One of the ladies had even slipped him her phone number.

  He’d barely closed the door behind the last one when Maxie’s voice sounded over the intercom. “Reegan, in my office. Now.”

  “Be right there.” Typical summons after a jaunt. Maxie had his thumb in everything that happened at Blast in the Past, which was what had caused trouble between him and Reegan in the first place. Time to face the music. He knocked on Maxie’s door, swallowing a wave of nausea. “We’ve got a problem,” he said, stepping inside, eyes lowered.

  “You ain’t whistling Dixie,” Maxie shot back, voice hoarse. “Victor D’arco, this is Reegan McNamara. He was the guide for tonight’s jaunt.”

  Reegan’s head snapped up. Four other people stood spread around the room. D’arco was easy to pick out, with his hand-tailored suit and black wool trench coat draped across his shoulders. Its brass buttons glinted.

  “Mr. D’arco.” Reegan inclined his head. D’arco returned the greeting with a nod. The other three men avoided his gaze, expressions twisted into grimaces, as though somebody had their balls in a vise. Unnerved, Reegan focused on Maxie.

  Maxie didn’t keep him waiting. “Mr. D’arco is here to fetch his wife. Apparently she didn’t tell him she was going on the jaunt.”

  Reegan muzzled the “So fucking what?” that tried to escape. “I didn’t realize Mr. D’arco’s wife needed permission to take an evening for herself.”

  Maxie bit right through his cigar, sputtering, but D’arco waved off his stumbling apology. “I don’t want you to get the impression my wife is a prisoner. She’s free to do whatever she wants. All I insist is that she keep these three men with her at all times.”

  They weren’t with her now. Could be why they looked constipated. “I bet that gets old.”

  “Of course it does.” D’arco folded gracefully into one of Maxie’s chairs. He offered Reegan a wan smile. “I know she hates it. Resents it. But she’s never disregarded it. Until tonight.” His left eye twitched, and he rubbed at it absently before gesturing at the other three men. “She doesn’t understand the need.”

  “Maybe because there is no need.”

  “She’s very naïve,” D’arco retorted.

  Reegan brushed off the implied insult. The Silvia Reegan he knew—had known—would eat these clowns for breakfast. “Naïve or not, she managed to give your security the slip tonight.”

  D’arco closed his eyes, as though the words hurt him. “Which I’ll need to deal with as well. But later. After she’s home safe.”

  “You said she’s in danger.” Reegan pretended to ponder this. “Does she have that many enemies?”

  “No. She’s an angel. Everyone loves her.”

  That was how Reegan remembered her as well.

  “But I have enemies, I’m afraid. People who don’t like my platforms and programs.”

  Reegan had heard the stories. Nothing so public as what you’d find on the news. D’arco had amassed an unparalleled record of achievement since his first election as city councilman. The majority of his work benefited the people in Reegan and Silvia’s childhood res district, an obvious nod to her sympathies. He advocated for the less privileged and won, which made him popular in some parts of the city. And universally hated in others.

  Other rumors had circulated. Unsavory stories of strong-arm tactics and not-quite-legal methods of doing business. Reegan mostly ignored gossip, but once a seed was planted, it grew. Now that he’d met D’arco, that seed was growing like Jack’s beanstalk. The man talked all pretty, but his eyes swirled with just enough darkness to give Reegan a real scare.

  Still, for all his notoriety, he was only a city councilman, not the Godfather. Weren’t they taking the cloak-and-dagger theatrics a bit far?

  “There have been two threats against her in the last month alone,” D’arco said.

  Maybe not. A bead of sweat ran down between Reegan’s shoulder blades. Losing his job could be the least of his worries. “She made no mention of that.”

  “No, she wouldn’t have.” D’arco wrung his hands and stared at his lap. “She chafes at the security. Finds it stifling. But I love her. The thought of any harm coming to her, of anyone touching her—” His nostrils flared. “It enrages me.”

  Reegan swallowed. “Of course.” He risked a glance at Maxie. The air in the office had grown warm. A sheen of perspiration glowed on Maxie’s bald head, and his hands clenched the edge of the desk, knuckles white.

  D’arco rose, smacking his gloves against his palm as he circled behind Reegan. “She wasn’t with you when you returned. Please tell me you have a satisfactory explanation for that.”

  Oh yeah. The
y were screwed. Reegan prepared to confess and take his medicine, but D’arco was one step ahead of him. “Did you help her run away?”

  Breath whooshed out of Reegan’s lungs. Deflated, he turned. “I’m sorry?”

  D’arco made some sort of signal. Either that or he used telepathy, because Reegan was suddenly on his ass in a chair with one of D’arco’s apes holding his arms behind his back.

  Cyberschooling wasn’t looking so bad anymore. “What the hell?” Reegan wheezed.

  “Where is my wife?” D’arco repeated. “The truth. If you’ve hurt her, you’ll regret it.”

  “I…”

  D’arco loomed. “Yes?”

  The hell with it. “I lost her. Actually, she ditched me, the bi—” Reegan clamped his mouth shut when Maxie went gray and shook his head so fast his jowls did the hula. “She slipped away when my back was turned.”

  D’arco’s lips peeled away from his teeth, and he growled. Reegan recoiled.

  “Why didn’t you stay and look for her?” D’arco’s hands, fisted at his sides, began to shake. His eye twitched rhythmically.

  “I couldn’t. I had fourteen other people whose safety I needed to ensure. And I sure as shit wasn’t going to be able to go looking for her with them in tow.”

  Hissing his annoyance, D’arco spun away to stand in front of the two-way mirror. “She’s alone. Scared and helpless.”

  Did this guy know anything about his wife? “I’m pretty sure she’s okay,” Reegan felt compelled to say. “She seems like an intelligent, capable lady.”

  His words made the situation worse. D’arco glanced over his shoulder at Reegan, his expression morphing to pure hatred. The silent standoff lasted several seconds, then D’arco clasped his hands behind his back and brooded. His apes brooded in sympathy. Reegan took the opportunity to raise his eyebrows at Maxie. The look he got in return wasn’t encouraging. This was it. His career was going to end over a lover’s quarrel.