on his waist-length tan jacket as the rain
thrashing the concrete made its way into the shadowed doorway. He looked up and down the sleepy street, waited until he was
sure no one was about, then slipped the picks into the lock. The lock opened easy, too easy, almost as if to invite him in.
He looked over his shoulder, then slipped inside the offices of J. Wellmen & Associates.
He turned on the battery pack of the night vision goggles, slipped the goggles into place, and suddenly a world of greens
unfolded before his eyes. The reception area was dingy and smaller than he imagined. There was a metal desk, a few chairs,
an ugly couch, a coat and a plain wooden door leading to another room.
He went to the desk and examined the daily calendar. On Friday, December 3, there was a note jotted down about the Symphonic
Pops. A name, Helen— Jessica’s sister?
He tried to flip back through the pages but had to remove a glove to flip through the pages singly. Thursday: Nothing. Wednesday:
Meet client 2:30. Tuesday: Lunch Helen 1:00. Monday: Nothing. He skipped forward and found three days were missing—Thursday,
Friday and Saturday.
Next he rummaged through the desk drawers, didn’t find anything unusual. He was about to see what was behind the door when
he heard something outside: A noise, like someone tripping over a garbage can. He killed the power to the NVGs, waited.
Someone fiddled with the door handle. His thoughts began spinning. He had watched the place all through Saturday and well
into Sunday. No one moved near the place then—why now, in the wee hours of a Sunday night?
His heart skipped as the door opened. He lifted his gun from its holster and shrank into a corner beside the couch. The wall
gave way beside him, and he groped with his hand, discovering a paneled door leading to a closet he hadn’t seen earlier. He
slipped into the closet, just as the lights turned on.
He heard something slap the desk, a rattle of keys, a door closing. Someone in heels walked over to the couch. The heavy odor
of a flowery perfume filtered under the closet door on a puff of air and behind it came the powerful scent of alcohol. He
waited for a time, then cautiously slid the door open a fraction of an inch and stared into the brightness. His eyes adjusted
and he saw a woman lying on the couch. The bottle of scotch she had been holding was spilling onto the floor.
He eased the closet door open and crept to the couch. The woman didn’t move. It could have been the secretary he had talked
to on the phone. The hair color was right, but he couldn’t be certain. Her face was squashed against the canvas of the couch.
He opened the door that led from the reception area, expecting to find a hallway dotted with doors. Instead he found what
appeared to be a single room. He saw no harm in turning on the light now and did so. In the far right corner, there was a
small square section cut out of the room that he was sure led to a bathroom or closet. Against the near wall sat a small desk
cluttered with wires, cables and small gadgets. Near the desk were racks of equipment. The floor was buried end to end in
electronic gizmos, but there were no three departments, no fifteen desks for fifteen consulting engineers. One desk, for one
lonely engineer.
The desk seemed a promising place to start. Scott picked his way across the floor to it. His eyes lit up when he saw a black
leather attaché case sitting on the floor behind the desk. He set the case onto the desktop and opened it. Inside was a wig,
a woman’s wig with long brown hair. He made a toothy grin—at least he had been right about the slacks and the cab.
He rummaged through the desk, but didn’t turn up anything useful—not even a date book or client list, which seemed strange.
He glanced at the phone on the desk, a vintage rotary type, and noticed it had a different number from the one he called on
Friday. He remembered the video phone
thrashing the concrete made its way into the shadowed doorway. He looked up and down the sleepy street, waited until he was
sure no one was about, then slipped the picks into the lock. The lock opened easy, too easy, almost as if to invite him in.
He looked over his shoulder, then slipped inside the offices of J. Wellmen & Associates.
He turned on the battery pack of the night vision goggles, slipped the goggles into place, and suddenly a world of greens
unfolded before his eyes. The reception area was dingy and smaller than he imagined. There was a metal desk, a few chairs,
an ugly couch, a coat and a plain wooden door leading to another room.
He went to the desk and examined the daily calendar. On Friday, December 3, there was a note jotted down about the Symphonic
Pops. A name, Helen— Jessica’s sister?
He tried to flip back through the pages but had to remove a glove to flip through the pages singly. Thursday: Nothing. Wednesday:
Meet client 2:30. Tuesday: Lunch Helen 1:00. Monday: Nothing. He skipped forward and found three days were missing—Thursday,
Friday and Saturday.
Next he rummaged through the desk drawers, didn’t find anything unusual. He was about to see what was behind the door when
he heard something outside: A noise, like someone tripping over a garbage can. He killed the power to the NVGs, waited.
Someone fiddled with the door handle. His thoughts began spinning. He had watched the place all through Saturday and well
into Sunday. No one moved near the place then—why now, in the wee hours of a Sunday night?
His heart skipped as the door opened. He lifted his gun from its holster and shrank into a corner beside the couch. The wall
gave way beside him, and he groped with his hand, discovering a paneled door leading to a closet he hadn’t seen earlier. He
slipped into the closet, just as the lights turned on.
He heard something slap the desk, a rattle of keys, a door closing. Someone in heels walked over to the couch. The heavy odor
of a flowery perfume filtered under the closet door on a puff of air and behind it came the powerful scent of alcohol. He
waited for a time, then cautiously slid the door open a fraction of an inch and stared into the brightness. His eyes adjusted
and he saw a woman lying on the couch. The bottle of scotch she had been holding was spilling onto the floor.
He eased the closet door open and crept to the couch. The woman didn’t move. It could have been the secretary he had talked
to on the phone. The hair color was right, but he couldn’t be certain. Her face was squashed against the canvas of the couch.
He opened the door that led from the reception area, expecting to find a hallway dotted with doors. Instead he found what
appeared to be a single room. He saw no harm in turning on the light now and did so. In the far right corner, there was a
small square section cut out of the room that he was sure led to a bathroom or closet. Against the near wall sat a small desk
cluttered with wires, cables and small gadgets. Near the desk were racks of equipment. The floor was buried end to end in
electronic gizmos, but there were no three departments, no fifteen desks for fifteen consulting engineers. One desk, for one
lonely engineer.
The desk seemed a promising place to start. Scott picked his way across the floor to it. His eyes lit up when he saw a black
leather attaché case sitting on the floor behind the desk. He set the case onto the desktop and opened it. Inside was a wig,
a woman’s wig with long brown hair. He made a toothy grin—at least he had been right about the slacks and the cab.
He rummaged through the desk, but didn’t turn up anything useful—not even a date book or client list, which seemed strange.
He glanced at the phone on the desk, a vintage rotary type, and noticed it had a different number from the one he called on
Friday. He remembered the video phone
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