by James Dobson
“Only a few minutes to closing time, sir,” the security guard said as Tyler removed his belt and shoes before entering the body scanner.
“I’m meeting with—” He stopped himself. Utmost confidentiality. “I have a meeting on the third floor.”
“You’ll need to sign the register.”
No paper trail.
“Could I just leave my wallet instead?”
“Mr. Cain?”
“Why, yes. How did you—”
“Go on through. Ms. McKay said she is expecting a confidential guest.”
“Great. Thanks. Have a nice evening.”
The guard nodded. “You too, sir.”
After slipping into his shoes and fastening his buckle Tyler turned left down a marble hallway. He noticed a large portrait of an impressively dignified face. He didn’t recognize the name of the person who had no doubt played an important role in the 150-year judicial history housed within these walls.
Tyler continued walking until he noticed a sign marked COURTROOM TWO. He stole a peek inside, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness enough to admire an impressively manicured trinity of judicial benches elevated loftily above a duo of wooden tables and chairs. This room, like four others located throughout the building, was a theater that hosted some of the best and brightest attorneys who had ever practiced law. Each of them received a mere fifteen minutes to make oral arguments that might sway the court. Tyler considered the human drama that took place whenever the trio of shadowy benches held a federal judge who must decide whether to uphold or overturn some lower court’s ruling.
Moving past the clerk’s office on the right he found a spiraling stairwell that led to the second-floor conference rooms. He took the time to peruse a hallway nearly as long as a football field, where he read dozens of forgotten names on portraits too far down the pecking order of historic significance to warrant main-floor exhibition. He then climbed the final flight of stairs to locate the office of Judge Victor Santiago.
He pushed through the large doors and was greeted by a series of polished walnut desks, their occupants now missing in action. Even during his days on the force Tyler had never worked in such an opulent environment. He thought of his own “office” back home, a cluttered, secondhand desk that shared a corner of the extra bedroom with a box of old clothes destined for charity. He breathed in the rich aroma of importance he had never attained. Never wanted to attain. At least that’s what he told himself now.
“Hello?” he called out, glancing at a clock on the wall. Ten minutes later than agreed, part of his plan to appear disinterested. Now he worried the strategy might have backfired. Perhaps Ms. McKay had thought Tyler unprofessional and given up on him.
“Mr. Cain?” a voice said from behind.
Tyler spun around to see a thirtysomething woman, her tightly bound hair and crisp clothing working hard to conceal an otherwise natural beauty. She appeared to be the kind of woman bent on achieving success through no-nonsense precision rather than good looks. Tyler made a mental note: Driven, but…insecure.
“Tyler Cain?” she asked.
He nodded. “Ms. McKay?”
“I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting.” She ushered him past her vacated desk while retrieving a series of white business envelopes. Then she hurried through a nearby doorway. He followed her into the adjoining conference room. “Please, have a seat. Would you care for something to drink?”
Straight to business. Perhaps his plan hadn’t backfired after all.
“No, thank you. I’m good.”
She sat across from him, opened one of the envelopes, and slid the contents across the desk: one handwritten letter.
“This was the first letter Judge Santiago received.”
He glanced to the bottom.
“A Manichean?”
“No idea. I can’t find a record of the name in anything remotely associated with the NEXT case. Possibly an alias.”
Tyler scanned the letter, trying hard not to seem terribly interested. He picked up the gist, however. Whoever this A Manichean was, he—or she, Tyler reminded himself, although the handwriting didn’t exude femininity—seemed terribly concerned about the outcome of the NEXT Transition appeal, as though his or her own well-being hinged on the outcome. Tyler tossed the letter back onto the table. Jennifer slid him a second, then a third. In all three cases the writer asked the judge to correspond.
“I look forward to hearing from you soon,” Tyler read aloud. “Please post your response at the following private forum address: ANON.CHAT.4398.”
Tyler recognized the link format. ANON.CHAT sites were littered with titillating posts from illicit lovers trying to stay connected between trysts. The perfect forum to remain anonymous. The posting party controlled whether and how to reveal his or her identity. Very few ever did.
He rescanned the text of the final letter but found no explicit threat. All four of them could have been written by anyone interested in the case; possibly a snooping reporter or religious activist.
“It just sounds to me like a person worried the judge will make the wrong decision.”
Jennifer visibly bristled at the remark. “And which decision would that be?” she said accusingly.
Defensive. Or maybe…protective.
Tyler shrugged. “You tell me what the wrong decision would be.”
“Even if I knew Judge Santiago’s opinion on the case,” she said with brash self-importance, “I’m certainly not at liberty to tell you.”
“Ms. McKay, I don’t really care about where Judge Santiago lands on the specifics of”—he glanced back at the letter to jog his memory—“The specifics of the NEXT appeal. But you must suspect someone dangerous does care. Isn’t that why you asked for the best private investigator available?”
“I’m sorry. You’re right.” Jennifer seemed to welcome Tyler’s condescension. She seemed eager for someone to relieve her from an exhausting posture of strength. He sensed control moving to his side of the table.
“Listen, Mr. Cain. You’ve taken time out of your busy schedule to help, and here I am…well, I’m the one who asked you to come. It’s just, usually we receive this kind of letter and forget about it. People send hastily written notes crafted in a moment of anger or frustration or even praise. End of story. But this feels different.”
“You mentioned that on the phone.”
“This case has serious implications for a lot of people no matter which way the judge decides.”
“I thought appeals required three opinions. What about the other two judges?”
“I checked. No letters.”
“What’s your theory?”
“Both have published opinions in the past in transition-related cases. One leans for, the other against. I assume whoever wrote these letters knows enough about the judges to figure Judge Santiago’s opinion will be the tiebreaker.”
Tyler frowned at the unhelpful but likely theory. “Perhaps you can tell me who has the most to lose and gain from Santiago’s decision.”
“Well…” Jennifer hesitated. Tyler understood. He hadn’t officially accepted the case. She couldn’t risk saying much more. But he wouldn’t commit to this case, no matter how great the opportunity, until they reached an agreement on compensation. Keep playing it cool, he told himself.
“Listen, Ms. McKay…”
“Jennifer.”
“Fine. Jennifer. You don’t know me from Adam. I get that. But if you want me to help you, you’ll need to trust me.”
“I understand. I’m sorry. It’s just—”
“You don’t like private investigators?”
“I don’t have to like them, Tyler.”
“Mr. Cain.”
Her face reddened at the rebuff.
“Listen, Jennifer. I don’t have to be here at all. You called asking for help, and I’m only here because I owe someone a favor. But we can end this now, if you prefer.”
“No.” She took a deep breath. “But please be advised th
at everything I tell you must remain confidential.”
“Absolutely.”
Jennifer gathered up the three letters, setting them in a neat pile before continuing. “Jeremy Santos, the plaintiff. He has the most to gain or lose. He received a very large award in punitive damages.”
“For what?” Tyler preferred admitting ignorance in order to speed up the discovery process.
“He lost both his brother and his mother during a transition.”
“A double transition?”
“No. It was his disabled brother’s transition. The mother tried to stop the procedure and fell. Very sad.”
“A transition and an accident. Then why the large settlement?”
“The boy scheduled the appointment while a minor.”
“Oh. Let me guess. The mother hadn’t approved?”
“That’s right. The bottom line is that Jeremy Santos will lose a large sum of money if NEXT wins on appeal.”
“What about NEXT?”
“They have even more to lose. And not just the settlement money. Losing this appeal could force them to institute far more stringent approval requirements for all transitions.”
“Is that so bad?”
“It could cut deeply into their business. The more hurdles volunteers face, the more likely they will change their mind. Even a twenty percent decline in transitions would mean nearly a billion-dollar hit per year.”
“A billion? I had no idea,” Tyler confessed.
“There is a lot of money at stake in this case. Especially when you consider the impact on President Lowman’s Youth Initiative.”
“Such as?”
“Fewer transitions mean higher senior-care costs and a drop in transition estate taxes,” she explained. “Not a good time for either.”
“So the White House may be worried about this case?”
“To be honest, Mr. Cain, you’re the first person I’ve met who isn’t concerned about this case.” She seemed to enjoy the jab. “As you can see, the implications are enormous. Sooner or later this case will impact the household budget of anyone caring for an aging or disabled loved one.”
Tyler raised his finger pausing the conversation to steal a moment. He retrieved his tablet and pretended to type a few notes while absorbing the scope of the case.
“I don’t suspect NEXT incorporated itself. They’re too big to risk open retaliation. But I suppose it could be some rogue individual within the company with something to lose. Maybe a person who slipped up on the Santos case who fears losing their job.”
Tyler glanced at his empty page of notes before asking whether Jennifer could think of anyone else.
“Who knows? There are religious nuts all over the place who would love nothing more than to see NEXT take a serious fall.”
“Religious nuts?”
“Sorry. I shouldn’t call them that. But you know what I mean. There are people who would love to see the transition industry come to a screeching halt.”
“Do you think that might include murder?”
“Murder?” Jennifer’s gaze fell to the letters. “Do you think Judge Santiago’s life is in danger?”
“I don’t know what to think. I’m only exploring what you think, and what might be at stake.”
Tyler found it difficult to continue feigning disinterest in a case infinitely more important than jilted lovers and forbidden sexcapades.
“When we spoke over the phone,” he continued, “you seemed worried. Like a person fearful over something potentially…dangerous.”
“I’m sure it isn’t. At least…” Jennifer took another deep breath. “I don’t know. The tone in the letters is—”
“—disconcerting?”
“Yes. As I said, in the past, the judge has received many letters on various cases. Some of them from wackos and religious diehards. He’s maintained a strict policy of ignoring those letters. So it falls to me to decide what to do about them, if anything. Nothing’s ever come of any of them in the past. But this one seems less nuts and more…calculating.”
“I tend to agree with you,” Tyler said. “But the motive behind these letters isn’t clear. There’s no way we can come up with concrete conclusions without further investigation. As you indicated, it’s probably religiously motivated in some way, and perfectly harmless. But you never know.”
Tyler felt himself leaning forward to again scan the mysterious content of the letters. He imagined himself tackling a case far more intriguing than anything he’d seen since leaving the force. For the first time in years he felt a hint of excitement over what tomorrow might bring. But he still couldn’t appear eager. He flashed a purposeful glance to the clock on the wall above the door. Jennifer gathered the letters.
“So, do you think you can help?” she asked.
Tyler shrugged, then slipped a Cain Investigations, LLC business card from his jacket pocket. He jotted a number on the back and slid it across the table. “I’d be willing to do some preliminary investigation. My usual daily rate applies, of course.”
A daily rate he had just doubled.
She took the card, glanced at it, then switched back into professional mode. “Fine. But once again I must insist that you keep this completely confidential. I don’t want the police involved. No publicity at all. It could completely undermine perception of Judge Santiago’s neutrality when rendering his opinion. I can’t let anything happen that might force him to recuse himself from the case.”
“I understand. Now, I do have one request. I’d like to take a copy of each of these letters.”
“Of course. I’ve already made copies. You can take these. But please don’t make any additional copies, electronic or otherwise. I wouldn’t want anyone to get wind of their content until we know what…or who…we’re dealing with.”
* * *
As Tyler made his way out, he paused again to admire the building’s classic architecture and the inscriptions that made him wish he knew more judicial history. Then he noticed the massive bronze plaque displaying names of the former postmasters general. This building must have served as a major post office in early years.
Post office. A thought came to him. He pulled out the three letters and examined the postmarks. They seemed archaic in a day when nearly all communication took place through electronic tablets. Archaic, but in this case important. The postmark on all three letters indicated that they originated from southern Colorado. Which meant whoever sent the letters lived…here.
Chapter Six
The ringtone blared through the car’s speakers. Tyler checked the time on the dash, cringing. Renee was probably worried sick. Any deviation from the normal schedule required a call, a daily reality when you mixed private detective work with a somewhat paranoid girlfriend.
He ignored the melody as he eased his Mustang across the freeway and into the AutoDrive lane, north on Interstate 25. The vehicle accelerated quickly to cruising speed as he relinquished control. He had exactly seven minutes before his exit, just enough time to update his financial plan spreadsheet.
Tyler slid out his tablet and pulled up the calculator. He figured the Santiago case would entail a boatload of billable hours, every one of them moving him closer to his goal. The extra cash and a bit more scrimping should enable him to pay off the business loan in eighteen months—allowing him to escape the shackles of Renee’s cosign. After…who knew how long? Three years plus another eighteen months? Practically married!
The phone rang again. No use putting off the inevitable. He sighed while tapping his earpiece.
“Hi, beautiful,” he said in a pretty convincing tone.
“Don’t ‘Hi, beautiful’ me,” she chided. “You should have been here hours ago. Or at least called!”
“I’m sorry. It’s just…well, I actually have some good news!”
“Are you almost home?”
She clearly had no interest in his good news. He felt a pail of chilly water soak his excitement over landing the Santiago case.
“Listen,” he started, shifting into damage control mode. “I’m sorry about not calling, but when you hear why I think you’ll—”
A slight sniffle on the other end of the line cut his words short. Something wasn’t right.
“What’s wrong?” Tyler asked, rising above his aggravation to sound genuinely concerned.
There was a pause, then, “It’s nothing. We can talk about it when you get home. Just…can you pick up a few things at Bulrich’s on the way? I’ll forward you a list.”
“Sure. I’ll be home in fifteen.” He was about to end the call, but decided to earn a few extra points. “Then we can talk.”
“Fine.”
Two minutes later his car signaled the Longmont exit ahead. He eased out of the AutoDrive lane, off Interstate 25, and onto the street that led to Bulrich’s Organic Market. He pulled into the parking lot and then confirmed Renee’s list had made it onto his tablet. He walked inside and moved straight to the liquor aisle to pick up an item she hadn’t requested. Whatever the problem, he thought, a few glasses of wine could only help matters.
* * *
Tyler struggled to shove open the door to the house from the garage. Something was in the way. He managed to create enough of a gap to squeeze through, then stepped over the overstuffed box of used clothes sitting on the floor.
“Renee?” he called out, then placed the bag of locally grown veggies and bottle of wine on the kitchen counter.
Her voice hailed him from upstairs. “I’m in the guest room.”
Guest room? They didn’t have a guest room. Not really. There was a bed in there, sure. But it had been officially declared his “office” when he bought the rickety old desk Renee refused to allow anywhere downstairs. She called it a monstrosity. She wanted it out of sight, along with the mess typically strewn across its surface. So the desk and its owner were both relegated to the spare room.