The Optogram

by Noelle Jeffreys

  Fury radiated from her pale face as an aide wheeled her into the examining rooms.

  What else was I supposed to do? Fuck, I hate hospitals.

  Dothan stopped and closed his eyes, trying to shove aside the flashback of another hospital with its acrid smell and unending noise as the social worker explained she was taking him to a foster home that night.

  His eyes snapped open as the automatic doors from the ward squealed and a smiling nurse emerged, pushing January in a wheelchair.

  “There…There…Dothan,” mumbled January. She tried to raise her hand, but it wobbled and fell into her lap. “That’s…him.” With each jerking movement of the chair, her head appeared to swivel on her shoulders.

  He went to January, taking her hands. She squinted and tried to smile.

  “Mr. Dothan?” asked the woman. “I’m Penny. Dr. Duncan’s nurse.”

  “Yeah, whatever. What’s wrong with her?”

  “She’s a bit woozy. We gave her something to ease the pain while the doctor stitched up that arm.” Nurse Penny handed him a stack of pastel-colored papers and a plastic bag. “Here’s all her care instructions. These pink sheets are her discharge papers from ER and it shows her appointment to see a wound care specialist at two o’clock tomorrow. Now, she got quite upset when we asked for her personal information. Would you remind her she needs to call this number and provide her name, address and insurance, unless you’d like to give it to them.”

  Dothan shook his head. “I’ll leave that to her.”

  “Do you have a car?”

  Dothan swiped an app on his phone. “No. I’ll call a ride-share.”

  Nurse Penny chattered on, but he ignored her and kissed January’s forehead.

  A small silver car arrived at the emergency entrance of the hospital. Nurse Penny rolled January to the door and helped her into the back seat. He slid in next to her, but the nurse touched his arm. “She’ll sleep most of the morning, but make sure she takes her antibiotics and is careful to keep the wound clean and dry. If you have questions, call the—”

  Go away.

  He closed the car door while the nurse was still speaking and pulled January close to him. She laid her head on his shoulder as her injured arm rested in her lap, wrapped from her wrist to her elbow in a white elastic bandage.

  He grimaced at the faint smell of antiseptic and fresh plastic, but forced himself to focus on January instead of the day his mother died.

  After their return to the apartment, he helped her into bed.

  “You don’t know…” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to…” January closed her eyes and, in an instant, was asleep.

  When the bedroom door was closed, he rested his elbows on his knees and covered his face with his hands.

  She is going to be furious when that shit wears off, but too bad. I’m not a damn doctor, I told her that.

  Exhausted, Dothan went to the kitchen and grabbed a full bottle of whiskey. After dropping onto the sofa, he took several swigs. As the alcohol raced through his veins, he relaxed, but despite a desperation to continue until he was oblivious, he screwed on the metal cap. He had to be cautious. The days to follow would be hard enough without nursing a constant hangover.

  It was ridiculous to think they could execute their plan after everything that occurred. His meeting with Barclay would be easy enough to postpone, but he wondered if Harrington still expected January at the playpen orgy.

  I’ll just call that son of a bitch and strike a deal for my software, just like we first planned.

  It was a perfect solution. After explaining January’s injury, Dothan could present his offer to turn the code over to Conscentiam at no cost to the company if Harrington guaranteed their safety. If the creep refused, Dothan could blackmail him with the information he had uncovered on Althea.

  He checked his watch. It was almost nine o’clock. Harrington had to be at work. Dothan grabbed his phone and searched for the direct number to Acquisitions. He clicked on the link and waited. As the phone rang, he thought of how relieved January would be to know she was free from the grip of the corporation.

  “Acquisitions and Intellectual Property. How may I direct your call?” asked a cheerful voice.

  “I’d like to speak to Joseph Harrington.”

  “May I have your name?”

  “It’s…”

  He flinched as the phone was yanked out of his hand. January’s trembling finger ended the call, and she threw the device across the room. Unsteady on her feet, she clung to the edge of the old sofa, staring at him with wide eyes.

  “Why…why are you calling Joseph?”

  He stood and helped her to the couch. “I was hoping I could work out the original deal we discussed and keep you from being forced to go to the playpen Wednesday night.”

  “I’ve had enough of this.” Her shaky voice was harsh and cold. “Stop doing things without speaking to me first. Joseph is a dangerous man.”

  He seated himself beside her. “And I’ve told you that not one company on this planet would turn down the offer of this software handed to them for free. Dangerous or not, why wouldn’t he take it and agree to leave you alone?”

  “Because he wouldn’t keep his part of the bargain. Not when he could have the code and both of us dead.”

  He touched her cheek. Deep purple circles had formed beneath her eyes. “Fine, I’m sorry then. Please go back to bed.”

  “It’s bad enough you forced me to go to the hospital,” she said, “but don’t undermine what we’ve already planned. Your naïve intentions might put a death sentence on us both.”

  ***

  After the long, sleepless night of keeping watch over January, Dothan fixed breakfast and balanced the plate on his lap desk. He placed the offering in front of her and propped up the pillows as she shifted to a sitting position.

  “I thought about it,” he said, “and you’re right. I could have fucked everything up by calling Harrington. I promise I’ll talk to you first if I get any more bright ideas.”

  “I might forgive you if you get me an enormous cup of coffee so I can take these horse pills.”

  “That I can do.”

  Dothan called to her from the kitchen as he flipped on the kettle. “Don’t forget you’ve got an appointment with the doctor this afternoon. Should I go with you?”

  “No, I’ll manage. My arm doesn’t hurt at all today.”

  He returned to the bedroom with two mugs of coffee and handed her one. He noticed as she blew on the steaming liquid, a tinge of rose had returned to her cheeks.

  “I’m glad you’re better,” he said. “While you’re with the doctor, I might check out those antique dealers up near Northgate. If we’re lucky, I’ll find someone who sold that table, or at least get some info on it.”

  “Northgate? Why not downtown?”

  “It’s closer and they’ve got the most prestigious antique dealers. I want to be sure to get back home before you.”

  “I think looking for that table is a brilliant idea. Maybe I should come with you. I’ll postpone that stupid appointment.”

  “Not a chance.” Dothan caressed her hand. “You need to be sure your arm will heal. I’m cool heading out there on my own, and I’ll give you all the deets when I get back.”

  “Do you promise? You and I seem to keep going around in circles with this communication thing.”

  “I swear I’ll never hide anything from you again.”

  At least not after I find that table and prove to Barclay you’re not a suspect.

  ***

  Dothan slipped his laptop and phone into his backpack. It had been difficult convincing January to go to the doctor’s office, and he wondered if he should have accompanied her.

  No, this is the best thing I can do. When I find this table, our future will be stoked.

  Ther
e was still a half hour, plenty of time to get to the cafe and research Barclay’s list of antique stores and junk shops. After he narrowed it down to only places handling high-end merchandise, they could make quick work of their search.

  He locked the deadbolt, double-checking it to be sure it was secure. After the attack at the restaurant, the home invasions, and what he learned about Conscentiam, he could not take chances.

  As expected, there was no sign of the detective upon Dothan’s arrival at the cafe. He ordered a coffee and settled himself at a small outdoor table. It took less than fifteen minutes to separate junk stores from legitimate antique houses who dealt in rare and unique pieces.

  “George.”

  Dothan jumped as a hand patted his shoulder.

  “You seem jumpy,” said Barclay with a chuckle.

  “No, you just startled me. I’ve been trying to save us time by getting rid of the crap places. I’ve got it down to a list of three big dealers. You’d think one of them should know something about expensive antique furniture.”

  “Sounds good.” Barclay jangled his keys in his pocket. “Ready to go?”

  He stuffed his laptop into the backpack and followed Barclay to his car, stifling a smile as the detective unlocked a shiny green Crown Victoria.

  I should have guessed.

  They rode in an uncomfortable silence until Barclay reached into the cup holder and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, shaking it until the filtered nub of one hung from the open lip of the plastic pouch.

  “Do you mind?”

  Dothan cringed but shook his head. Barclay lit the tip with the lighter from the dash. After he cracked the window, he rested his elbow on the edge of the door handle and kept the lit end near the fresh air.

  “You’re in college, you said?”

  “Yeah, computer science.”

  “I kind of figured that much.” Barclay bellowed a hoarse laugh. “When are you graduating?”

  “Next year.” It seemed to Dothan the detective was fishing for information. “Can I ask you something?”

  Barclay took a long draw from his cigarette, blowing the smoke from the side of his mouth. “Sure.”

  “How far did you get in your investigation of the Sibella Gale murder before it was closed?”

  “Why?

  “Curious. All I know is what I read in the papers and what I saw in her autopsy report.”

  “And what did you learn from the papers?”

  “That she had a best friend named after a month, I think it was January, and that they both worked at Conscentiam.”

  Oh shit, no, I don’t remember seeing that information there. January was the one who told me she worked at Conscentiam.

  “You found that in the newspapers, did you?”

  “Or online, I can’t remember which.”

  Quick save, numb nuts.

  “If that’s what they said, then why ask me?” The detective stopped at a red traffic signal and turned his head. His sharp blue eyes seemed to pierce through Dothan. “Or don’t you believe what you read in the papers?”

  “I do to a point. I just wondered if you had any suspects.”

  “Why?”

  “I assumed her friend to be one.”

  “Really? What would make you think that?”

  Perspiration dampened his armpits. Dothan tried to appear nonchalant and shrugged. “I thought the police always centered the investigation on the ones closest to the murder victim.”

  “So I’ve heard.” Barclay smirked as he took a long draw on the cigarette, the tip glowing a bright orange. “What else did you find out about January?”

  Dothan jumped. “Me? Nothing. If she’s the one I’m thinking of, I’ve seen her social media. She’s hot. You have other suspects besides her, too, right? Like her boss. I bet he’s rich enough to have a table like in Sibella’s retina.”

  “I won’t discuss the details of the case with you, George.”

  “Why not? It’s a cold case.”

  “Because as far as I’m concerned, it’s still open.”

  “Oh?” Dothan gripped the edge of the worn leather seat. “So, the department reopened it?”

  Barclay grinned and tossed his cigarette out the window. “I didn’t say that.”

  So I guess the shit about trusting each other only works one way.

  They pulled into a large parking lot surrounded by an open-air strip mall. Each of the tired, beige buildings was identical to their flat-roofed neighbors, and all the dual-window storefronts needed maintenance. Some shops were still in use, but most had their windows covered in plywood or signs announcing they were going out of business.

  Barclay pointed to the one exception in the worn-out shopping center, a detached building standing out of place at the corner plot. New stucco and custom trim work surrounded its well-appointed entrance, where shiny gold letters welcomed clients to Antiquaires Drouette. A tall wooden door, its leaded glass shielded by a heavy iron grate, cracked open

  as Barclay reached for the handle.

  “May I help you, sir? We’re not quite open.” asked an older man in an expensive suit, leaning from the half-opened door.

  Barclay displayed his identification. “I’m Detective John Barclay, of Seattle Homicide, and I’d like to ask you a couple of questions.”

  The man appeared stunned by the introduction. With a nervous grin, he opened the door wider to allow the detective and Dothan to enter.

  The large showroom had the rich fragrance of dust, aged wood and polish, with elegant pieces of furniture and art displayed in the same way the museums arranged their treasures. Dothan scanned the room, but could find nothing resembling the ostentatious table.

  The well-dressed man clasped his hands and smiled. “I’m Norman Dubois, the manager. How can I help you?”

  Barclay scrolled to the image of the table on his phone. “What can you tell me about this table?”

  Dubois squinted, took out his glasses and held them in front of his nose. As he bent to get a closer look at the scan, he twisted his lips and inhaled.

  “It appears to be quite an astounding piece,” he said. “Where did you find it?”

  “That’s not important,” said Barclay. “I need to know if you can tell me something about it.”

  “Well, that orange haze makes it difficult to see all the details.” Dubois took a large magnifying glass and held it to the phone. “Since it’s not here, I can’t authenticate it, but as a guess I’d say it’s an early Rococo gaming table. The whimsical ornamental style dates it to about 1740, with an eastern European origin, I believe. These inlays weaving through the top and along the feathered legs appear to be metal, possibly gold, and the gems on the lion’s paw feet could be semi-precious. The individuals who commissioned it would have been very wealthy, perhaps even royalty. You say it has something to do with a murder?”

  Barclay grinned. “Have you heard any talk about such a rare piece coming through Seattle?”

  “We’ve had nothing like this come through our shop. We’d celebrate if it did.” Dubois snorted at his own quip.

  “Who would handle this type of merchandise?”

  “If you believe it to be genuine, contact places like Sothebys or Christies. In my opinion, Seattle isn’t a good fit for such a prize. Of course, a local auction house might have arranged the sale, but a well-documented piece of this level should have created quite a buzz. I would expect potential buyers, such as our gallery, to have received a catalog containing the provenance and details of the table, but I’ve seen nothing like it.”

  Dothan stepped closer to the man. “Could they have sold it in a private transaction in order to avoid that sort of thing?”

  Barclay gave him a half-smile and nodded.

  “I’m not privy to what happens at auction houses when the lights go out.” Dubois sniffed and
slipped his glasses back into his pocket. “Anything is possible, though, young man.”

  The detective pulled a business card from his wallet. “Can you get us the names of houses capable of handling a private sale like this?”

  “Well, it’ll take me a day or so, but I’ll see what I can do. Who was murdered, by the way?”

  Barclay shook the man’s hand. “I’ll look forward to hearing from you, then.”

  As they walked back to the Crown Victoria, Dothan’s phone vibrated. Barclay watched him as he opened his notifications.

  Text from January Kinsie:

  Back from Dr

  He pressed the button to shut off the phone.

  Why do I keep forgetting to turn off those notifications? If he saw January’s name, I’m fucked.

  “Well,” said Dothan, with a nervous smile, “that was productive. Let’s hope the last couple are as chatty, huh?”

  Barclay nodded and unlocked the car.

  ***

  Dothan’s stomach clenched after Barclay dropped him at the cafe. The detective had been even more quiet than usual during their visits to the last two dealers. The journey had been all but worthless, though, as neither offered more than the original antique store manager.

  They stopped for the day, and, as he stepped out of the car, Barclay confirmed he would send the names of the auction houses supplied by Dubois. He left without a goodbye.

  If he had seen the text from January before the screen went dark, there was little chance the detective would be in contact. There was one way to be sure. He sent Barclay a useless message, detailing his plans to search the internet using specific keywords given to them by Dubois, the first antique dealer.

  Dothan waited, hoping it would trigger a response from the detective, but, after three minutes elapsed with no reply, a fearful reality gripped him.

  He fucking knows I’m involved with his prime suspect.

  Chapter Eighteen

  VprKlU was becoming impatient.

  The delay in producing the bartered software had resulted in the receipt of an emoji with a knife stuck in its eye. While the implied threat failed to intimidate Dothan, the hacker’s misguided impression he held the upper hand infuriated him.