Lost By The River

by David Moynihan

  I stared at her in the hallway. She glanced back. Recriminations are time-consuming.

  “Javier was... surprised to see you.”

  “Me, him. Good tackler, though. Like to see that from your defense.” I rubbed my jaw. “Where the heck is this guy's office?”

  “Over this way,” she said, pointing to a blank door I'd passed. Repeatedly. How could I have missed it? “I'll lock you in.”

  “Lock in? Fine. But bring me a sandwich from the reception. This will take a while.” She seemed about to start. But nodded.

  “Of course. Chicken? Or the vegetable wrap?”

  “Do I look like a vegetable wrap person?”

  “No. No, you don't look like a vegetable wrap person.”

  FOUR

  Ansbach's lair was decorated in early '70s college student. Papers everywhere, no sign of the earnest cleaning staff, and not a few bits of lit glassware for cultivating herbal delights. All in the name of science, for sure. I got closer to the plants—mint, cactus, fern.

  Space on the desk by his PC lay relatively clear, as far as an arm could sweep. I leafed gingerly through the reams of papers abounding just outside the Doc's work range, figured I wouldn't understand a word of it, had trouble telling what the pictures were supposed to be. Some of the more colorful ones looked like cells; red was probably for cancer, or blood, or Agate's expected future earnings.

  Attention waning, I dug through the desk drawers, very little, no notes, no memos, no secretary to speak of. Ansbach employed a what-you-see-is-what-you-use file system. Hidden away I joyously seized upon an unopened pack of post-its.

  She or I.T. had been kind enough to leave the man logged. Screen was basic, no icons on the documents, no record of recent documents opened. Saw later that was intentional. Web browser had little traffic in the logs. Couple of conferences, some subscriber-only scientific mags and journals, with user name and passwords saved into the browser. In the bookmarks, the Doc had some light reading—the complete human genome, and the crap that browsers gave you by default.

  He didn't care for sports teams, know the best takeouts or track the weather religiously. Sometimes he checked Agate's stock, sometimes the stocks of other companies that did even worse. Vacation plans... none. Politics followed... none. No interest in cars, music, Hollywood or peak oil. Sounded like he could be my best friend.

  I pulled his emails up, sifted through boring, saw a few patches here and there, light but tended to angry: internal, patents... but starred message showed additional compensation approved. Motivated, I ran undelete on the account: 52,000 mails. Lousy spam filter. Nothing impressive, but quick searches on “meet,”

  “golf,”

  “geek gathering” yielded little. I saved everything to a flash drive, in case. His outgoings were less plentiful, tended to one word—“yes,”

  “no,”

  “success,”

  “failure.” The other person hopefully knew what the doc spoke of. I didn't.

  PC had chat software installed. That could've been interesting, but—nah. Never once logged into to an account. Two partners. Both providing tech support at a federal agency. No record of the logs. Maybe they made the Doc change his password regularly.

  I was about to call it quits and go break into the man's apartment when I caught sight of something interesting. Hidden in a corner, Doc had a second browser on the PC. Not standard corporate, free as in beer, a better experience, and just the thing to use for blocking pop-ups and virii, not to mention that icky porn remnant that keeps restarting whenever you try and close your browser to the point where you have to unplug the PC.

  History wasn't saved, zapped off after one day. But his start page was freenet, the perfect place to go if you wanted to hide traffic logs from a zealous staff. I was about to recheck the emails, see if the Doc was buzzing competitors for cash and a better car, when I lucked out and slid down saved searches in the freenet bar.

  Sites visited by the Doc included “dc-amour,”

  “lonelynita,”

  “saigonparadise,” and on and on, offering a comprehensive list of sensual providers.

  Sports no. Music no. But the man was a hobbyist.

  I sat for a moment, inexcusably pleased with myself. The small victory of finding something on the Internet. But it beat the heck out of digging through evening shift records to figure just which busboy I'd have to talk up against the wall in the a.m. Part of me wanted to rush out of there and start interviewing providers. But I hung on, if only to let the emails copy over to my flash drive.

  And besides, she hadn't brought me my sandwich yet.

  Pulled a copy of solitaire off the inhouse network to occupy my time. Pinball sucks with sound off, and I couldn't find sound drivers for the Doc's outdated PC. I'd spent two, two and a half hours on discovery, so for their money, they could have presence in house for an extended period. But, no, my woman in corporate life didn't seem to want to make that commitment to my time.

  It was after eight when I said screw it and headed for the road. She met me at the door; flustered look on her face, like a matron whose husband had had three drinks too many, set to take it out on the help in steakhouse hells of yore.

  I wanted none of it.

  “You're done,” she said.

  “Been done. No sandwich?”

  “I—.”

  “Right.”

  “Find anything?”

  “Much.”

  “Tell me?”

  “Why?”

  “They're—we're paying you a lot of money, Mr. Drake.”

  “Sure. And wasting my valuable time, through arranged introductions to lesser members of the Agate pantheon.”

  “Javier is... overzealous. I—”

  She pushed past me, set on the one chair in Ansbach's office. I waited. She rested her head in her hands. I kept waiting.

  “You laid off the security staff, didn't you?”

  “They were a private company. We couldn't afford the bill. They quit showing up.”

  “Alarms not working?”

  “Different company. Same bills.”

  “Crunch time?”

  “Look, there's cash. Revenues coming in. Milestones hit. Auditors haven't expressed doubt about our ability to function as a going concern. None of this is important.” She looked at me shyly. Cute, if you go for vulnerable. I don't.

  “I've had a very difficult day, Mr. Drake. I would very much like to hear some good news. Tell me you've found something. Anything.”

  “Yeah. Found something. Got a lead on your guy's activities that I'll be following up on. It's a late evening affair.”

  “Oh. Why that's—”

  “But now, since you've forgotten to feed me, I'll have to run. There's a carryout nearby with great Singapore noodles. If you'll excuse me.”

  She must have been tired. Didn't begin to berate me until after the door closed.

  I hit the parking lot. A black Lincoln town car lay waiting. Wondering if maybe there was some date set to happen, I strode past curiously. Three doors opened. I lost my curiosity, but before I could display my full indifference, guy from the backseat moved toward me and started talking.

  “Mr... Drake?” It was one of the Chinese from this afternoon's exhibition. Set firm in a suit, two guys flanking were a bit bulkier. Secretaries or bodyguards, hard to tell.

  “Yeah. That's me. I know you?”

  “We have not met before today.”

  “Oh.” I moved for my car.

  “But of course, your record of peculiar activities is well known to myself and others at the embassy...”

  Perfect clipped English. I had to stop. There was an incident a few years ago. Top Congressman's son. Dad headed for a lucrative subcommittee post. Boy had it hardcore for a gal he'd met at the one of the district's “clubs.” Pa didn't go for it. She was pulled back behind the walls of the mainland compound, ready to be sent home quietly. Son couldn't take it; searched for her; went a bit crazy. I'd been working
to cover a few messes he'd made in area bars, caught up with him outside trying to scale the walls and reach foreign soil without going through customs or Homeland Security first.

  Neither of us qualified as cat burglars. Guard folken arrived, fast, weapons drawn. Junior was tasered. Then things got weird. Pops and an attache came by, the latter shouting in the boy's ear about “bing bing girls.” Boy still didn't get it, but my work was done. Dad and the diplomats applauded my own efforts in making sure he wasn't gunned down.

  I'd steered clear of embassy jobs since. But they were known for absorbing data. Free time, bored staff...

  “Ain't nothing that peculiar.”

  “But Mr. Drake, I'm quite sure things have been happening at the Agate Pharmaceuticals which have required your attentions.”

  “You know something about that?”

  “Perhaps I've heard rumors.”

  “And you know me, so you know I ain't gonna add nothing to what you heard.”

  “Of course. Then, I will tell you. You are here because someone, presumably that delightful vice president, has obtained your services to locate someone.”

  I said nothing. Looked for my car door.

  “You do not, perhaps, understand why that missing someone is so important.”

  Parked where?

  “I will only explain to you that the persons I represent are also interested in the same someone. And that he be located quietly, and returned to his rightful place. We are all very much in the hope that these negotiations can proceed smoothly.”

  He didn't blink through that one.

  “This man, he is... somewhat notorious for absences. And for behavior that can best be described as temperamental. It is possible that you will locate him. Perhaps probable. You, Mr. Drake, are one of the best hunters in certain... areas. Your, territories, if you will.”

  “Appreciate the compliment.”

  “Were you to locate him, and find him unwilling to return to the fold in an undamaged state, Mr. Drake—I give you my card. I may also be able to offer some convincing.”

  I was gonna say it wasn't my job to bring the man back. But that'd be giving too much away. I took the document, carefully eyeing details. Fang. Assistant Vice-Consul. Young fellar for that. He'd go far. Keep his name handy if ever I secured another bing bing commission; could save a lot of time. I was about to chat him to that effect, but he was already turning away without the handshake, saying he understood that now would be the best time for my searching.

  Off by an hour or two in that department. Man didn't know everything. Just more than me. I nodded thoughtfully at his exhaust, stomped to my truck.

  FIVE

  As every erotic tourist knows, some of the best values stateside in professional women are available around the DC area. Between the career gals and enthusiastic interns, our nation's capital is blessed with an extraordinary supply of willing amateurs, to the point where listed rates for the professionals are roughly half what you'd pay in NY or elsewhere.

  Only downside for a non-puritan such as myself was I had to sift through more than 400 names off Ansbach's classified site. They didn't list addresses, but you could narrow by region, time of listing, and hourly fee.

  Luckily, I had my own database of where some of the gals located themselves. Not 100% accurate, of course. In the burbs, with so many vacant homes owned by speculators, you'll find a great deal of sideways mobility among professional women. You wonder why the neighbors complain, as after all, ladies like this might be the only ones keeping the housing bubble from bursting. Working gals, and taxes from suckers in the 48 states not near DC.

  Cross-checking against the DMV and Ansbach's erotic parking, I came up with five names. Quick calls showed two numbers not working. That gave me three left-over. I flipped through the cash Agate had given me, set up two appointments. It was late, and I was unknown to the gals, but I scheduled two hours in each case and didn't haggle for the discount. DC being a half-hour town, the rep in each case welcomed me after a pair of landline callbacks.

  I assumed the double-check was to make sure I knew there wouldn't be Greek, but maybe it was some kind of hopeful security thing.

  First outpost on the road to iniquity was littered with ruined signs announcing babysitting, dog-walking, and mandatory recycling day, as well as new happenings at the local library. I pulled around the corner, knocked at the door, was met by a woman in terrycloth exercise-wear. Another fantasy crushed. Gal was a bit pear-shaped. Long-time pro. Still keeping it together. Mostly. But knew her clientele.

  “Drake?” she asked as I stepped in.

  “Yeah. That's me.”

  We looked at one another for a moment. I slipped her the envelope.

  “A donation for your time.”

  “Oh, that's wonderful,” said she, eyeballing it with the deft skill of a blackjack dealer then offering up a big hug to me. I accepted, but stopped her kiss on the cheek.

  “Hmm?” asked she.

  “I'm not here for the girlfriend experience.

  “No—what then?” Puzzled, but I don't emanate the killer vibe. For just anyone.

  “I'm looking for someone.”

  “And I'm here—”

  “Save it. It's a guy. If he isn't dead, his location is worth money. If he is dead, we need to know. Money I'd be more than willing to pass on to you. Guy was around 5'8, 5'9, mid-40s, 170, wore suits. An enthusiast. Maybe not the most social of beings though.”

  “That really narrows it down. And I'm not sure I know what you're talking about... officer.”

  “He was last here two weeks ago Wednesday. Got a ticket on the street outside for parking there during rush. Probably stayed a while before that 4:00 moment.”

  “Oh... the doc!”

  “That's him. Anything you can tell me about him?”

  “I, well...”

  “I don't need the gory details. Book market's glutted with tell-alls, and it'd just offend my Midwestern sensibilities. Was he a regular? Are there future appointments? Solo act or work in pairs? On site or out-call?”

  “I — hmm.” She walked into another room, grabbed a PDA from the desk, pulled the stylus and began scrolling. I waited. She puzzled. I counted lip pursings, 4 per minute, cost to Agate was $23 per clench.

  “OK. But I don't normally do this. Privacy is a major part of my—”

  “Yeah. Yeah. Mine too.”

  “Your doc was with me just three times in the last six weeks. Booked an hour. Stayed half. Good tipper. We didn't talk much, just asked me to call him 'Doc' and—”

  “Yeah. Wonderful. Thanks,” I said, ready to split.

  “But—”

  “Hmm.”

  “I'm not sure.”

  “Coy ain't requested tonight.”

  “OK. You're a charmer. The gentleman in question was a referral to me from a girl by the name of Eveline. Top pro. Class, but too much in-demand to meet every client's needs.”

  “Before my time. But I've heard of her. Thanks.”

  I split before we got a chance to figure what I'd get on the rest of my time. Something might have been on offer, but if not my self-image would have been destroyed. Besides, I meet see something better later. Probably. Definitely.

  Second assignation was in a past-prime chain hotel, with tardy renovation schedule ameliorated by its location next to a half-decent beer store. Early, I grabbed a six and waited, glancing about in the parking lot for the faded fire lane that'd suckered Ansbach into his ticket. Girls, plural, working out of a place like this. Overseas ladies, the sort who got rotated about multiple homes, with a week off each month for vacation. I was about to skip my appointment, but they had my number, and next thing you know I'd be signed up for every telemarketing charity on the planet. Vindictive, those overseas ladies.

  Hotel was an external balcony model, no need to march up front for a key. I parked away from the light and other cars; always on the lookout for cops when open-containering in Maryland. Room 428 served as the den of iniq
uity. Bored, I eyed the entrance closely, listening angrily to sports talk radio, my angering increasing until I found myself shouting at the increasingly insipid callers. You do what you can to get into character.

  A black Lincoln pulled up. I thought little of it, but the car seemed familiar. Wondered if it was some jerk who'd cut me off in the past. Two men jumped out of the front, raced to the stairs. Curious, I kept watching, but they didn't have the look of cops, moving fast in trim suits.

  They hit the fourth floor in a blur, stopping at the site of my date. I wasn't in the mood for a double so I slunk lower. The pair busted in, loud bang, other hotel lights popping on. Depressed, I slid over to the passenger seat, dropped the remnants of my six out onto the curb, and saw what was likely a far worse crime than littering.

  They had one lass, were pulling her half-clothed body down. She was Chinese and the slinky open robe showed a dedication to conditioning that Western competition seemed to lack. The man pulling her looked very familiar. Maybe it was the beer. I'm decades past the Sir Galahad phase, but I had to look closer.

  Little time for disguise, I slipped out the passenger side, sprinkled a half-empty on my face for effect, opened a fresh one, swigging as I walked. Voila, instant drunk. They moved slowly down the stairs, she screaming and kicking, one guy holding her off the ground and slamming her face against the wall for effect, another trailing behind, pressing a cloth against his face. No doors opened, no manager appeared, but there'd be plenty of witnesses later when the cameras came.

  The group tumbled down to the landing, and all three paused, staring at me. I set my eyes to bleary, staggered up indifferently, almost tripping on the curb when I noticed them.

  “Alys!” I shouted, giving her the name of my favorite character in a Peter O'Toole flick. She stared blankly, got to her feet. Thug A kept his hands on her, B pulled his handkerchief away, saw the blood, moved to strike the gal.

  “Alys, baby... yah came down to meet me—these yur fren'?”

  Three very puzzled expressions. Cloth guy considered taking me down, but I had half a foot and a full hundred pounds on him.