Running from the Dead

by Mike Knowles

  It was Jones’ turn to sigh. “Fine, Peter. Please ask her to call me tomorrow morning.”

  “I will do no such thing. I will inform her about your call. Ms. Verne will call you when she wishes. Goodnight, Mr. Jones.”

  “Goodnight, Peter.”

  Peter had been Ruth Verne’s butler for decades. He accompanied her everywhere and assisted her with everything. Ruth has never displayed the faintest whiff of formality with the man while Peter has never wavered in his dignified approach to dispatching his duties. Ruth and Peter were the two closest people Jones had ever met despite the fact that he had never once seen them touch.

  Jones put down the phone and suddenly felt every minute of the day all at once. He planted two hands on the table and forced himself to his feet. On the way to his bed, he pulled his shirt over his head and balled it in his hands before throwing it toward the hamper. His phone rang just after the shirt landed on the floor. Jones pulled the phone from his jeans and looked at the screen. The number was blocked. Jones swiped his thumb and put the phone to his ear, expecting Scopes looking for another way to spook him.

  “Hello?”

  “I saw your poster.”

  The voice was female. Young and a little bit raspy. The girl was either tired or a heavy smoker. Jones heard her take a drag before she spoke again.

  “I saw a bunch of them actually. They were all over the place.”

  “Lauren,” Jones said.

  “How do you know my name? How do you know me?”

  Jones stepped back into the hallway and leaned against the wall. He barely noticed the cold surface against his skin. “Norah told me about you.”

  “Did she put you up to this?”

  “No,” Jones said.

  “Living with her feels like such a long time ago.”

  Jones wondered if teenagers measured time differently or if she had just lived more than two years since she left Norah.

  “She loves you,” Jones said. “She wants you to come home.”

  “She’d say that. She would. She probably believes it too. But she’s wrong. She wouldn’t want me back. She doesn’t know me.”

  Jones didn’t have a counter; he felt like anything he said to the contrary would blow up in his face, so he changed the subject. “I saw the messages you left in Brew.”

  Lauren went quiet. Jones would have thought she hung up on him if it weren’t for the faint crackle of a cigarette slowly disappearing one breath at a time. “I was high when I wrote that. I was in a bad place.”

  “And now?”

  “I’m not high,” she said.

  “But you’re still there?”

  “In the bad place?” Lauren laughed. “Home sweet home.”

  “Doesn’t have to be.”

  “You never told me who you are.”

  “I’m a private investigator.”

  Lauren laughed loud into the phone and for a second she sounded her age. “Those aren’t a real thing.”

  “I keep hearing that from people.”

  “So you take cases and find bad guys?”

  “I help people,” Jones said.

  “Is that what you’re doing now? Helping me?”

  “If I can,” Jones said. “If you’ll let me.”

  “Sounds like bullshit. What do you really want from me?”

  Jones thought about it. He had an answer, but he lied instead. “I don’t want anything from you.”

  “Now I know you’re lying,” she said.

  “I’m not.”

  “You are because you’re a man and men always want something.”

  “I want to help you.”

  “Un hunh.” The sound was delivered with a snort and a heavy dose of attitude.

  Jones felt the conversation starting to break apart like an asteroid entering the atmosphere. He took a shot and pushed back. “Why’d you call?”

  Lauren laughed. “Someone left a pretty clear message meant just for me. I wanted to know who would go to all that trouble.”

  “Un hunh,” Jones said. He didn’t try to match the snort; just the attitude.

  “You don’t believe me?” Lauren jumped from mellow to angry at a speed that would make a race-car driver jealous. “Fuck you. Or is it the other way around? That’s it isn’t it. You want to fuck me. You want to save me so I can show you how grateful I am?”

  Jones thought about how old the girl on the other end of the line was. There was no hesitation or self-consciousness in her words. She wielded them like a razor and thought there was enough truth in them to make them cut.

  “There are easier ways to get a date,” Jones said.

  “Doesn’t mean you don’t want one,” Lauren countered.

  “I don’t want to use you.”

  “Bullshit. You’re a guy—using women is your default. Some guys are just honest enough to admit it.”

  Jones wanted to tell her she was wrong, but the sharp words had drawn blood. “You’re right,” he said. “I am trying to use you.”

  Lauren snorted.

  “Not the way you think. I don’t want to sleep with you.”

  She snorted again. “Right.”

  “It’s not about sex.”

  “It’s always about sex. Especially when it’s not. What is it you want? You looking for me to call you Daddy?”

  The words turned his stomach. “No,” Jones said. “Nothing like that. I want to save you.”

  “Save me?” Lauren sounded amused. “So you are just a pervert.” She wasn’t angry anymore. She was taunting him.

  “There was someone else,” Jones said.

  “There’s always one of those.”

  “Someone I couldn’t help. I’m trying to make up for that.”

  Jones heard something in the background and Lauren said. “I gotta go.”

  Jones quickly said, “Call me again. Please.”

  Lauren laughed. It was a kid’s giggle. “Easy, tiger. I’ll call you again sometime.”

  Lauren hung up and Jones put the phone down on the kitchen table. The clock on the microwave said it was 2:14. Jones put water into a kettle and set it on the stove. He needed to think more than he needed to sleep. In less than twelve hours, Jones was expected to meet with Scopes—but the call from Lauren had changed things. Jones couldn’t sit down with Scopes anymore. He had to keep moving.

  20

  Jones had fallen asleep waiting for the phone to ring again. He ate breakfast waiting for the phone to ring. He showered waiting for the phone to ring. When his cell finally made a noise, it wasn’t Lauren.

  “Where are you?” Mel asked.

  “Kitchen.”

  Mel didn’t think the joke was funny. “I called you yesterday and you didn’t answer. Where were you?”

  “On the road. I’m working on something.”

  “I run your schedule. If you had something, I would know about it.”

  Jones dropped a spoon in the sink. “I don’t tell you everything.”

  “Obviously.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “The police called. A detective had questions about your schedule and what cases you’ve been working on lately.”

  Jones put his elbows on the counter and closed his eyes.

  “What did you tell them?”

  Jones heard Mel exhale like a bull readying itself for a charge. “Nothing. I don’t give out information about clients unless there is a warrant telling me I have to.”

  “Good.”

  “Not good. It was the police. They can get a warrant. What is going on? If this was about a case, the detective wouldn’t have asked about your schedule. He’s interested in you.” Mel’s voice went soft. “Are you in trouble?”

  “Nah,” Jones said. “I just stepped on some toes, working on a case.”
/>   “This case that you never told me about.”

  “Like I said, Mel. I don’t tell you everything.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of. Jones, I looked this guy up. He’s a homicide detective.”

  “I know. He got in touch with me yesterday and I have a meeting with him this afternoon.”

  Mel switched into work mode and all the worry left her voice. “How long are you going to be tied up?”

  “They don’t tie people up. They use cuffs, and I’m hoping to avoid them.”

  “Funny.”

  “It shouldn’t be more than a couple hours.”

  “Should I be worried about you?”

  “No more than usual,” he said.

  Mel said, “Fine,” in a tone that said it was anything but. “There was something else I wanted to talk to you about.”

  “Shoot.”

  “You said not to bill Irene Hogarth.”

  “It was just a consultation.”

  “So why do I have five messages from her? Each, by the way, is nastier than the last. She does not sound like a woman who was happy with her consultation.”

  “Can you forward them to me?”

  “Way ahead of you. Just don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Jones—”

  “Yeah?”

  “Be careful.”

  Irene’s first message was standard enough. “I would like Mr. Jones to call me. This is in regards to a private matter discussed during our recent meeting. Please have him call me.”

  The please seemed to have edges that were as sharp as broken glass, and it sounded like it hurt coming out of her mouth.

  The next message had the same details as the first, but it was delivered with fewer words and none of the niceties. Each following voicemail continued to reduce with the final message, consisting of barely more than her name and a hell of a lot of contempt.

  “This is Irene Hogarth, again.”

  Jones glanced at his phone and saw that Mel had sent him a text with Irene’s contact information. He touched the number and the phone automatically dialled.

  “Hello?”

  “Ms. Hogarth, this is Sam Jones.”

  “It’s about damn time. I left several messages.”

  “Five,” Jones said.

  “Yes, five. I should not have to leave five messages to get in touch with you.”

  Jones adjusted the volume. “What can I do for you?”

  “You can start by returning your messages.”

  Jones waited.

  Irene got sick of the silence fast. “Are you still there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, don’t you have something to say?”

  “How does goodbye sound?”

  “What?”

  “I don’t work for you, remember?”

  “My father is still missing,” Irene said.

  “I believe when we last spoke you had decided to take the advice of the police and wait for him to come home.”

  “He hasn’t.”

  “It’s only been two days.”

  “On top of the week he has already been missing.”

  “He’s not missing. He’s on a trip,” Jones said. “He packed a bag and took his toothbrush with him.”

  “Something could have happened to him while he was on this trip of his. Something could have happened and no one will know because he’s—”

  “Eighty,” Jones said.

  “Do not mock me.”

  “Did you call the police again?” Jones was hoping she had. Maybe this time they had listened to her and they were already on the case.

  “No.”

  Jones swore with only his lips.

  “The police made it quite clear that finding my father is not a priority for them. I want you to do it.”

  Jones said nothing.

  “Did you hear me?”

  “I did,” Jones said. “I’m thinking about it.”

  “What is there to think about?”

  “If I have the time,” he said.

  “Two days ago you had the time. What has changed?”

  Jones thought about Scopes waiting for him outside his house. “Something came up.”

  “Oh,” Irene said. “I see what this is. This is about money. You see that I am desperate and you want to cash in.”

  Jones heard a faint double pulse in his ear, notifying him that he had another call. Jones took the phone away from his ear and put it on speaker so he could look at the screen while he spoke.

  Irene took the momentary silence as a confirmation of her accusation. “I knew it. I knew it.”

  Jones said, “I will find your father.”

  Irene snorted. “Sure, for what? Double what you charged me the other day?”

  Jones heard the pulses again. “I didn’t charge you anything the other day.” Irene was about to say something else, but Jones cut her off. “I need to call you back.”

  “Don’t you dare hang up on me.”

  Jones ended the call and his phone immediately began to ring. He put the phone on the table and watched it call out for him, realizing he still couldn’t tell her. After three rings, the call went to voicemail and the phone went quiet. Jones waited two minutes and then he unlocked the phone and called his voicemail. He had one message from Ruth.

  “Samuel?”

  Jones hated his first name, but he always liked it when Ruth said it with her Trinidadian lilt. Her voice was soft and rich; Jones thought Ruth had the voice of a singer despite never having heard her even hum a tune.

  “Peter told me that you called. It must be something important if you called in the middle of the night. Do you have something for me?” The hope in her voice was the saddest thing Jones had ever heard.

  She sighed. “I don’t like this. It isn’t like you not to pick up.”

  The line went quiet and then Jones heard Ruth swallow. Whatever she was drinking fortified her. When she spoke again, she sounded more like herself. “I have a few more matters to attend to before I fly home tomorrow. Call me as soon as you get this message. I will let Peter know that I am waiting for your call. Call me, Samuel.” She sighed again and said, “I don’t like this,” before she hung up.

  Jones deleted the message and leaned back in his chair. Last night he had everything for Ruth, but that was before Lauren called and changed things. Now everything he had for Ruth would leave Lauren with nothing. He needed a little more time to help her. Just a little more time outside of a cell to bring Lauren home.

  The phone rang again and Jones looked at the screen, expecting Ruth.

  “You hung up on me. Just who the hell do you think you are?” Irene said.

  Jones thought about it. “I’m not sure anymore.”

  21

  Jones arranged to meet Irene at the office. When he got there, he found her waiting for him at the top of the stairs using a wad of tissue to carefully dab at her eyes. When she saw him, she balled the tissue up and threw it into her purse. Jones unlocked the door, and Irene stepped past him without a word. The smell of perfume and cigarette smoke lingered as Jones deactivated the alarm and turned on the lights. Irene draped her coat over one of the chairs and walked to the window to examine the street. The blouse and jeans she was wearing had both been tailored to fit her body very well. Jones found himself wondering what would happen to Irene’s wardrobe if she gained three pounds.

  After appraising the view, Irene looked over her shoulder and gave Jones a hard stare that tested the Botox. “You said he would come back.”

  Jones took a seat and leaned back a few inches. “I still think he will.”

  “When?”

  Jones spread his hands. “You might be asking too much of a man who spent a quarter of an hour in a bedroo
m and maybe twice that much time talking to some of the other residents.”

  Irene turned and crossed her arms. “I didn’t see you talking to anyone.”

  “You wouldn’t have. You didn’t bother to look back after you stepped off the elevator.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me about it?”

  “Because you didn’t seem to care,” Jones said.

  “How dare you? I am the only one who gives a shit about that man.”

  “Your father.”

  “I know that.”

  “Sorry, it’s just most people don’t refer to their father as that man. They usually go with something a little more traditional, like dad.”

  Irene went to her purse and slipped out another piece of tissue. Jones watched her expertly remove all signs of emotion. “Do you enjoy mocking me?”

  “No,” Jones said. He meant it.

  Irene looked for a garbage can and then put the tissue into her pocket. “I guess it’s easy for you to just sit there and make jokes at my expense. You have no idea what it’s like to lay awake at night, wondering if someone you care about is safe or not.”

  Jones had been down this path before. He knew the way, so he took the lead. “I will find him,” he said.

  Irene walked back to her purse. “I insist on paying you this time.”

  “That’s good because I insist on being paid.”

  “I assume the fee is the same?”

  Jones nodded.

  Irene put her chequebook on the table and began to write. “I am free for the rest of day. Where do we start?”

  “Finish writing that cheque and go home. I will call you when I have something.”

  Irene didn’t like that. She cocked an eyebrow and gave Jones a look that probably weakened the knees of waiters and sales associates. Jones had seen combat, so the look made him sweat only a little. “I don’t need a gal Friday,” he said. He was proud that his voice didn’t crack.

  “I’m not asking to be your gal Friday. First of all, I am no one’s gal, and secondly, I am paying you, so if anything, I am Robinson Crusoe and you are Friday.”

  Jones grinned. “You are hiring me because I have a skill set that you do not possess. I will not be as effective at employing my skills with you along for the ride.”