by JP Ratto
Books filled deep, square cubbies of a bookshelf along one wall. I scanned the titles of his impressive collection. In addition to a variety of genres, including popular fiction, mostly thrillers, Brandon had kept college textbooks. Charles had said his grandson was a political science major, but I didn’t see any books related to American politics. However, there were a number from the same publisher on Middle Eastern politics.
In several of the cubbies, rows of books stood two deep. I pulled out the ones in front to read the titles of those behind them. Science fiction dominated. It appeared he relegated certain books to the back of the shelf, leaving the most recently read ones in front. The only thing I surmised was that Brandon was an avid reader—until I saw a lone paperback lying flat on the lowest shelf. At a glance, I could see the well-worn cover and the ends of the pages curled from frequent use. I took it from the shelf.
It was a Koran.
After searching the rest of Brandon’s room, which yielded nothing more, I asked his parents for their son’s D.C. address and the names of his roommates. It was early evening, and I thought it would be the best time to catch two young grad students at home.
I didn’t mention the Koran I found, but I had a good idea what Cynthia Gates meant by “she’s not like us.” For she and Spencer, people like them meant affluent WASPs of high religious and social standing. Having a son who studies the Koran and has a Muslim girlfriend would indeed rock their elite whitebread world.
CHAPTER 12
The trip to Brandon’s apartment on M Street in Washington D.C. was thirty minutes. I found parking close by and entered the high-end residence. I gave my name and identification to the concierge, who called to see if Brian Green and Matthew Somers were home. Both were, but I had to answer numerous questions about who I was and what I wanted before they agreed to see me. I rode the elevator to the sixth floor. One of them was waiting in the doorway. After introducing myself and presenting my ID, Brian Green let me inside.
Modern, with a spacious open-concept living dining kitchen, the hard surfaces in the apartment were light and the metals, shiny steel. I thought about the difference between where I lived as a youth and their primo Georgetown-area digs. A patio slider leading to a balcony was open and let in a cool fall breeze. I appreciated the fresh air, as I could smell the faint odor of marijuana. It might be the reason for the downstairs interrogation, which gave them enough time to aerate the place.
Before I could ask where Somers was, he stepped out of another room to join us. The two were as physically different as night and day. Green had dark, model good looks and towered over Somers’s slight pale frame. They stood together looking uncomfortable, shifting their stance and crossing and uncrossing their arms. I needed them to relax.
“Could we sit and talk a few minutes?” I nodded toward the leather sectional facing a seventy-inch flat screen, on which a level of Assassin’s Creed was paused. “Great game,” I said as a way to break the ice.
That sparked some life into Green. “You play?”
“Sure. I have a couple of nephews who visit from time to time and have to stay on top of the latest gaming trends. At least that’s the excuse I give.” I gave them a comradely smile.
“Cool,” Brian Green said, leaning back against the sofa.
One down, one to go.
“Nice apartment. How long are you guys living here?” I looked at Matthew Somers, who tried to avoid my eyes.
“Uh, I’m only here a few months. Brian is here the longest.”
“Did you all know each other before moving in?” I noticed they both avoided mentioning Brandon and the reason I was there.
“No,” said Green. “I had two other roommates who left, so I placed a craigslist ad. Brandon was the first to respond, and then another guy did, but he flunked out of school and went back to live with his parents.”
“And that’s when you came in,” I said to Somers.
“Yes.”
“So when’s the last time you saw Brandon?”
They glanced at each other and shrugged—not quite the covert communication of Brandon’s parents. I wondered if they were concerned about not giving the same story, but Green loosened up.
“I saw Brandon on Friday morning. He usually worked afternoons the few days he didn’t have classes.”
“He worked on Fridays?”
“Yeah. At least that’s what he said.”
“Matthew, how about you?” Somers jerked as if I’d brought him back from another dimension. I thought he might have smoked too much weed.
“I didn’t see Brandon on Friday. I haven’t seen him since last week sometime. I don’t remember when.”
“Didn’t you think it was odd that he hadn’t come home for a few days?”
Again, it was Green who answered. “Nah, we don’t keep tabs on each other. We do our own thing usually, and sometimes we hang out and play games. But it’s not like we spend that much time together.”
I looked to Somers for his reaction. “Yeah, we’re busy with school and shit.”
I knew what kind of shit he meant.
“Okay, so is there anything you can tell me about Brandon’s behavior that would indicate a reason for his disappearance?”
Again, twin shrugs.
“Did he bring anyone home? Was he seeing a girl?”
At that, I distinctly saw Somers flinch, and when Green said, “Oh yeah, now that you mention it…” Somers’s eyes grew wide with alarm.
“He didn’t actually bring a girl up here,” said Green, “but one day I left the apartment right after him, and I saw him talking to a girl. They got into a car. I was kind of surprised.”
“That he had a girlfriend?”
“No. I mean, I know he isn’t gay—it’s just that his family is so—I don’t know. She didn’t seem his type.”
“What type is that?”
Green shifted in his seat. “She wore one of those scarves on her head; I don’t know what you call it.”
“A hijab,” I said.
“She’s not his girlfriend,” Somers blurted. “He works at some nonprofit Islamic org. She’s probably a coworker.”
Green looked offended at Somers’s contradiction. “No, man, it’s more than that.”
“How do you know?” I asked. There wouldn’t be any displays of affection in public, so I wondered what else Green could tell me about the relationship. It turned out he was being defensive.
“I just know.”
Somers relaxed until I asked to see Brandon’s room. “I don’t think he’d want anyone snooping around in there.”
“I’m not exactly snooping. I’ve been hired by his family to find out why he hasn’t been home for five days.”
“Maybe he’s staying with a friend—someone we don’t know.” Somers stood and walked to the kitchen for a glass of water.
That was a possibility I hadn’t explored yet. I still needed to see his room. Green came to my rescue.
“Matt, I think we should let him check out Brandon’s room in case something’s happened.”
I didn’t wait for Somers’s consent. “Which room is his, Brian?”
CHAPTER 13
Searching Brandon’s personal spaces would help me determine whether his disappearance was voluntary.
Unlike the one at his parents’ home, Brandon’s D.C. room was sterile for a student—no laptop or desktop computer. There were no notebooks or papers—not even a desk in the sparsely furnished space. The unmade queen bed, nightstand, chest, and bookcase took up half the large room. A few books lay in a small, ordered stack on one shelf—commercial fiction—no politics, American or Middle Eastern. Not a law book in sight.
The chest of drawers held socks, underwear, and casual clothes. In the closet hung suits—three of them—all dark gray. I assumed Brandon wore these to work. The pockets contained a couple of balled-up Starbucks receipts from over a week before. I noted the location as it might be close to where he worked. A few pair of shoes lay on the floo
r, but no sneakers. At the back of the closet was a small safe. It was unlocked and empty.
I entered the private bath. Toiletries and toothbrush were still there. I supposed if Brandon had gone of his own volition, he’d have packed light and taken a few articles of clothing and his laptop. All else could be replaced if necessary. Leaving certain items behind might have been intentional to make it look like he was coming back. My gut told me he wasn’t. And if not, did he have a choice?
About to leave the room, I decided to look at his books again. The first time, I’d only scanned the titles. I lifted the stack from the shelf and fanned the pages of each one. Working on the third book, I glanced at the empty shelf and did a double take. Half of a folded sheet of paper stuck out from behind the removable shelf. Tugging, I was careful not to rip it.
I unfolded what was a blank visa application for travel to Lebanon.
Added to what his parents and Brian Green told me about Brandon, finding that document, even a blank one, was disturbing. I didn’t like where the evidence was leading but decided to reserve judgment until I had more.
When I announced I was leaving, Somers and Green became talkative and friendly. Their obvious relief amused me and both offered to provide information should they learn anything new. They were eager to see me go as I could practically feel the door on my ass as I left the apartment.
On my way down to the street, I processed the vibes I got from both of them. Green, I was sure, was being truthful and only uncomfortable because at least one of them was in possession of an illegal drug. Somers exhibited the behavior of someone who struggled with the truth. I couldn’t brand him a liar, but when it came to the details surrounding Brandon’s disappearance, Matthew Somers hadn’t much to contribute. In fact, he made it a point to refute Green’s assertion that Brandon had a girlfriend. I wondered why it was so important to lead me down a wrong path.
Sitting in my car, I glanced from the few notes I jotted, to the entrance to the apartment building. Somers had made me suspicious enough to warrant a closer look at his activities. As I considered where I would start, he exited from the front lobby and raised the hood of his sweatshirt. He walked away from me along M street, hands in his pockets, his head down.
I turned on the car and followed at a distance. Traffic was light, allowing me to stay far enough behind so he didn’t notice the tail. Somers picked up his pace within three blocks, and after two more, stopped at a corner. Though he had a green light, he didn’t move. I pulled over.
Was he waiting for someone?
No sooner had I asked myself the question than a black SUV slid to a sharp halt at the curb. Somers jumped in the backseat. The car made a left, and again, I followed. After ten minutes of driving and a series of lefts and rights, we ended up within a few blocks of Somers’s apartment. The SUV stopped; Somers got out and jogged toward home. I eased closer to see the license plate. The car abruptly took off. They’d sped up before I could see the plate’s details.
I was sure it was government.
In a matter of seconds, numerous scenarios flashed through my mind. I abandoned the idea of returning to Somers’s apartment to question him again and instead hit the gas. I caught up to the SUV, which traveled at a steady speed. I didn’t know who I was following, but guessed it was one of those three-letter organizations, perhaps FBI. Why would Somers meet with federal agents, and not more than ten minutes after I spoke with him?
I concluded Somers was a confidential informant. The SUV’s destination remained to be seen, as FBI headquarters was in the opposite direction. Fifteen minutes later, we had gone over the Potomac and northwest onto the George Washington Memorial Parkway. Cruising ten car lengths behind, there was nothing but dark woods on either side of the road. I hiked the trails and knew the area, so it wasn’t long before I realized we were heading toward Langley.
There was too little evidence to make a judgment on why either the FBI or the CIA would have an interest in Brandon Gates, but I could speculate.
Did they believe he was involved with a terrorist cell?
The SUV slowed and so did I to maintain my distance. As I continued to drop my speed, I questioned the decision to follow them out of the city. In the middle of nowhere, the car pulled off to the side of the road and made a right into either a wooded area or rest stop. I couldn’t tell.
It was well past rush hour and the road was deserted. With few options, I stopped on the shoulder and cut the lights. I decided to wait a few minutes to see if, perhaps, they were here for a clandestine meeting. My car, parked off the road, would look abandoned. I didn’t worry about being seen through my tinted windows.
A single car passed by in the fifteen minutes I waited, and there was no activity from where the SUV had gone off the road. I hadn’t planned to sit there all night. What if whoever was in the car, were now somewhere on foot? I weighed my options. Get out and search the area or go back to the city and keep an eye on Somers.
About to put my Rover in gear, I let go of the stick shift to grab my gun when someone knocked hard on the window. The bright glow of a flashlight prevented me from seeing who was out there. Then I saw the ID pressed against the glass. FBI. Special Agent Richard Meyers. He told me to get out of the car. I knew I’d be searched so I slid my weapon under the seat and opened the window.
“I said to get out of the car.” The agent replaced his ID with a Glock 22. He waved it at me. “Out. Now.”
When I did as he asked and faced the car, my arms and legs spread, he did a quick search. He removed my ID from my pocket and threw it on the hood. I picked it up and turned around. The light shone between us. Agent Meyers was as tall as I was and weighed about thirty pounds more. He wore the requisite dark suit and tie, and a white shirt. Even if he didn’t flash his identification, I’d have known who he worked for.
“Mr. Holt, why are you following a government vehicle?”
“It’s not against the law to travel on the same road behind a government vehicle.”
“You didn’t just happen to be on the same road. We know you followed us from the city.”
“Us? Where is your partner?”
“Not your concern. Following agents conducting federal business could compromise that business. Therefore, it’s an obstruction of justice and a federal offense.”
“You made all that up, didn’t you?”
He ignored my sarcasm. “Stay away from Matthew Somers.”
“I can’t promise to do that. He may be a material witness in a missing persons’ case I’m working.”
“You don’t have a choice.”
“Listen, Dick.” He flinched at my use of the nickname and raised his gun a few inches. “A young man is missing and possibly in danger. Somers may have information I need to find him.”
“Somers can’t help you. He—”
“Meyers, is he giving you trouble?” Dick’s elusive partner came out of hiding. He must have been the brains to his partner’s brawn. Coming into the light, his ashen hair and complexion rendered his features nearly invisible except for his black eyes. “Mr. Holt—yes, Somers told us who you are—we can’t express strongly enough how important it is that you not interfere in an ongoing investigation.”
“How is talking to one of your informants hindering your investigation?” Neither one answered. “I’ve been hired by the Gates family to locate Brandon Gates, who has not been seen or heard from in five days. So unless the subject of your investigation is Brandon Gates, I don’t see any reason not to question Somers.”
Brains narrowed his eyes and moved closer. “We are not at liberty to say who the subject of our investigation is, and the reason you will not question Somers is because we say so. Is that clear?” He was in my face, and I could feel the muzzle of his Glock on my rib.
I hated the use of gestapo tactics and imagined bullies who grew up and chose careers that allowed them to abuse people. I didn’t believe Brains would shoot me. Nor did I accept that he could lawfully use his weapon to intim
idate me, but I couldn’t hit an FBI agent. Instead, I pushed the hand holding the gun away from my body. He demonstrated that he had skills when he let his arm move with the flow, raised it, and smacked my temple with his pistol.
Dazed, I stumbled forward onto the road. Through blurred vision, I could see a burst of headlights, which grew larger and brighter as the vehicle came closer. The car slowed, and veered to the side of the road. Meyers stood over me, and I could hear his panic.
“Damn, just what we need, a Good Samaritan.”
“Let’s go, Meyers. We’ll leave Mr. Holt to think about his options.”
I tried to grab hold of Meyers, lost my balance, and fell to my knees. A car door slammed and Brains was at my ear.
“Holt, stay away from Somers. No more warnings.”
The sound of crunched leaves echoed as the FBI agents ran back to their vehicle. Moments later, their SUV shot out from the woods, crossed the turf divider, and burned rubber as they sped toward D.C. I sat on the road with my knees curled and let the world continue to spin. I felt a tap on my shoulder.
“Is this a private party or can anyone join?”
I recognized Mac’s voice.
He tilted my head and pulled up my eyelid. “Dizzy?”
“Not as much as before. Why are you here?” I rose to my feet and used Mac’s shoulder to steady myself. My vision was back and a headache came with it.
“Gates’s exact words were, ‘Holt is better than anyone I’ve ever seen but not as good as he thinks he is. Stay close. Be available.’ I stayed back to let you handle it. I mean, hell…there were only two of them.”