Authors: Ben Rehder
“You sound like you’re trying to convince yourself,” she said.
“I do?”
“Yep.”
Our waiter came by, refilled our mugs, then scooted away.
I said, “Well, I mean, it
is
weird, what Emma Webster told me. But it obviously doesn’t have anything to do with Tracy Turner. Maybe Emma didn’t see what she thought she saw.”
Mia paused with her fork in mid-air. “Wait, now come on. What are the odds that both of you thought you saw Pierce with a little girl, but you’re both mistaken?”
I groaned. “Don’t do this to me. I’m tired of going back and forth on this.”
“No, that’s not what I’m saying.”
“What are you saying?”
“Well, I’m
not
saying there’s anything going on with Pierce, other than maybe he’s committing fraud. As far as the little girl, there could be a logical explanation for that. In fact, I’d say there probably is. Probably the little girl you saw is the same one Emma Webster saw. The descriptions match.”
“Some other little girl. Not Tracy Turner.”
“Right.”
“Who, then?”
“Got me. Doesn’t matter. A friend’s daughter or something. I realize that young, single men don’t usually do a lot of babysitting, but it’s possible. Seems a lot more likely than Pierce being a sicko who has never gotten caught.”
“I am definitely paying attention to what you are saying,” I said. An intentionally clumsy reference to her remark from Thursday afternoon, since she hadn’t mentioned the apologetic note I’d left for her.
She rolled her eyes. “Point is, you can follow the process of elimination, right? It doesn’t matter whether Emma Webster saw Pierce with a little girl or not. If there wasn’t a missing little girl matching that description back in February or March, well, that gives you your answer, doesn’t it?”
“Makes sense to me.”
“But you still seem like you’re waffling.”
“Waffles, damn it. That’s what I should’ve ordered.”
“You want the rest of this?” She slid her plate forward. “I’m done anyway.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah, go ahead.”
So I did. We sat in silence for several moments as I scarfed down the rest of her French toast.
“I have to be at work in one hour,” she announced.
She didn’t know it, but I was about to spring something on her — a proposition prompted by what she’d just said. Something that had been running through my mind for quite some time.
“I have an idea I want to run past you.”
“What?”
“It’s a big idea, so brace yourself.”
“Oh, I’m always braced when I talk to you.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment. First, let me ask you something. You want to work in that bar all your life?”
She frowned, puzzled, wondering why I was asking. “As a matter of fact, yes. I want to be serving drinks to horny, drunk guys when I’m sixty years old. That’s my life’s dream. By then, my ass will have been groped roughly ten thousand times, so how could I not be fulfilled?”
“I’ll take that as a no. So here’s a thought. Ready? Come work with me.”
That definitely caught her off guard. She hadn’t been expecting it. Her eyes widened, and she opened her mouth to say something, but nothing came out. Then finally she said, “Work with you?”
“That’s what I’m thinking. I need some help.”
“Really? But — I’m not qualified at all. I can’t do what you do.”
“Sure you can. You’re a fast learner. I can teach you a lot of stuff. You’ll pick up the rest.”
“Don’t you have to be licensed or certified or something?”
“Nope. Private investigators do, but legal videographers don’t. Any nutcase like me can do it.”
I was having a tough time gauging her expression, but she appeared to be intrigued — at least a little bit. What I was hoping for.
She said, “Okay, the first thing that pops into my head: I’m not sure I could handle being your employee. We’re friends, Roy, and I don’t want to — ”
“Partners, Mia. That’s what I’m talking about. Fifty-fifty. I don’t want to be your boss. Hell, you’re smarter than I am. I
couldn’t
be your boss.”
She was too surprised to even offer a snappy comeback agreeing with my assessment. “What brings this on? The Pierce case?”
“Well, yes and no. I’ve been thinking about this for a couple of months, actually. Business has been really good and I don’t see why it won’t continue. I’m spread thin. I need a partner. Someone who is competent and smart. Also, it doesn’t hurt that you have the attributes to make guys like Wally Crouch lift car batteries out of trunks. But that’s just a bonus.”
She smirked. “Attributes?”
“Your ankles. Ankles like that can drive a man wild.”
She already knew the details of the job: The long hours. The boredom, punctuated by occasional excitement. The risk that one of your targets might get angry and flatten your tires. She’d heard it all.
The waiter brought the check and I handed him a credit card. I said to Mia, “Even better, we’ll be able to write these meals off. Think of the satisfaction of dodging the IRS. Legally, of course.”
“When would I start?”
“Whenever you’re ready. Tomorrow. Next week. A month from now.”
“Full time?”
“That’s what I’m looking for, but hey, if you want to try it part-time for awhile, that’s fine with me. We can work something out. However you want to arrange it, I’m up for it.”
“What about all your gear? Your laptop, your cameras, all that stuff? I don’t have any of that equipment.”
“We’ll share at first, and then we’ll buy some more stuff. The van can be our rolling office. We can just pass the keys off and everything you need would be inside. I’ll buy another car for myself.”
“I don’t know how to use any of the equipment.”
“You’ll learn. It’s easy.”
She shook her head. “You
have
put some thought into this, haven’t you?”
“A lot.”
She was quiet for a minute.
I said, “You don’t have to decide right now, obviously. Mull it over. Ponder it. Ruminate. I’m sure you’ll have other questions, and I’m fully prepared to make up bullshit answers.”
“What I said earlier, about being friends. I meant that. You know what they say about doing business with friends. If we were to do this, and if it began to affect our friendship — ”
“The friendship is way more important. No question.”
“I’m glad you think so.”
“Mia, I’m going to say this without getting all sappy. You’re the best person I know. My best friend. I mean that.”
She didn’t exactly roll her eyes, but she did have a look of skepticism on her face. “Roy, that’s very sweet, but if that’s the case, you really need to expand your circle of friends.”
On the third day, his nerves began to settle. He was not being watched. He had overreacted. That was obvious now. So he let himself begin to relax. To let his guard down occasionally, as he knew he’d have to eventually. But then a new source of anxiety arose.
“I don’t feel good.”
That’s what Emily said when he went to get her out of bed. He felt her forehead and she was burning up. Out came the thermometer. Her temperature was one hundred and two. This was a cause for concern. He let her sleep for an hour, then he checked on her again. Her fever was unchanged. He hadn’t planned on this sort of problem. He gave her half an aspirin, but beyond that, there wasn’t much he could do.
By mid-morning, she began to throw up. Not just once, but multiple times. Violently, and with great force. He kept a trash can beside the bed, but she couldn’t always reach it in time, because her nausea would come on so suddenly. The bed linens were a mess very quickly. Now he began to wonder if giving her the aspirin was a mistake. Was she allergic? Well, too late now.
He knew he had to keep her hydrated, to replenish the fluids she was losing, but should he feed her? He didn’t know. He asked if she was hungry, and she said she wasn’t, not even a little bit. How about some soup? Just a little? She shook her head. But she did want the Gatorade — the fruit punch flavor — and she quickly drank a very large glass of it. Moments later, it all came right back up. Red vomit that would almost certainly stain the bedspread.
His worry grew. Taking her to a doctor, even one of those minor emergency clinics, was out of the question, of course. So he went online to do some research. Found a useful page written by a pediatrician.
The first thing he learned was that he shouldn’t have given her the Gatorade so quickly, because a sick child would simply vomit it right back up, as Emily had done. Better to wait thirty minutes, or even an hour, then start giving it in small sips. Slow and steady. Not all at once, even if they ask for it.
The web page said that it was probably a virus that was making her sick. There was no cure for it, but it would pass in time. This doctor didn’t say anything about a fever. That was stupid. The information was incomplete. Worthless.
He kept surfing and found another page on the site of a major hospital. According to this page, the vomiting could be caused by a virus, motion sickness, overeating, or food poisoning. It could also be the result of a concussion, encephalitis, meningitis, intestinal blockage, appendicitis...
He began to investigate meningitis, which was a mistake, because now he became convinced that Emily had it. She had many of the symptoms. Yes, the vomiting and the fever, as well as agitation, irritability, rapid breathing, fast heart rate. Meningitis could be viral, bacterial, or fungal, with the bacterial kind — the most dangerous kind — requiring antibiotics. As quickly as possible. The text said treatment with antibiotics should reduce the risk of dying to less than 15%. Without the antibiotics, Emily could be facing a buildup of fluid between the skull and the brain, possibly resulting in neurological damage or death.
That didn’t sound pleasant at all, especially since she wouldn’t be in a hospital setting. It would be slow. Painful.
But, again, what could he do? He’d known from the start that there could be unforeseen challenges. Unexpected complications.
Silly. Once again, he was overreacting. The odds that she had meningitis were small. Tiny. This was likely just a stomach bug, or even food poisoning, but it would pass.
By eight o’clock that evening, Emily’s temperature was one hundred and four.
Mia had brought up a good point about the equipment I relied on in my line of work. I use quite a few gadgets, and some of them are damn expensive.
Start with the laptop. Top of the line Macintosh. Three grand right there.
Video cameras? Seems like I buy a new one every two or three years, because the technology is always changing. Each new camera is smaller, lighter, more powerful, more functional. The only brand I’ll own is Canon. My opinion, they make the best cameras around. Same for my still cameras and zoom lenses. It’s easy to spend a bunch of money very quickly on this stuff, so I have to remind myself I’m not shooting a feature motion picture. But I do insist on one of their pro-level high-definition camcorders, which cost a cool four thousand bucks. I also own one of their 35mm SLRs, which shoots pretty decent video, too, in a pinch, along with a pocket-sized point-and-shoot.
It’s important to be intimately familiar with the operation of each camera and all the accessories so you can flip it on and start shooting in just a few seconds. You don’t want to be fumbling around while your supposedly injured target is hoisting a barbell or running to catch a bus. You have to practice regularly. And it goes without saying that you want to put freshly charged batteries in your cameras every time you go out. I keep a charger and back-up batteries in the van.
Other gear includes a couple of kick-ass sets of binoculars, a police scanner, and plenty of high-quality flashlights. I also keep pepper spray handy — one of those big-ass canisters designed to ward off a bear attack — because, well, you never know. It’s not implausible that a target might spot me trailing him — “getting burned” is the phrase for it — and decide to get hostile. Hadn’t happened yet, but I was prepared. Better to use pepper spray than a Glock, that was my attitude.
Then there are the devices that people tend to think of as spy equipment. A tiny video camera built into a baseball cap. Another one that looks like an electrical outlet. Another one that’s built into a teddy bear. Yeah, I have a lot of cameras. I also have a motion-activated GPS device that feeds real-time tracking information to my laptop or iPhone. And I have various listening devices, including one with a parabolic sound-collecting dish that lets me pick up and record conversations at up to one hundred yards. For more intimate conversations, I have another audio recorder that looks like a remote control for a vehicle. And another one that looks like a wristwatch.