Avery walks around the desk and checks the top drawers. “We can’t take him with us,” she says. “It would attract too much attention.”
“And leaving him here has worked out so well,” Brooke says from the doorway. “How do we know he’s not going to find another phone in those boxes?”
Avery pulls out a screwdriver and walks past her sister into the kitchenette. There’s a small phone box next to the circuit breaker. She pops it open and unscrews the two phone wires.
She looks back at her sister. “Problem solved.”
“Are you sure you’re not transferring some unresolved Daddy issues here?” Brooke asks. “Because this level of rule breaking is very unlike you.”
“The man just wants to see his daughter one more time.”
“The man’s turning into a bit of a sleazebag,” Brooke says. “He’s kind of a weak excuse for a sleazebag, but he’s a sleazebag nonetheless.”
“Go see Ricky and get back to me,” Avery says, ignoring her.
“Fine. Whatever,” she holds out her hand.
Avery looks at the open palm. “What?”
“The car keys,” Brooke says. “I’m not running your errands and taking public transportation.”
sixteen
The bus screeches to a stop and the passengers all sway with the motion. Brooke grumbles to herself as she steps off the bus, thinking up intense and complex ways to make her sister’s life a little more difficult. She walks two blocks from the bus stop until she reaches a nondescript building.
On the second floor of this nondescript building sits a weedy-looking fellow in a very tiny cubicle. His blond hair capped off in a sharp widow’s peak. He wears thick glasses and has a hard time looking anyone in the eyes. His name is Ricky Morrison.
Brooke stands at the entrance to Ricky’s cubicle for almost five minutes, watching the nervous man bounce around in his chair, oblivious to Brooke’s presence. Ricky’s got a pair of headphones on; they’re plugged into an mp3 player off to the side on his desk. Brooke carefully walks into the cubicle and looks over Ricky’s shoulder to read the music player’s screen. It’s Abba.
Brooke rolls her eyes and drops a hand onto Ricky’s shoulder.
Ricky lets out a sharp screech, like a bird that’s just been brutally attacked, and pops out of his chair.
The cubicle immediately smells of rotting cheese.
Brooke takes a step back, holding her nose.
“Ms. Graves,” Ricky says, “I am so sorry,” he sits back down. “You surprised me,” he pauses. “Like you always do.”
“Yeah,” Brooke’s eyes are getting watery. “I’m gonna have to learn to stop doing that.”
A clean-cut man with a square jaw pops his head into Ricky’s cubicle. “Everything okay in here, Richard?” he asks, eyeing Brooke.
“Everything’s fine, sir,” Ricky says, studying the wall of his cubicle. “Ms. Graves here just startled me.”
The clean-cut man stares at Brooke a second too long, lingering on her chest, which was being given a little extra oomph thanks to a heavily padded bra.
“Uh-huh,” he says. He looks at Ricky. “Remember, Richard, I need that report from you before five.”
“No problem, sir,” Ricky says. “I’m almost done with it.”
The clean-cut man stares at Brooke for another second, committing her body to memory, and then leaves.
Brooke points after the clean-cut man. “Who was that?”
“That was Mr. Gill,” Ricky replies, staring at the floor.
“Mr. Gill?”
“He’s happily married,” Ricky says.
“Not too happily would be my guess,” Brooke responds. “Considering the way he just undressed me with his eyes there.”
Ricky opens his mouth and then closes it.
Brooke folds her arms. “No, go on, Ricky. Don’t hold back.”
“Please don’t have sex with my co-workers,” Ricky whispers.
Brooke smiles and pats him on the cheek. “Aren’t you just adorable?” She pulls out the picture of Kristen. “I need you to find somebody for me.”
Ricky adjusts his glasses. “Now’s really not a good time, Ms. Graves.”
“Brooke,” she corrects him.
“I have a really big report due today,” Ricky finishes.
Brooke pulls out a hundred dollar bill to go with the picture.
Ricky fidgets in his chair. “It’s a very important report.”
Brooke frowns. “This is about as good as it’s going to get. I don’t have any more cash on me.”
Ricky takes the picture and the money. He spins around back to the computer. “Who are you looking for?”
“The girl in the photo,” Brooke says.
“Do you have a name for her?” Ricky taps away at the keyboard. “I’m not sure if you’re aware of this, but facial recognition isn’t something I can afford on my salary.”
“Kristen Jones,” Brooke says. “And when did you get the attitude?”
Ricky stiffens and hunches over his keyboard. “I’ve been seeing a life coach,” he mumbles.
“A life coach?” Brooke repeats. “For real? I didn’t know those things actually existed.”
“Why wouldn’t they?” Ricky asks.
Brooke shrugs. “I don’t know. I just thought they were something you only found in the movies or bad TV shows. You know, like prostitutes with hearts of gold.”
Ricky doesn’t say anything. Instead he focuses on the different screens he has open on his computer.
After a minute, Brooke asks, “What exactly does your life coach do?”
Ricky stops typing and half turns around. “I’d really rather not talk about it,” he says, staring at the floor.
Brooke angles her head so that she’s in Ricky’s field of vision. “Really?”
Ricky turns back to the computer. “It’s not that big of a deal.”
Brooke thinks about it for a minute. “Is this life coach of yours a woman?”
“I’d rather not say,” Ricky’s voice squeaks a bit. His cheeks flush with color.
Brooke smiles. “Okay. Now we’re on familiar ground. Tell me about this female life coach that you’ve got your eye on, Ricky.”
Ricky clears his throat. “There are thirty-six Kristen Jones’ in Century City,” he says quickly and effectively changing the subject.
“Really?” Brooke looks over her shoulder.
“Actually,” Ricky right clicks. “There are over sixty different women with that name here, but I disqualified any of the ones that seemed outside the age range of the girl in the picture.”
“I suppose I should have told you if the picture was really old,” Brooke says.
Ricky looks at her, concerned. “Is the picture outdated?”
Brooke pats him on the shoulder. “Only by about five years. Don’t worry about it.”
Ricky looks at the photo again. “How old is she in this picture?”
Brooke shrugs. “I don’t know. Somewhere between eighteen and twenty, I think.”
Ricky makes a few adjustments. “That brings us down to thirty Kristen Jones’ to choose from.”
“Okay, well, I should warn you that several private investigators before us have tried to find this woman and failed miserably,” Brooke says. “So, it’s possible that none of these Kristen Jones’ are the one I’m looking for.”
Ricky sighs and shakes his head. “It would be easier if you mentioned all this at the beginning.”
“Well, that’s life for you,” Brooke nods at the screen. “Can you get pictures for any of these Kristens?”
“Only the ones that have pictures available,” Ricky types a few commands into the computer and second later twenty or so pictures pop up. He scrolls through them.
Brooke shakes her head. “None of them are her.”
Ricky gives a polite cough. “Maybe you should give me a few more details to go on.”
Brooke sits back in her chair. “Well, she disappeared about five years ago. Her fa
ther was Daniel Jones.”
“Was?” Ricky echoes, turning around to face her.
“He died this morning from a heart attack,” Brooke clarifies.
Ricky nods. “That would have been helpful to know.”
Brooke studies the nervous man for a second. “I can’t tell if you’re being sarcastic or not.”
Ricky turns back to the computer. “I can cross-reference the search between Daniel Jones and Kristen Jones from five years ago.”
“I don’t understand anything you just said,” Brooke admits.
Ricky types as he talks. “I mean, I can find Daniel Jones,” an obituary picture pops up on the monitor, “and then backtrack to his family members,” two more pictures pop up on the monitor. One’s of Kristen and the other is of an older woman that has the same red hair as Kristen. “Kristen Samantha Jones. Daughter of Daniel and Sharon Jones. Huh.”
“What?” Brooke asks, trying to read over Ricky’s shoulder.
“Daniel and Sharon Jones were the creators of MatchMaker dot com,” Ricky says.
“Which is…?”
Ricky looks over his shoulder at Brooke. “It’s a website for matchmaking.”
Brooke flicks her finger on the side of Ricky’s face. “I know that, idiot. Why does it matter, is what I meant.”
Ricky turns back to his computer, rubbing at the red spot on his cheek. “It was one of the earliest and most successful matchmaking websites. They eventually sold it for an undisclosed sum of money, but it was rumored to be in the tens of millions. It made the headlines of all the tech papers.”
“Well, that explains it,” Brooke says. “I’m not a shut-in nerd.” She points to the computer. “Go on.”
Ricky scrolls through a few different screens. “Oh, this is interesting.”
Brooke waits, but Ricky doesn’t clarify.
“Hey, Ricky?”
“Hmm?”
“I can’t read your mind,” Brooke says.
“Sorry,” Ricky says. He points to the screen. He’s found an old newspaper article. “It says here that Sharon Jones died shortly after they sold the website.”
“What’s so weird about that?” Brooke asks.
“Her cause of death was inconclusive.”
Brooke pushes Ricky to the side and pulls her chair up to the desk. “Inconclusive?”
“About six months after they sold the company Sharon dropped dead,” Ricky says, skimming the article. “It was assumed she died from some kind of preexisting health problem, but no autopsy was ever done. So, officially, cause of death was inconclusive.”
“Why wasn’t there an autopsy?” Brooke asks.
“I’m not sure,” Ricky says. “You’re kind of in my way,” he points to the mouse that Brooke’s blocking.
Brooke pushes back from the desk.
Ricky scrolls down, reading. Finally, he says, “Nobody wanted one.”
“The lady just dropped dead,” Brooke says. “Nobody wanted to know why?”
“Apparently not,” Ricky says. “There’s reference to a family history of diabetes.”
“Diabetes doesn’t make you just drop dead,” Brooke says.
“My uncle died of diabetes,” Ricky says.
“Did he just drop dead one day?”
Ricky thinks about it. “No, it was a protracted process.”
“Exactly,” she nods at the screen. “What about their daughter?”
Ricky falls silent as he goes through a few more screens. He types something out and scrolls down a couple of times.
“There’s a clear line up until about five years ago,” he says. “Credit cards, driver’s license, apartment, even a couple of speeding tickets. Then she just disappears.”
Brooke blows a raspberry. “Can you the check Jane Doe’s that were reported dead about five years ago?”
“I could,” he says. “But that would take a little time. Why are you jumping straight to death?”
“Because, Ricky, when somebody drops off the face of the planet like that, they’re usually dead.”
“Or,” Ricky carefully says after a minute, turning to face Brooke, “it’s because they’ve completely changed their identity.”
Brooke rolls her eyes. “And why would she change her identity?”
Ricky shrugs. “Honestly, I don’t know. I don’t even know why you’re looking for her. But I do know that her mother died under what could be considered mysterious circumstances.”
Brooke looks at the monitor. She thinks about it.
“Okay,” she says. “Can you pull up her history for the six months before she disappeared? Like credit card activity and that kind of stuff?”
Ricky just stares at her.
“What?”
“I’m not sure you understand what I do here,” Ricky says.
“I know I don’t understand what you do here,” Brooke replies.
Ricky shakes his head. “I don’t have the time or the resources to get that kind of data, Ms. Graves.”
“Brooke,” she corrects him.
“I’m not even sure I can get you a comprehensive list of Jane Does that died back then,” Ricky admits.
“You’re too hard on yourself, Ricky,” Brooke says, getting to her feet.
“I am?”
“Yes,” Brooke says. “I don’t need a comprehensive list. I just need to know whether or not Kristen Jones matches any of those Jane Does.”
“Oh, well,” Ricky rolls his eyes, “in that case.”
“You know, I don’t like the person this life coach of yours is turning you into,” Brooke says. “Too much attitude.”
Ricky turns back to the computer, ignoring the jab, but the odor of rotting cheese that fills the cubicle tells another story. “You just need to know what happened to her.”
“Avery had it in her head something about college,” Brooke says, trying to wave the smell out of the cubicle.
Ricky’s head bobs up and down as he starts typing. “That’s something I could do.”
“It is?” Brooke asks.
Ricky’s fingers fly over the keyboard. “You might not know this, but nothing’s ever thrown out these days.”
“These days I believe it,” Brooke says. “But we’re talking about five years ago.”
“Nothing was ever thrown out back then, either,” Ricky says. “I can easily ping the databases of the local colleges to see if Kristen Jones applied to any of them five years ago.”
“Ping?”
Ricky looks at her over his glasses. “I was oversimplifying the process for your benefit.”
“Should I be offended?” Brooke says.
There’s a beep on the computer. Ricky turns back to the monitor. “There were three Kristen Jones who enrolled in college five years ago,” The screen populates with the three photos. One of them was a match for Daniel Jones’ daughter.
“That’s her,” Brooke says.
“Henderson College,” Ricky says. “She enrolled, but didn’t declare a major. She signed up for three classes: English One-oh-One, Algebra and History. And she failed all three classes.”
“My kind of girl,” Brooke says.
“She could have failed the classes due to absenteeism,” Ricky says.
“Really? They can fail you for that?”
Ricky looks back at her. “Have you ever gone to college?”
“Well, I’ve been on a college campus,” Brooke says. “And I’ve slept with a college professor or two. Does that count?”
Ricky sighs. “Ms. Graves-”
“Brooke,” she corrects him.
“-I don’t think there’s much else I can do for you right now,” Ricky finishes.
“You can find out whether or not she was enrolled in school, but you can’t find out if she matches any of the Jane Does?” Brooke asks dubiously.
“I don’t have to hack into college databases to get that information,” Ricky says, staring at the floor.
The cubicle starts to stink again.
“Righ
t,” Brooke pulls out a fifty and drops it on Ricky’s desk. “Gimme a call if you find anything on the Jane Does.”
seventeen
Avery traces Ralph Mason down to the Century City docks. It takes about twenty minutes of asking around by the docks and six people with really dumbfounded stares, before Avery finds someone who knows who Ralph Mason is, and, even then, all Avery really got was a finger pointing to a blue office building.
“Hello?” Avery asks as she pokes her head through the open door.
Turns out the blue office building is really just a single, rectangular shaped office. It takes all of three seconds for Avery to survey the entire office and discover it’s empty.
From the doorway, she pulls out the spectral analysis device and flips the switch. The red light comes on immediately. Flipping the device off, Avery slips it back into her jacket pocket.
Avery looks over her shoulder, but there’s no one there.
“Is it breaking and entering if the door was already unlocked?” Avery asks out loud. She follows it up with, “What if I don’t plan on stealing anything?”
Naturally, there’s no answer.
Avery decides to live dangerously and step inside. The door swings shut behind her.
The walls are covered in cheap wood paneling and the floor is an even cheaper shag carpet. There’s a desk and a couple of filing cabinets. It ranks in the top twenty of most boring offices Avery’s been in.
“Okay, what else have we got here?” she says to herself, walking around the desk. It’s cluttered with shipping papers and work schedules. Avery randomly flips through a few papers but doesn’t find anything interesting. There’s a picture on the desk of three men. She recognizes Ben and Brian Mason. The one in the middle looks like an older version of Brian Mason. “Nice to meet you, Ralph.”
Avery’s phone rings and she jumps.
“Yeah?” Avery answers.
It’s Brooke. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” Avery says, setting the picture back down.
“You sound a little startled,” Brooke says.
“That’s because you startled me,” Avery replies. She tries the desk drawers, but they’re locked.
“What are you doing?”
“Poking around an empty office,” Avery says. “Is there a reason you called?”
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