by S W Vaughn
He heard Clover offer a cheerful, if slightly hesitant greeting. Then a voice — one that pinged a faint alarm in the corner of his mind — said, “I’m looking for a Neon Fire Fly.”
Goddamn it. That phrase meant someone was here for his other job, the one he didn’t advertise. Word of mouth already brought him more clients than he wanted. And that voice … well, he was pretty sure it belonged in the life before this one. To someone who never should have found him here.
With his hand on the gun, he moved across the small office and peered through the cracked-open door. Clover’s back was to him, but he had a clear view of the older man in the tailored suit by the front entrance, who clutched a slim briefcase in one hand and eyed the place with cold disdain as she told him she didn’t think they carried whatever he wanted, but she’d check with the boss.
Son of a bitch. It was him.
Jude sighed, took his grip from the weapon and stepped out to fix the man with a glare. “Hello, Ray,” he said. “If I told you to get the hell out of my store, what are the chances you’d listen?”
The man showed no expression. “Slim to none.”
“That’s what I thought.” Shaking his head, Jude stepped aside and held the office door open. “Come on, then,” he said. “But I’ll tell you right now, the answer’s no.”
“We’ll see.”
Without glancing at either of the stunned teens, the deputy executive director of the CIA crossed the shop toward him.
Raymond Rubin let out a heavy sigh. “Christ, Wyland, is this really what you’re doing with yourself?” he said. “Selling worms?”
“Nightcrawlers, actually. Regular worms are for amateurs. I think.” Jude had closed the door and given the deputy director a chair on the wrong side of the desk, but hadn’t sat down himself. He wasn’t in the mood for pleasantries. “Tell me how you found me.”
“Why?”
“So I don’t make the same mistake next time.”
Ray smirked. “You damn well know it wasn’t easy. You made sure of that,” he said. “Tell you the truth, I got lucky. A friend of a friend happened to know a former client of yours.”
“Yeah? Which one?”
“Like I’d tell you.”
Of course he wouldn’t. Ray was almost as good at playing the game as he was. “Fine,” he said. “Tell me what you want, so I can turn you down and you can leave.”
Instead of answering, Ray scanned the small office with its sparse furnishings and stacks of old wooden crates. The only decoration in the room was a small wooden plaque on the wall behind the desk, a holdover from the previous owner of the shop, that read I Fish, Therefore I Lie. “Is this town really called Stone’s Throw?” he finally said. “Couldn’t find the damned place on a single map. I had to interrogate a bunch of old guys—”
“Ray,” he practically growled. “Get to the point.”
“All right.” His former boss set the briefcase he’d brought in on the desk, opened the clasps and looked at him. “We want to hire you. As a private investigator,” he said quickly, before Jude could point out that since hell hadn’t frozen over, there was no way he’d go back to the Agency. “Completely in an unofficial capacity.”
Jude watched him remove a thick manila envelope from the briefcase with more than a little misgiving. He’d become a licensed PI solely to help out a friend, and since then the clients he took on had been few and far between. The code phrase ‘Neon Fire Fly,’ a rare antique fishing lure that no one would ask for at a bait shop, was his only advertising — spread through trusted referrals, with the understanding that he took missing persons cases and nothing else. No process serving, no extramarital spying, no dirt-digging for court cases or political races.
He had a feeling Ray wanted that last one. Not happening.
“This is right in your wheelhouse,” Ray said, holding the envelope toward him.
Jude made no move to take it. “Tell me first, and I’ll think about looking.”
“It’s a missing person.”
“Who’s missing?”
Ray lowered the envelope slightly, and his gaze cut away for a second. Finally, he said, “Valerie Noakes.”
“Jesus.” Jude closed his eyes like he’d been punched — and the son of a bitch might as well have. He may live in the middle of nowhere, where the biggest news was the day’s fishing forecast, but everyone had heard the story. It’d been three days since five-year-old Valerie, the daughter of Virginia Beach County district attorney Gary Noakes, had vanished from her bedroom in the middle of the night. Shattered window, definite signs of a struggle. No ransom demands or notes from kidnappers.
The case was so much like what happened to his little sister Amy all those years ago that it hurt him to think about.
Ray damned well would’ve known that, too.
“You’re a bastard,” Jude snarled, snatching the envelope. “And I’m not working a pointless case that’s bound to end with a dead kid. If you don’t have something the media hasn’t reported, I’m shoving this file directly up your ass.”
“We do,” Ray said quietly. If the man felt like gloating, he didn’t show it. “No one knows about the ransom messages.”
Jude froze with his fingers on the envelope clasp. “So she was kidnapped, then. Not murdered.”
“Yes. And whoever it is, they’re very professional. Very … persuasive. And ugly as hell.” Ray looked into the distance. “Anyway, they aren’t asking for money,” he said. “They want Noakes to drop out of the race.”
“He’s going for governor?” Jude said.
Ray nodded. “So is Senator Bromwell. He’s on the list of suspects, for obvious reasons.”
Jude didn’t bother remarking on that. The CIA had investigated Sam Bromwell during his against-all-odds successful bid for the Senate, on suspicion of involvement with a nasty group of mercenaries known as the Black Strings. They’d never been able to prove a connection, but the investigation was ongoing.
It sickened him knowing how goddamned political this was going to be. A little girl’s life was on the line — and the only reason the CIA had gotten involved was for another chance to push Bromwell’s political self-destruct button.
Still, he’d take the case. Even though he was furious that Ray had known he would.
He dropped the envelope on the desk without opening it. “My fee is a hundred bucks an hour, plus expenses,” he said. “With a five thousand dollar retainer. And I’ll need access to all the Agency resources, plus everything you’ve got so far. I mean every damned thing, Ray. You hold anything back, and I’m out.”
Ray arched an eyebrow. “Is that all?”
“No. I’ll let you know when I figure out the rest of what I want.”
“Fine.” Ray pushed the chair back, stood and gestured at the envelope. “There’s a check for ten grand in there, and an access card for the Norfolk field office,” he said. “The local agents have already been instructed to cooperate with you.”
“Asshole.”
“Nice to see you again, Wyland.” With a bare nod, Ray grabbed his briefcase, turned and headed for the door. “Keep me posted. You have my number, even if you haven’t used it in three years.”
“Ray … do you even know what today is?”
The deputy director paused with a hand on the knob. “Yeah, I do,” he said without turning. “And I’m still sorry as hell about Sarah. You know I did everything I could.”
“Well, you shouldn’t have done everything. Because it was way too much.”
Ray looked over his shoulder with cold eyes. “It had to be done,” he said. “You have no idea what went down that night. If you did, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
Jude’s lip curled. “Is that a threat?”
“No. It’s a reminder that you gave up your credentials.” Ray shook his head and opened the office door. “I’ll see myself out,” he said.
Jude watched him leave and swallowed a surge of bitter memories. He didn’t have time
to think about what happened to his partner right now.
He had a job to do.
THE BLACK DIRECTIVE: Now available from Amazon and Kindle Unlimited