Chapter 1

 

Late October, and the Sunday evening was cool, clear and dark.

I was in the ground floor living room, the lights turned low, sitting in an old leather club style easy chair. The light from the hearth had died down, and out beyond the patio windows, above the canyon rim and the dark forest line, I could see masses of distant stars. Like most Boy Scouts, I could pick out the better known constellations, but that was as far as my astronomical skills went.

The logs settled noisily in the hearth, and the rekindled firelight made newborn shadows dance around the open plan room. Three fingers of something amber and smooth in a whiskey tumbler rested comfortably in my hand. As Lonnie Tewkes’ slow trumpet flowed like warm, rich chocolate from the stereo, I told myself that it was time to move on.

Plenty more fish in the sea…

Plenty more pebbles on the beach…

Plenty more frogs in the pond…

Ah, who was I kidding? 

Being dumped sucked.

Big time.

 

*

 

Monday morning, and although I’d been back in the US since for some time, I’d never grown out of the British habit of driving with a stick shift. Oncoming traffic had cured me of driving on the left side of the road, and although I will always miss roundabouts, I really appreciated the advantages of turning right at a red light.

Still, the drive into the city from Concrete that Monday seemed longer than usual. Not that I time myself, you understand, but there were unconscious markers between the CD in the stereo – this time it was Vicky LaPerso, the 1956 Ventura sessions – and how far I’d been able to travel down the just-getting-choked-up traffic queues heading into the city itself.

“Gonna buy me some deadly poison, baby!

Gonna mix it up,

With some strong gin!

Gonna buy meeeeep– !”

Taking my finger off the eject button, I pulled the CD from the slot and tossed it onto the back seat. The last thing I needed right then was a self-pitying, “Oh, woe is me,” attitude. I blindly rummaged in the scatter on the passenger side, and moments later another CD was sucked into the player’s waiting maw. Cranking down the windows and cranking up the volume, I let the Jinxtones take wing and scare a couple of teenagers in their open top Jeep, stuck in the next lane to mine.

“How you call all your lover-boys?  White TRASH!” 

Yeah, tell it like it is, Danny. Tell it like it is.

Out of boredom, I watched as several drivers started talking to themselves. Around here that usually meant they were either off their medication, or on hands-free and their cell phones had locked onto a stable signal. Given the scant coverage, and with no intention of installing masts, most of us Concretes don’t bother with cell phones much. It’s always been one of the town’s saner attractions.

With a population approaching two and a half thousand, the small town of Concrete, Northern California, lies strung out, in, and around a long canyon. Access was by a bunch of back roads which, in turn, eventually connected to Highway 299. From there it was only a hop, skip and a fender bender away from the Interstate – the good old I-5.

The first settlement had originally been named after the bird, the Corncrake, way back in the 1850s. In those crazy gold rush days, when all around were striking it rich, the best the town could come up with was pyrites and dust. So it diversified into whiskey and brothels. Times were good and the money kept rolling in.

However, when the gold panned out, so did the town. Dead and dormant – a fitting tribute to the equally dying Wild West – it became just another Northern Californian ghost town. That was until 1910, when Dr. Theodophilous P. Jacksonhammer founded his Resort of Health & Inner Beauty. The good Doctor, formally a philandering snake-oil specialist from Alabama, discovered that by the judicious use of assorted herbs and compounds – which, years later, topped various Narcotic & Controlled Substance lists – he could easily part his patrons from their parents’ money. This he used for the advancement of his own research into luxury living.

Like the whores and hoteliers of the previous age, when the scam finally came to an end, he took the money and hightailed it back over the state line – leaving the old ghost town with a new ghost spa. In those days the ghosts never had it so good.

The Depression, the Second World War, the Edsel and the Hoola Hoop, all dropped in and out of fashion during the next lull in the town’s time line. It wasn’t until the Summer of Love regenerated old smoker myths of a forgotten Nirvana, that a slow but regular trickle of hippies and other free thinkers start migrating from the east – giving a whole new meaning to the term, Way Out West. Especially when it was discovered that several generations of Narc-less and Fed-less interference had let the good doctor’s gardens of Cannabis sativa and Erythroxylum coca novogranatense truxillense grow wild. Once the rumours had been confirmed, people were eager to repopulate the area.

After the Summer of Love, there came the Winter of Discontent. Biker gangs had found easy pickings from the land and the nearby towns, until their activities  attracted the attention of the County Sheriff, as well as the city police. In true Wild West tradition, they arrested any and everything that moved, in as short a time as possible, leaving the ghost town to itself once more – albeit now with a mescaline-aided Make Love, Not War makeover.

Today, Civilisation is slowly rediscovering the legal joys of living out in Concrete. Businesses have started to come out here, and the mail service delivers to the community on a daily basis, so somebody must know we’re here to stay – even though most of us have to go to the city in order to earn a living.

After a slow hour of stop-go-stop-go car shuffling, I turned onto Chancery, then into the cool of the underground car park beneath the Kincade Building. It’s a classy address, I’ll give you that, and my old Ford PoS always looked out of place among the BMWs, Jags and Toyotas. But it’s where I work. Well, to be more exact, it’s where I come when I don’t have work.

I parked in my regular Visitors Only bay, eased my six foot one frame out of the car, and stretched a little to un-kink some of the muscles in my shoulders. Safe in the knowledge that no one, in their right mind, had enough sympathy for me to steal the damn vehicle, I took a steady walk over to the building’s elevators.

These days, taking the stairs is considered the healthier option, but I just can’t get excited over it. True, not everyone has their own home gym, but after fifteen years of active military service, such things as regular exercise are ingrained into my subconscious.  Anyway, after the first eight floors, stairwells become passé – and at my age I’ve seen more than enough stairwells to last me a lifetime.

Then again, the ride up to the 10^th floor had never failed to impress me. The scenery shifts from underground car park to grass and trees as the elevator climbs above ground to street level, then it travels up the outside of the Kincade Building. Some people always faced the wall, in order to avoid vertigo from the height and the view, but I still got a schoolboy kick of excitement every time. The whole block was an innovative award winning design, for its time, constructed completely out of recycled materials. From the reconstituted cement and steel in the walls, to the recycled plastic and glass for the windows. True, when it’s kicking over 98º outside, you’re thankful for the air conditioning, but at least some of the construction was ecologically sound.

On the way up, the floors and businesses were announced by a calm and emotionless feminine voice, and I wasn’t sure if it was designed to tell you where you were or, by omission, who had ceased trading. However, with both the 9^th and 10^th floors occupied by Orion & Nadler Investigations & Security, I was sure they were going to be around for some time to come. Mind you, I have a vested interest – they throw work my way from time to time.

When the elevator reached the 10^th, I stepped out into the open plan reception area and nodded a cheerful “Good Morning!” to Michelle and Darlene, the regular daytime receptionist staff. Michelle smiled and gave a little wave back while still talking into her headset. Darlene silently mouthed something impressively gross before continuing her conversation. “I can really empathise with your grief, Mrs. Gorretski. Believe me, I truly can.” 

I took a quick time out and looked over the maze of cubes and walkways. It’s a sight which reminded me why I never wanted a proper 9-to-5 job.

Muted, bland cubical walls. Neutral cord carpet the right shade of nondescript. Constant overhead lighting, despite all the natural light from the building’s three glass sides. Heads bobbed, telephones chirped or berrrrrring’d, keyboards clattered, and photocopiers made those noises only photocopiers do when in captivity. The only thing missing was the rattle of chains and the sound of a drum slowly beating time while an overseer called out, “Stroke!”  Still, as I headed towards my office, the call centre operators seemed to be smiling and happy – going about their daily tasks of righting wrongs, ensuring people were protected, and referring callers to others who might be able to help with their questions.

Architecturally, the floor plan closely followed the shape of the Kincade Building itself, which had been designed by several ergonomics experts. The layout was based on a right angle and although I’m not a child of Sesame Street, it always gave me the impression of a big, fat, capital L. From the reception area, you entered around the middle of the down stroke, with two vending machines and coffee break areas at the top. Travelling down the L you came to a water cooler and an office waiting area, off to your right, before the corridor bent 90 degrees to the left.

At the far end of the base, there was a fourth, smaller alcove, on the left, with a single water cooler and just enough space for two adults to hide in, at a push, at, say, an office Christmas party…. Let’s just leave it at that.

Walking along the base, I loitered in the alcove by the water cooler, pulled a cup from the dispenser and let water slowly trickle into it. Across the way I could see the old-fashioned dark varnished door, with a frosted glass top panel – incongruous in the modern office environment. The matt gold lettering was tastefully arched, and in classic old style lettering, it read: Mr. Harry Rhimes.

That’s me. A little old fashioned, a little retro. It helped keep the kids on their toes, not knowing if I was just a touch eccentric, or completely loony tunes.

Underneath my name was: Private Investigator.

I’ve always felt it had a classier ring to it, when put like that. More upmarket and respectable than Private Eye. And there’s no way I’d ever have Private Dick beneath my name, no matter how fancy the lettering. A touch eccentric, maybe, but certainly not a certifiable screwball. And anyhow, my name’s not Richard.

I was contemplating bittersweet memories of mistletoe and gin-tainted minty breath, when a female voice beside me asked, “Is he in yet?”

She was young, late 20s to early 30s, and I guessed around five nine in flat shoes. Her mousy brown hair was cut in a short, tomboy style, which gave her face an elfin look, reinforced by intelligent brown eyes and small nose. She was neatly dressed in a white blouse and a modern no-nonsense two piece, in dark navy wool. Power dressing, but without the coldness to pull it off successfully. Her shoes and clutch bag matched, but gave the appearance of being an afterthought, rather than by calculated design. She’d carefully applied a minimum of make-up, which highlighted rather than hid her natural complexion, and made for a refreshing change. Attractive, in a girl next door sort of way, if that’s what you found attractive.

She appeared impatient and in a hurry, dividing her attention between the closed door, her watch, and glancing down the corridor. Annoyed, she pursed her lips, then bit lightly on the bottom one.

Between sips of water, I asked, “Have you knocked?”  I tried, but failed to make eye contact.

A mixture of anger and frustration flashed across her face. “I …!”  Then she half turned and took a hesitant step, as if she was about to leave.

I coughed politely. “Perhaps I can help?”  I took her by the arm and walked up to the door. Without stopping, I turned the handle and strode in, trailing the young woman behind me.

My office was small and oblong, like a shoebox in comparison to the surrounding floor space. In keeping with the trend, it had been done out in the same bland, oatmeal-tasting colour scheme as the rest of Orion & Nadler. At the far end sat an old oak desk and in front of it was an executive leather chair. Behind it, with its back to the large picture window, was its partner. Thankfully the office faced north, which kept things cool in the summer and, in the winter, helps to steal light off the south facing skyscraper opposite. I got to see the world reflected off its frontage, the windows reminiscent of a large bank of TVs. Sometimes I would spend an hour or two, sitting in contemplation, just looking at the sights reflected back at me.

Half a dozen drab grey filing cabinets along one wall provided a resting place for the coffee maker which, in true office fashion, was always nine-tenths empty and in need of refilling. Humming away to itself, in the corner by the window was a small refrigerator, the sort you find in the not so cheap but still sleazy motel rooms. It usually contained a can of not-so-fresh ground coffee, a plastic tub of sugar and some powdered creamer in a jar for people who felt they needed it. Alongside that I kept a dozen bottles of water, plus several brands of lite beer, for when I needed it.

I picked up the empty coffee carafe and pointed to the chair in front of the desk. “Make yourself at home.” 

I took some water from the refrigerator, reloaded the machine with the makings, and set it off to do its drip-drip-drip magic as she watched in silence.

Hospitality thusly taken care of, I sat behind my desk, pulled a yellow legal pad towards me and selected a pencil from the desk caddy. I eased back in the chair and said, “Now that civilization has been restored, what can I do for you, Ms.?”

She looked at me incredulously, and sounding slightly bewildered, she asked, “You’re Mr. Rhimes?”

“Often imitated, but never bettered.”  I gave her a reassuring smile. Maybe she didn’t appreciate the trapdoor spider approach to client gathering?

Another show of indecisive lip biting, then, “My name is Lindsey Fairfax.”  She stared down at the edge of the desk. “I want to hire your services. I need you to find someone for me.”

In a large script I wrote Missing Person at the top of the legal pad.

“Does he have a name?”

She looked surprised. “How did you…?”

“Most people want me to find something, or someone. You didn’t qualify it with brother or sister, father or mother, and you’re not wearing a wedding ring so I just assumed it was a friend or fiancé.”  I gave her a friendly shrug.

She sighed a little. “Well, he’s my fiancé – or was going to be, before he disappeared.”

“And does he have a name?”

She looked flustered, then shook her head as if to clear it. “I’m sorry, I seem to be going at this all wrong – I probably even sound like a crazy person, but I’m not. I know he wouldn’t just leave without….”

I let her trail off and gather her thoughts.

Getting up I asked, “Coffee? How do you take it?”

“Thank you, yes. I prefer it strong and black.”

I busied myself filling two mugs, taking my time, and allowing her to compose herself once more. Getting comfortable again, I smiled in an attempt to get her to relax. “Tell me about him.”

“His name is Preston Llyle, that’s Llyle with three L’s. His father is Roger Llyle, the business entrepreneur, though his mother – Margaret – is Roger’s second wife. Preston still gets an allowance from his mother, even though he’s twenty-five.”  Conscious of how that sounded, she quickly added, “But he’s involved in some businesses himself, so he’s not living solely on family handouts.”

“Do you have a recent picture of him?”

She looked at her hands as she started to worry at the clutch bag in her lap – her fingers twisted at the catch. “He’s very self conscious about people taking his picture. I tried to get him on my phone once, but he was so upset I immediately deleted it. The only thing I have is this.”  Opening her bag, she withdrew a small four by six photograph and placed it on top of the legal pad.

The picture showed half a dozen young men out on a football field somewhere, all dressed in dirty, sweat-stained uniforms. From their frozen positions it was clear they were breaking away from a professionally posed shot, and only half realised someone else had been taking a picture. It was very much a post-game snapshot and, from the scattered background crowd, I assumed it had been taken not long after the final quarter. In the foreground, the players’ faces were flushed, their bodies still pumped full of adrenaline. Most had their helmets off, their hair mussed up, damp and clinging from sweat or from having water bottles emptied over them. One of the jocks had two of his fingers taped together; another had been caught in the process of spitting out his mouth guard. All were either smiling, or laughing, eyes bright with success. The downside was it had all the blurriness of a candid shot, taken with an unsteady cheap camera, making it difficult to distinguish any real details.

She pointed to the one with the protruding mouth guard. “That’s Preston. He said it was taken about three or four years ago.”

“Can I keep this?”

“No, it’s…”  Self-conscious again, her teeth white against her upper lip as she bit at the bottom one, two or three times, then, “I’d rather you made a copy.”

“No problem.” I picked up the phone and pressed a button. Darlene answered, using her professional voice, “Orion and Nadler, how can I help you?”

“Darlene, could you come by my office; I need something copying.”

Without changing her tone she said, “Get screwed,” then hung up on me.

Looked like I was going to have to tangle with the photocopier myself.

I eased my shoulders and rubbed the back of my neck a couple of times. Something felt out of sync somewhere, but I wasn’t sure what. She was a pretty, organised, and clearly intelligent woman. Yet here she was, emotionally confused over this guy’s actions – at odds with her initial image.

“Why do you want to find him, Ms. Fairfax?  You’re not–?”

“Pregnant?” Anger and resentment flashed across her face. Cheeks flushed, she looked out the window. “Why does everyone think the worst of our relationship?  His parents. My parents. You…?”  Again her voice trailed off, and I thought she might finally crack and show more of her real self. Holding back her anger was doing her no favours.

Sitting back, I held up my hands defensively. “Hey, I’ve got to ask awkward questions, no matter how intrusive they seem. It’s the way I get to find out things.”  I took a long breath before continuing. “So I take it you’re not pregnant?”

“No.”  She glared at me like a truculent child.

I let it pass, and moved on with the questions. “And you were engaged?”

She fidgeted, now mildly embarrassed. “Preston said he was going to talk to his family, assure them it wasn’t just an impulsive decision on our part, and that we were genuinely committed to it. In a way I can understand the family’s concerns. Preston stands to inherit a large part of the Llyle fortune, especially after the death of his half sister, Jacqueline.”

In the back of my mind, something nudged me about the name, Jacqueline Llyle, but I didn’t want to break the rapport building between us.

Lindsey continued, “She killed herself just over twelve years ago.”

“Much to the delight of the local newspapers who dredge it up on a regular basis.”  The media always loved an anniversary.

She nodded. “He’s the only child from his father’s second marriage.”

I brought us back on track. “Did Preston actually propose to you?  Give you a ring?”

“Not officially, no, but he showed me his grandmother’s diamond wedding ring, and said he would get it resized for me once his parents agreed to the engagement.”  She looked at her hands worrying the snap clip of her bag again.

And there it was. The shell, partially peeled away, revealed the confused child beneath, thrown head-first into the grinder of life. Wearing big girl shoes meant you got big girl problems, whether you liked it or not, and I wondered if she was going to release some of the pressure and start crying. She opened her bag, pulled a fresh tissue from it, delicately blew her nose, and tucked the tissue into the bag. Then the shell was snapped back in place. Maybe later, somewhere more private, I’d get to see the real her again, but for now it was back to business.

“How much does it cost to hire you, Mr. Rhimes?”

I jotted a figure on the legal pad, and turned it around so she could read it.

“That’s per day, plus expenses.”

She sounded slightly taken aback. “I’ve got some savings I can transfer….”  Another bite of her lower lip. “I can pay you for two days, provided the expenses aren’t excessive.”  She looked back at the pad as if it were a complex math problem.

Giving her more time to think, I reached across the desk, picked up my forgotten mug of coffee, blew on it for effect, then took a large mouthful. It was lukewarm and bitter, just like most of my own failed relationships, and I wasn’t prepared to start walking down that road again. It would only take me back to the land of depression, and me, myself and I had made a unanimous decision to move on.

Swallowing hard, physically and mentally, I coughed lightly to regain her attention. “Okay, look, here’s what I’ll do. I’ll find out what I can over the next couple of days. I’ll report back to you at the end of each day, and you can cover the expenses once your money’s transferred.”

In my head I heard my late father’s sonorous banker voice calling me a fool. So maybe the next client would be the one destined to bring in the millions. I just wanted to give her a break, is all.

She looked at me to see if I’d meant what I’d said. Then the shell cracked a little again, and the innocent peeked out and smiled – happy in the knowledge that Bad had been vanquished from her life once more. Well, for the next 48 hours, at least.

She dipped into her clutch bag, pulled out a chequebook and a slim silver ballpoint, then wrote out a two day retainer. She tore the cheque free and started to thank me, but I got up, walked around the desk, and handed her a business card from the holder by the phone.

With her chequebook back in her bag, she jotted down a phone number on the legal pad, then wrote ‘Lindsey Fairfax’ beneath it and ensnared both name and number with a circle.

“That’s my home number. I work for Claite Electronics, up on Palmetta, but they don’t like employees taking private calls. I’ve a new Smartphone, only it keeps breaking down and I haven’t had time to exchange it yet.”  Then, with genuine emotion she added, “I really am grateful for this.”

I picked up the photograph from the desk. “I’ll drop this back to you with the first report, sometime tomorrow evening.”

She nodded her thanks and, as I opened the door for her, she paused to look at the photographs and prints on the wall. On one side, a surreal still life and a couple of abstracts rubbed shoulders with a framed copy of my licence. On the other, a framed clipping from the London Evening Standard, which displayed a picture of one Major H. Rhimes, of the Reds & Royals. Next to that were several photographs of my late Uncle Nathan, on my father’s side. One of them showed him beside Jack Orion, shaking hands over the business agreement which had founded Orion & Nadler back in 1958.

The newspaper clipping was from July 1^st 1997, with the caption “The Handing Back of Hong Kong.”  It’s one of the few things I’d kept which still tied me to my former life.

She pointed at the clipping. “Is that you?”

I stood to attention, and saluted smartly. “At your service, ma’am!” 

She giggled a little, which I appreciated, then I escorted her back to the main reception area, making sure she was on her way before going to the Reception desk.

Thankfully Darlene was away, taking a break somewhere. Michelle smiled warmly at me as I asked if she would make several copies of the photograph. It’s not that I don’t like modern photocopiers – they just have a pre-programmed aversion to working for me.

Waiting for Michelle to return, I slipped through the fire doors and into the stairwell. The heat from the midday sun hit me as I looked down at the street below. With her image still fresh in my mind, it was easy to pick Lindsey Fairfax out as she stepped off the kerb and crossed the street, heading north – a dark blue blob in a sea of shifting colours.

It’s been known, as far back as Jung and Freud at least, that the human mind gains pleasure and peace from patterns. We have a need to make sense out of chaos, and create order out of randomness. Which was why it was easy for me to spot the tail.

I couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman, but no matter how good they were, their lack of variation gave the impression they were somehow tethered to Lindsey. She dodged to the left, so did the tail. To the right, and the tail followed as if on a leash. What clinched it was when Lindsey stopped to get something out of her bag. Oblivious to the flow, other pedestrians were forced to dodge and swerve around her in their efforts to keep going about their business. In such confusion, a second stationary object stood out all the more.

I was surprised to see it was just a solo operator. A good double act would have crossed and re-crossed their paths without hesitation, in order to avoid detection. But with no second to take over, the job of tailing someone was infinitely more difficult. And all the more detectable.

As I saw her move off again, I didn’t think she would’ve considered the possibility that someone was following her. Why should she?  She’d struck me as intelligent, resourceful, but naïve in some respects. Had the Llyles sicced an investigator onto her?  It was clear someone was carrying out a background check. And now her visit to Orion and Nadler would be logged and filed in a report. Great. Just what I needed.

There was nothing I could do about her tail, or to tip her off. Even if I’d taken one of the elevators and kept track of them on the way down, I would’ve still ended up losing them at ground level. So I watched as they disappeared further into the madding crowd, then I headed back through the fire doors. I crossed the reception area, and stopped at the front desk to collect the photo and the copies from Michelle. In my absence Darlene had returned. She looked at Michelle, then gave me the skunk eye as I started to walk away. Thus, with my life fulfilled, I headed back to my little office.