by a b
The chief had explained the lingo to him on the first day, chuckling and snorting through what seemed to be a hilarious jargon-driven FBI anecdote.
Legacy had had to pretend he was listening, and resorted to resolute nods to convey attention; it was irrelevant to him what others called things or how things came to be. Each case was its own chaotic tune, played over a simple constant rhythm.
A silence blossomed as the chief waited for Legacy’s reaction. Nothing. Legacy should have known better and laughed, but he didn’t have much to laugh about at the time. The chief knew that Legacy was a special case, sent down from the central office. He probably forgave Legacy’s lack of interest on that day because the clothes covering him were the same he’d worn for the entire first month of his tenure at the Alexandria office - as gossip claimed, the clothes that he wore to his wife’s funeral. Actually, Legacy owned several identical dark suits and that their perception wasn’t quite true, but Legacy recognized that it was quite true that he had never completely taken off the clothes he’d worn to his wife Laura’s funeral.
Now five years later, key in hand, Legacy couldn’t muster a sign of satisfaction as the key reached the lock.
CLICK, it skated on the rusty metallic surface. There it stayed. A furl on Legacy’s brow, it wasn’t like him to be this wrong. He turned the lock to the light and realized that the keyhole was covered with a brass swivel guard that had to be moved out of the way before the key could be inserted. He’d studied the lock for hours, a thousand times in his mind, and could have described it down to the last detail with his eyes closed, but this close to the end of the day, Legacy always lost concentration.
The door opened. A woman’s voice spilled into the room, commanding and distant: she sounded like she was hailing a cab. The interruption didn’t sound the least bit important. Legacy slid the guard away from the keyhole, and that’s when someone grabbed his hand and pressed their own palm up against it, shaking it professionally.
“Hello.”
Legacy looked up, something about her impatient tone didn’t seem to mix with the perfectly applied make-up, and cropped black hair framing her fresh young face. She had a stiff, official posture. Legacy didn’t need to hear another word. She was a product of the academy, down from Washington on orders: ambition and charisma shared signature marks on the defining lines on her figure. It took him no time to realize that whatever she said next was going to be a lie.
“I said, ‘Hello’.”
Well, maybe he would have to wait. Legacy had perfected a completely expressionless expression in his days in the army, and he was wearing it now. She continued.
“I’m here to help,” There it was. “I’m your new partner.”
“I had an old partner?” Legacy quipped.
“Agent Traxel has been your partner for three years.” She pointed to a desk across from Legacy’s. “He packed up over a month ago.”
“He wasn’t my partner.”
Wagner ran a curious eye over the papers on Legacy’s desk. “I know they let you do whatever you want around here-”
“Listen, if introducing yourself will finish this conversation, just do it and move on.”
Wagner took an awkward step backward, like she felt the force of his words flow into silence, even the piano clanking from the tape player took a rest as if it were in some silent complicity with the moment. Wagner cocked her head and spoke.
“I’m Agent Spears. Brittney Spears.”
Legacy regained his momentum, “Well Agent Spears –”
“What kind of music sounds like that? I mean I’ve got a cousin who plays like that, and I certainly wouldn’t reproduce it amplified.”
Legacy found himself answering the question before taking offense at the remark. Later, he realized he could have ended the conversation right there.
“You have to be patient, this tape was produced by a boy who can’t effectively tie his shoes.”
The rattle became a loud pounding, it sounded just like -
Agent Spears chimed in, “Is that him banging his head against the keyboard?”
A voice in the background of the recording asked if they should stop the recording.
Wagner took quick steps around the desk and scanned Legacy’s tape collection. Each tape was labeled with an instrument, a name, recording time and the word “savant”.
Wagner continued, “Is this what you’re going to listen to all the time? My God, who could listen to a glockenspiel for 14 hours?”
Legacy looked up and found himself staring into Wagner’s deeply sarcastic green eyes. He was compelled to answer from a rusty internal social reflex. “Recordings like this remind me how much can be hidden under layers of resistance, real or unreal.”
Her words had the graceful arc of razor wire “Are you a recording, too?”
Legacy looked her up and down and then let his eyes settle on her shoes.
“The music has the additional benefit of keeping civil people away.”
“Considering this particularly charming reception, you must be beating them off with a stick.”
Legacy smiled inside, the tumblers in his brain had finally clicked, but he remained visibly unchanged as he regarded Wagner. He sat in his chair and looked straight ahead. The words were directed at Agent Wagner’s waist.
“Now, are we almost finished?”
It wasn’t a question. She wouldn’t, however, give up.
“Is that the key? Does it fit?” Wagner continued. “They want me to learn from you. I tried being polite earlier when I delivered the key, it didn’t work.” The phone rang, Legacy didn’t move. Wagner fixed on Legacy’s eyes, which remained totally still, as if the sound didn’t even register.
“Aren’t you going to get that?” Pointing to the cradle attached to a curling wire that brought the phone into Legacy’s world.
“What if it’s a call from your daughter?”
The word “daughter” brought Legacy back into the world where people pick up phones and listen to other people’s voices.
“I have a cell phone.” It was a reflex; he’d trained himself to always immediately respond to anything concerning his daughter. He wondered, as he continued, if he’d been trapped into a conversation by Agent Spears or if coincidence was keeping the communication lines open. A part of him wanted to believe that it was pure manipulation on the young agent’s part. He could respect that. Coincidence was the cowardly way the world kept things in motion. The notion that he might have wasted ten minutes on coincidence angered him.
“I haven’t tried the key yet. I don’t answer questions, those are my rules.” Legacy found a crumb of sympathy crunching under his foot. “Ask for a transfer, today. I am your superior, right?” She nodded, “You are dismissed.”
Legacy had no way of knowing that her orders had come from the very top; there was no way to change her assignment. Something about his tone said that she would have to set the place on fire to get his attention again. She had one last ploy.
The agent’s cell phone rang, a melody of Bach she’d downloaded off the internet. Plunging her hand into her coat pocket, she headed for the hallway, reaching the door. Legacy’s voice called out from the office, unexpected, forceful.
“Wait!” Legacy was standing. Whatever had caught his attention, it was now more than merely a passing interest. “Who are you?”
Wagner silenced the phone. “I told you –”
“I know, you’re Brittney Spears. Listen, my daughter is fourteen, I noticed the humor when you introduced yourself.”
“Does anyone really notice humor? I think you either get it, or you don’t.”
“That’s the ringbone my daughter chose for my phone.”
She took a step back into the office. “Look, I have an important assignment. It’s only my second assignment and the first didn’t end up well, so this is it for my career at age 23.”
“I went through the same thing at 29.”
“Did you go through it as a woman?
”
Legacy hadn’t expected that; a hint of interest lit his eyes.
“I see you are beginning to get me.”
Legacy paused, put all aspects of her behavior since she had entered the room into an equation. An invisible timeline of events dangled in the periphery of his thoughts and like a three-dimensional puzzle, all he needed to do was focus his eyes on an indistinct point in front of him. He squinted as his mind went through a series of approximations that usually led him to a definite conclusion. When his eyes focused again on the room, Wagner was standing in front of him, holding the key; he could tell that she wanted him to offer up the lock. She was unlike anyone who had knocked on his door in years – everybody wanted something from Legacy. She did too, but it was clear that Agent Wagner understood that asking was the surest way not to get an answer in Legacy’s realm.
A single beep from Legacy’s watch made him flinch. “Is that your wake up call?” Agent Wagner asked in a surly tone. Legacy checked his watch, and the time indicated that he had to go. In a quiet, ritual fashion, Legacy stood and prepared to leave. He blew past Wagner with the same even stride that took him to the door.
Legacy knew everything about Wagner from the moment he’d first seen her. She was the type who believed in laws, rules, and the distinct pleasure of being right by pointing to a code in a book and winning an argument without a thought wasted in contemplation of a solution. She could not be stopped, climbing the ladder in the official ranks of the bureau. He was equally sure that she had ammunition in her gun that would stop him, but short of that, he was leaving. But at the door, the room went silent. The plug to his cassette player had been ripped from the wall and Wagner stood holding the chord like a prize, daring him to notice.
Legacy stopped, still facing the door in front of him. “Plug it back in before you go.”
“Aren’t you going to try this key? It could put a killer in jail tonight.”
“Nothing in the killer’s world changes by my waiting for morning, my daughter expects me home at six.”
Legacy took another step, Wagner’s shoulders rolled forward in defeat. Legacy paused outside the door, his voice echoed from the hall.
“Come in early, read everything in the case file, I’ll be in at nine and you can tell me whether the key is going to fit, in your opinion. Until you know everything about the case, the solution is just another answer in a sea of questions.”
Wagner heard Legacy’s footsteps trail off over the concrete floors of the substructure. She walked slowly over to the desk and spread her arms in a pose of victory. She plugged the cassette player back in and, at the same moment, a stab of melodic perfection erupted from the speakers. It was like the tape was responding to her personal breakthrough, and it was gorgeous.
She flipped out her cell phone.
At the sound of a connection she spoke, “I’m in.”
The beauty of the tune pouring from the player collapsed into sour dissonance.
Chapter 2 The Talk
Not far away, at Legacy’s destination, a study session of the highest priority was going on. Three teenage girls “studied” with second-year French books open flat in front of them.
“Nothing leaves this room, I mean it.” Lane wasn’t going to budge when it came to confidentiality. “I’ll have your dad go federal on anyone that tells.”
Giggles, shrieks and gasps, the recurring staples of the adolescent conversation rang down the halls of the large, turn-of-the-century apartment. Lane leveled a weighted stare at Chessapeake, or Chess, a bright young girl who, like the true masters of her namesake, had an intellect and intensity that asserted itself onto the world in a playful way. As carefree as she was, she had a competitive streak in her that was totally her father: she liked to win. Her emotions shone out of her eyes unfiltered by any of the baggage of adulthood, beaming beacons, ice blue, lighting up with the promise of a secret about to be told.
Trisha rushed into the silence like running water pulled a by fifteen year-olds hormonal gravity, “Let your dad interrogate me any day, please.”
“Your dad is hot. Deal with it.” Lane switched into a civil tone, her father was a lawyer.
“It’s not her fault.” Trisha’s exuberance could be explained argued and acquitted.
Chess scowled at her friends, but the pinched expression could not possibly hold. Chess had a natural warm smile. She’d practiced it in the mirror for hours as a child. At fourteen she had perfected a series of facial expressions that could neutralize the sternest teacher at ten paces. The smile that Lane’s comments about her dad had brought to life was filled with retribution and pride. Chess let her fingers dial an invisible phone.
“Pick up the truth phone.”
Lane picked up an invisible receiver. “I’ve got it.” Chess let her words trickle out pointedly. “My father is not subject of our conversation, n’est-ce pas? He is not the boy you made out with in the audio isolation cubes in French class is he? Shouldn’t we be talking about him?”
“Non, non, non. Il etait un garcon; ton pere est un vrai homme.”
Chess stood and let her fingers run along the wallpaper as she strolled around Lane. There was little beyond the walls of the lovingly decorated, somehow frozen-in-time quality to the apartment. Despite the loss of her mother suffered by she and her father, the walls had echoed more of her laughter than the floors had drunk her tears in the years she’d spent growing up here. Her thoughts slowed her gait until Lane was ready to burst waiting for her to talk. Chess used the anticipation to let out with:
“Est-ce que ton petit-ami – grand?”
The delivery was perfect, “Is your little friend, big?” a squeal of laughter blanketed the room, and for a moment there were no French textbooks, there was no nation of France at all. The world disappeared outside and the three teenage girls wrapped themselves in a blanket of nonsense. The embroidery at the top read ‘best friends forever’ and it was warm underneath.
After a moment it was time to get back to the task, but the nonsense hadn’t passed.
“Your top is dipping open. Or are you trying to impress us with your cleavage?”
Chess looked down, she was wearing a sweater, not a single cleave in sight.
“Actually, I was talking about myself.” It was Lane that was blossoming quickly and her private school outfit had been modified to invite notice.
Trisha threw a quick signal at Lane and both of them checked the clock. “Why do you keep checking the time?”
“Pas de raison.” Lane’s watch beeped.
Chess saw that it was approaching six. Both of the girls were looking at the front door. They knew it would open soon. A wall clock started to chime and at exactly six the latches on the door began sliding open. Trisha’s fingers twisted nervously in her hair. Three clicks, then they were open. Martin walked in pulling his coat off in one motion.
“Dad.”
He lit up hearing Chess' voice. It was a total transformation, like every bit of social energy he could gather was for her. His baby girl brought out every ounce of charm Legacy had – wooden, yet still a thousand times softer than the cold steel he so closely carried to his heart.
“Bonjour!” Trisha chimed in quickly. She extended her hand and Martin watched it for a moment before awkwardly shaking it. The father checked off his daughter with a glance.
“We’re studying French.” Chess was used to filling in the gaps with Legacy.
“Really?”
“Oui. Actually, it’s bonsoir!” Lane walked up to Martin. “And they kiss hello, in France.” She leaned in and stole a cautious peck on his cheek.
Martin turned immediately to his daughter, awkwardness hung in the air until he spoke.
“Well if we are going to adopt French customs from now on, you can’t give me any trouble for doing this.” He kissed both of Chess' cheeks then scrubbed the top of her head with his knuckles with a half-smile on his face.
Trisha swooned audibly; Lane pushed the back of Chess' swea
ter. “Your daughter has a question to ask, monsieur.”
“I was going to wait until dinner, but I guess that this is the best time.” She shifted weight back and forth on her brown penny loafers.
“Whatever it is, yes.” Martin tapped her on the head with the newspaper he carried in his hand, then swiveled and headed down the hall.
“I want to go on a date, a triple date with my best friends.”
Martin stopped, a slow glance over his shoulder, “With boys?”
