The Informationist: A Thriller

by Taylor Stevens

  When he had finally completed check-in, she booked a room, then placed several calls, and finally, getting past Kate Breeden’s voice mail, arranged to meet for dinner at the hotel’s restaurant.

  OUTSIDE, MUNROE HAILED a taxi and twenty minutes later stood in a parking lot on a semideserted industrial strip. Far down the street on either side and in both directions were squat cement structures, businesses divided one from the next by narrow windows and truck bays.

  Munroe watched the cab drive away and then climbed the steps that led to the closest door. The signage scripted in large metallic block letters read LOGAN’S.

  The front door was locked. She pressed her face to the glass and, seeing no light, rapped on it. A few minutes passed, a light came on from the back, and Logan approached in sweats, barefoot and with a sheepish grin on his face. He unlocked the door and let her in, and then, scanning her up and down, said, “You look like shit.”

  She dropped the duffel bag on the entrance floor and let the door close. “Glad to see you, too,” she said.

  His smile broke first, and they both laughed. He wrapped his arms around her shoulders in a hug and then held her at arm’s length. “Welcome back,” he said. “God, it’s good to see you. How was the trip?”

  “Long and tedious.”

  “If you want to crash, the couch is available.”

  “Thanks but no thanks,” she said. “I’m going against the jet lag.”

  “Coffee, then?” He turned toward the small kitchen. “I’m just getting a pot on.”

  “Caffeine I could use. Thick and black.”

  Nothing he could conjure in his kitchen would come close to Turkish coffee; the caffeine withdrawals would follow on the heels of the anxiety and jet lag. One hurdle at a time.

  The office portion of the building had four rooms. Logan used one as an office, another as a conference room, and the third and fourth as living quarters. In the back the warehouse doubled as repair shop and storage area. He wasn’t supposed to be living in the building, but he paid his rent on time and thus far no one had complained to the property managers. The arrangement had been going on as far back as Munroe had known him—that muggy summer night seven years before, when prejudice in a hole-in-the-wall bikers’ bar had turned to violence and she’d thrown in her lot with the underdog. They’d laughed when it was over, sitting by the edge of the road, under the blackened sky, making introductions like star-crossed soul mates.

  Munroe walked the hallway slowly, following a row of poster-size frames that adorned the walls, stopping for a moment in front of each. Most contained photos of motorcycles on a speedway, Logan in the races he competed in, split-second snapshots of his professional life.

  Logan was thirty-three with dusty blond hair, green eyes, and an innocent smile that placed him closer to twenty-five. Over the years the impression of childish innocence he gave had drawn in a succession of boyfriends who each in turn had discovered the reality of a dark and hardened soul.

  Logan had been on his own since he was fifteen, had started by scraping together an existence fixing cars and motorcycles part-time from a repair shop owned by his best friend’s father. Everything he had he’d earned by clawing his way to it one exacting day after another, and he was, by Munroe’s judgment, the closest being she’d found to perfection in the nine years since she first set foot on American soil.

  Logan joined her in front of the last frame and handed her a steaming mug. She nodded thanks, and they stood in comfortable silence for quite a while. “Two years is a long time,” he said finally. “There’s a lot to catch up on, Michael.” He turned toward the back door. “You ready?”

  She didn’t move and in a voice laced with confession said, “I might be taking another assignment.”

  He stopped.

  “It’s why I’ve come back.”

  Logan studied her. “I’m surprised you’re even giving it consideration. I thought you’d told Kate to turn down all incoming requests.”

  Munroe nodded.

  “You already know what I think,” he said. If he was upset, he hid it well. “If you decide to take it, I’ll be there to back you up.”

  She smiled, reached for his hand, and in his palm placed the medallion. “It was perfect,” she said. “Thanks.”

  He nodded and with a half grin said, “I’ll add it to the collection.” He put his arm around her shoulders. “Come on, let’s go.”

  They exited the office and living area through the back door that opened to the warehouse and workshop, and halfway to the end of the building they stopped. Munroe reached into a set of stacked plastic drawers, retrieving a backpack and a few personal items while Logan let down a ramp and rolled the Ducati from its storage space.

  The bike was sleek black-on-black, a thing of pure beauty, and Munroe smiled as she ran her fingers over the custom race fairings. “I’ve taken good care of her,” Logan said. “Took her out for a spin last week just to make sure everything’s tweaked and peaked.”

  If it were possible to love a machine, Munroe loved this one. It symbolized power, life broken into split-second intervals, calculated risk. Few things were capable of providing the same adrenaline rush that the horses between her legs delivered as they tore down the roads at over 150 miles an hour. The rush had become a form of self-medicating, a narcotic sweeter than drugs or alcohol, just as addictive and equally destructive.

  Three years prior she’d totaled the bike’s predecessor. Shattered bones and a head injury had kept her in a hospital for several months, and when released she’d taken a taxi direct from the hospital to the dealership to pick up a new machine.

  Munroe straddled the bike, sighed, and turned the ignition. She felt the surge of adrenaline and smiled. This was home: running along a razor’s edge of self-induced terror, calculating mortality against probability.

  Assignments were the reprieve. When she was abroad, although she would do whatever was necessary to get the job done, there was a degree of normalcy, sanity, purpose, and the destructive forces propelling her to gamble with her life were dormant.

  Munroe nodded a helmeted good-bye to Logan and, with the screaming whine of the engine, shot forward. Returning home was an eventuality, but if she planned to stay alive, perhaps not all that smart.

  IT WAS EARLY evening when she returned to the hotel. She had spent the day at the spa, had been soaked and wrapped, peeled and painted; they had given her back her dignity and femininity, and she had loved every moment.

  She now wore clothes that hugged her body, accentuating long legs and model height. Hers was an androgynous figure—boyish, sleek, and angular—and she walked through the lobby with a sensual stride, subtly provocative, fully aware of the surreptitious glances coming from the mostly male guests.

  … When I would comfort myself against sorrow, my heart is faint …

  The attention amused her, and she took her time.

  … I hurt; I am black; astonishment has taken hold …

  Now, on her eighth trip back to the United States, each return more of the same and with anxiety continuing to crest wave upon wave, it was time to find a distraction. A challenge. A game.

  He was in Room 319. But first there was business to attend to. Munroe glanced at the clock. Breeden would already be waiting.

  SIX YEARS AGO Kate Breeden had a thriving law practice in downtown Austin and was married, with a daughter in junior high, an eight-hundred-thousand-dollar home, three luxury cars, and yearly trips to faraway places. Then came the messy divorce.

  The house, the cars, the vacation and investment properties were all sold off, and Texas’s community-property law split twenty years of earning down the middle. Her daughter chose to live with the ex-husband, and Breeden took what was left, put it into an investment fund, packed up, and moved to Dallas to start over.

  They’d met on the Southern Methodist University campus, where Breeden had returned for an M.B.A. and Munroe was in her sophomore year. The relationship began as a cautious mothe
r-and-daughter surrogacy at a time when people still called Munroe by her given name.

  When she’d received the unusual job offer that would require interrupting her studies in order to make a trip to Morocco, Breeden was the one she’d gone to for advice.

  Breeden now owned a successful marketing consulting firm and practiced law on the side for a few select clients. She was Munroe’s buffer between everyday life and life on assignment. In the months and sometimes years that Munroe was out of the country, Breeden paid the bills, kept the accounts open, and forwarded pressing matters. Breeden was warm and friendly and absolutely ruthless. She’d screw a person over with a polite smile—cozy up and bury them alive—and for that reason Breeden was an ally: She was safe.

  Breeden was a bottle-dyed blonde with shoulder-length hair and heavy bangs that flattered almond-shaped eyes. Munroe found her at a corner table looking over a stack of paperwork and sipping red wine. Breeden made eye contact, rose with an enormous smile, and grasped Munroe’s hands warmly. “Michael,” she said with trademark breathlessness, “you look so well. Turkey was good to you!”

  “The Four Seasons did this to me,” Munroe said, taking a seat, “but I did love Turkey.”

  “Have you completely wrapped that one up?”

  “A few minor details and then I’ll be finished.” Munroe dug into a roll, spread the butter on thickly, and then politely motioned for the documents.

  Breeden passed them across the table. After a few minutes of flipping through pages, Munroe said, “This doesn’t seem like something I’d handle.” She smiled. “Is that what you meant by ‘exception’?”

  “It’s the easy money,” Breeden said. Munroe paused, and Breeden continued. “When Burbank’s daughter disappeared in Africa about four years ago, he hired the best international investigators and, when that proved futile, mercenaries. So far, nothing.”

  “Why come to me?”

  “He’s seen your work, says this is just another form of information.”

  “It could be.” Munroe shrugged. “But that’s money hard earned, nothing easy about it.”

  “When I got the call, I spoke with Burbank himself—no middlemen or corporate strategists. He’s offering that hundred thousand just for the meeting, regardless of your answer. He wants to present the case to you personally.”

  Munroe let out a low whistle.

  “I did explain that he was probably wasting both his time and his money. But there are worse ways to earn a hundred grand than overlooking the Houston skyline for a day.”

  Munroe pressed her thumb to the bridge of her nose and sighed. “I really don’t know, Kate. Once I hear the details, I might want to take it, and we both know that whether I wish it or not, I need a break …” Her voice trailed off.

  “I’ll call Burbank in the morning,” Breeden said. “I’ll let him know you’ve declined.”

  Munroe’s eyes fell to the documents. “I haven’t declined yet,” she said. “I made the trip, didn’t I?” She reached for the papers and thumbed through them again. “Is this everything?”

  “Officially, yes.”

  “Have you read it all?”

  “Yes.”

  “What about unofficially?”

  “In the dossiers are personal bits and pieces centering on Elizabeth Burbank. It seems that at or around the same time the first teams were setting out to track down Emily, she had a nervous breakdown and had to be hospitalized. She was in and out of retreats for a year before she passed away. Suicide.”

  Breeden took a sip of water. “For the family it was fortune followed by tragedy. Less than two months before Elizabeth’s death, Burbank’s drilling venture off the coast of West Africa struck oil and the stock in his company went through the ceiling. He became an overnight multimillionaire and since then, through careful investment of capital, has become a billionaire several times over.”

  She paused, and Munroe motioned for her to continue.

  “Prior to this the family wasn’t hurting by any means. Richard Burbank had done well in life through high-risk enterprises that paid off, and he also married well both times. Elizabeth came from old money, ran with the Houston elite, so it’s safe to say that they were already well-off before the oil windfall. Elizabeth was Richard’s second marriage—Emily, the girl who’s missing, is Elizabeth’s daughter from a previous marriage. Richard legally adopted her when she was seventeen. It was right around their ten-year anniversary. He and Elizabeth held a recommitment ceremony, and he let Emily choose a charity for a big donation in their honor.”

  The waiter approached with the meal, and Breeden stopped. Munroe flicked the napkin over her lap and inhaled the aroma coming off her plate. “So,” she said, “he’s a philanthropist. What else? What’s he like as a person?”

  “It’s hard to say,” Breeden replied. “My impression while on the phone is that he’s no-nonsense, he gets what he wants. There isn’t a lot of press coverage on him prior to the oil discovery. His company, Titan Exploration, has been publicly traded for almost seven years, but there’s little mention of Burbank other than to point out that he’s the founder and a major stockholder. He seems to be somewhat camera shy.”

  Munroe nodded and chewed. She cleared her throat. “For a hundred grand, I’ll listen to what he has to say. But make sure he knows that I’m coming for the money and out of pure curiosity.”

  “I believe he’ll want to see you as soon as possible.”

  “Try to arrange it a few days from now—give me some time to catch my breath.”

  “How are things this time around?” Breeden asked.

  “Hasn’t changed much. I deal.” Munroe put down the knife and fork. Discussing the insanity inside her head was out of the question; it was a private hell best lived alone. “I’m fine,” she said.

  Breeden pulled out a cell phone. “Before I forget.” She handed it to Munroe. “So I don’t have to hunt you down. Number’s on the back, charger’s in the briefcase. I’ll call you as soon as I’ve got the appointment sorted out.”

  The meal over, Munroe returned to her room, disassembled the file, glanced through the pages, and at some point in the middle became intrigued. When she found herself losing track of time, she set the alarm clock and went back to the beginning, starting with the summary from the official files.

  Whoever had written this document described the Africa that she knew well and had long given up trying to forget. Munroe became lost in the pages until the alarm buzzed a reminder that something needed attention. Noah Johnson.

  He would be the distraction du jour, the assignment of the night. She shuffled the papers into a semblance of order and tossed them on the desk. She leaned her head back, closed her eyes, and pulled in a deep breath, followed it with several more—a shift from one work mode into the next.

  She found him at the bar, staring into his drink. Even from a distance, he was beautiful, and if he hadn’t been so immersed in his own thoughts, he might have noticed the glances from several women nearby. Munroe sat at the opposite end of the bar, ordered a drink, and requested that a second of what he was having be taken to him.

  When the glass arrived, he looked up and then in her direction as the bartender pointed her way. She leaned beyond the couple blocking his view and gave a slight wave. He smiled, picked up the glass, and walked toward her. “Bonsoir,” he said, and seated himself on the adjacent stool, then raised his glass in thanks.

  Experience predicated that he, like most men after a few drinks and faced with a beautiful woman showing interest, would be unable to help himself. Getting him into bed was beside the point; the challenge was in possession, to crawl inside his head so deeply that he wouldn’t want her out.

  She replied in French and in the small talk listened for his personality, filtering options through his answers. When the pieces became a composite whole, she would shift into characteristics that would most easily enchant—whatever the particular role necessitated in order to acquire the end goal. Bimbo, coquette, s
iren—name it and become it.

  His answers were unexpected and made her laugh, not the laugh of an actress but one that was genuine, real. And that he carried his own streak of adrenaline hunger didn’t hurt.

  Discovering that work had taken her to Morocco, he flashed a teasing smile and switched from French to Arabic: “Hal tatakalam al-Arabia?”

  She grinned and whispered, “Tabaan.”

  Their conversation undulated, it swelled and lingered. His personality was beyond what she’d anticipated—closer to her own than any distraction she’d yet sought out. Perhaps this hunt would be the easiest of all. No games, no roles, just a sanitized version of who she really was.

  Desiring more privacy than the bar and lounge provided, Munroe said, “You want to find the Jacuzzi with me?”

  “I’d love to,” he said, “but I don’t have a bathing suit.”

  She moved closer to his ear. “Neither do I, but if you wear your underwear and act like you own the place, nobody will ever notice.”

  He laughed, a deep, hearty laugh, spontaneous and alive. He gulped down the remainder of his drink and placed the glass on the bar counter. “I think I like you, Lady Munroe.” He stood. “Where is this Jacuzzi?”

  The hot tub was situated in an alcove away from the main pool, and when they’d found it, Munroe shed her clothes and slid into the foaming water. Noah studied her for a moment and then, without breaking eye contact, draped his shirt over a nearby pool chair and slid in beside her. “These,” he said, tracing his finger along one of the many white slivers etched into her body. “Are the scars also part of your job?”

  She began to say something, then hesitated and stopped. “Those,” she said finally, “are a story for another time.” It wasn’t the usual bullshit about car accidents and glass, and it avoided a truth she had no desire to relive.

  chapter 2

  TO: Katherine Breeden

  FROM: Miles Bradford

  SUBJECT: Emily Burbank—Disappearance/Investigation

  Ms. Breeden: