Missing: A Mason Gray Case

by William Markham

  “She always called me every Monday, though. That's how I knew something was wrong—she didn't call the other week.”

  “What about friends? Did she ever talk about the people she spent time with?”

  “Not really—not to me, anyway. I got the feeling there was somebody, a boyfriend maybe, but she never did talk about him outright. She would mention things she had done, places she’d gone, that wouldn't be right to do alone. I don't know... it seemed like she wanted to keep me in the dark where that was concerned.”

  “All right. These places she went, do you remember where they were? Any place she mentioned more than once?”

  “Not really. Mostly restaurants. There was a club she went to a couple of times. Some place called Neo. You know that one?”

  “Yeah, I've heard of it,” I replied.

  Neo is the oldest nightclub in Chicago. There are older bars and speakeasies in the city, such as the Green Mill, one of Capone's favorite hangouts, but that's a different type of place altogether. Neo plays host to goths, emo kids, and anyone else who wears a lot of black, and it’s one of the few places in the city that plays trip-hop music. I've never been there, but it looked like that was about to change.

  “What about social media? Does she use that much?”

  McCarthy met my question with a blank stare.

  “Computers. Does she have one?”

  “Huh? Oh yeah. She's been trying to talk me into getting one, but I'm one of the last geezers to hold out, I guess.”

  I didn't think the old man would provide any more insight into the whereabouts of his daughter, so I thanked him for his time, confirmed Ellie's address, polished off the last swig of whiskey, and said my farewell.

  ***

  As I headed back to the Red Line, I passed a billboard near the Sox field that stopped me short, an ad for someone named Dooley running for alderman of the 3rd ward. That, of itself, was meaningless to me, but it’s funny how the brain works, how one thought connects to another. I’d read in a book that certain external stimuli can unearth buried memories if they somehow trigger the right synapses in the brain to fire, no matter how meaningless those stimuli might seem at first. Somehow, seeing this billboard sent me down a pathway of synapses that ended at a gala I had attended a year ago, hosted by a different alderman in another ward.

  I’d figured this reception, held so the locals could meet the alderman on a non-threatening level with no agendas being pushed, was a good opportunity for me to schmooze and possibly drum up some new clients. There’d been a buffet of finger foods and a mimosa bar, but my brain freeze-framed on the face of none other than Victor Sanz. Ha! I knew I'd seen him before. In my mind's eye, he was dressed in a white uniform, filling champagne flutes with orange juice.

  I did a little shuffle step on the sidewalk and lit a cigarette to celebrate this victory. I know, it doesn't seem like much, but in my line of work, it’s often the little things that count the most. They add up to big breakthroughs.

  I also now knew the next step in my investigation: to talk to the folks at the alderman's office. Either Sanz worked directly for them or for the caterer who’d worked the event. Either way, there would be paperwork with an address or something. I fished out my notepad, wrote this down, and made for the train.

  4

  Once the train resurfaced, I looked up the ward office I needed and dialed the number.

  “Thank you for calling the office of Alderman Juarez,” chirped a female voice on the other end. “How may I help you?”

  I told her I was a PI trying to track down someone named Victor Sanz who’d worked an event there earlier in the year and asked if she would be so kind as to check the records for me. She put me on hold, forcing me to listen to terrible Muzak. You’d think that with Pandora and Sirius and all the other on-demand technology these days, someone would have figured out a way to make hold music less boring. A few moments later, the receptionist came back on line and ever so politely informed me that the event I was referring to had been catered in-house, but there were no records of anyone by that name having worked there. She was “very sorry she couldn't be of more help” and “hoped that I would have a nice day.”

  Huh. That sure seemed like a dead end—except I knew better. Her tone had the cold detachment of someone stonewalling. I knew it well; all receptionists used it when they had been instructed by a boss to “tell that damned PI to go to hell.” I was more than a little surprised to be stonewalled so early, though; I’d honestly expected it to be a simple exchange of information. Something was afoot.

  Naturally, this required me to make the poor receptionist uncomfortable by showing up in person. Oftentimes, those nice young girls couldn't brush me off so easily face-to-face. A lot depended on how much experience they had and how willing they were to protect their douche bag boss. Fortunately, the ward office was just off the Red Line, and I didn't have anything better to do.

  Switching my train of thought, I opened Facebook on my phone and searched for Ellie McCarthy. Her father might not know how to use this newfangled electronic stuff to keep tabs on his daughter, but I certainly did. It didn't take long to find her page, but it wasn’t much help. Her last activity had been six months prior, and her privacy settings were locked down tight. The only things I could get to were her profile picture and basic info. At least the photo was more recent than the one in my file.

  Ellie was a pretty girl. She had a thick mane of dark red hair rebelling against the clips that struggled to hold it in check. Her face was round—not plump, exactly, but healthy. The Irish freckle fairy had given her a liberal dusting across her cheeks and long, high-bridged nose, setting a stark contrast to the creamy white skin beneath. The camera had caught her laughing, and her bright green eyes danced with joy and innocence.

  While I was thinking about the McCarthy file, I called Frank to see about the computers. He still hadn't figured out what happened on his end: the file simply wasn't there. I told Frank I knew a guy who might be able to help.

  Next I called Mac. Mac's real name was Keith, I think. Maybe Kevin. I don't remember. I met him on a case in which I’d recovered a damaged hard drive for a client. There was something about the case that didn't sit right with me so I wanted to know what was on the drive before I handed it over. Mac had a computer repair shop in the neighborhood, so I took it over to see if he could do anything with it. Turned out he was a genius with anything that spoke a language of ones and zeros, except he refused to work on any Apple products—he’d apparently been let go from the company over a security breach that he swore he had nothing to do with. I found his vehement denial dubious. Calling him Mac seemed the only natural, if somewhat mean-spirited, thing to do.

  Anyway, he’d salvaged the data from the hard drive, and we’d discovered some adult video footage. Because it was, in fact, all adult, I saw no reason not to return it to the client. Ever since then, Mac has been my go-to guy for all things technology.

  “Hey Mac,” I said, “its Gray. I've got a job for you.”

  “I've told you I don't like that name. Why do you insist?”

  “I don't know. Irony?”

  He didn’t laugh.

  “Do you have time to swing by my office and take a look at our system?” I asked. “Something wiggy is going on.”

  “What kind of wiggy?”

  I told him about the missing file and that I was primarily interested in how it disappeared rather than in getting it back. “I'm not in the office, but Frank should be.”

  “Can it wait until tomorrow? It’s almost quitting time,” Mac said.

  “Charge me for overtime” I said. “It’s important.”

  He groaned. “Fine. I'll be there shortly.”

  “Thanks,” I said, and hung up. I called Frank to let him know Mac would be stopping by, then got ready to hop off the train as we approached my stop.

  ***

  The Alderman’s office wasn’t huge. Of course, it wasn't a huge ward either. It was practical—
plain painted walls, plain office-store-type furniture, plain receptionist sitting behind the desk—not what you'd expect in a Chi-town politico's office. But then again, we weren't downtown, where most of the money and power is.

  I sidled up to the desk of the receptionist, who was on the phone. She held up a finger as if to say “I'll be with you in a moment,” and I flashed her a smile that said “I've got all day.” She was a young Hispanic girl, probably in her mid-twenties, with thick brown hair. She wasn't what I'd call pretty, but she wasn't ugly either—unremarkable, I guess you’d say.

  She hung up the phone, then asked, “How can I help you?”

  “I'm here to see Mr. Juarez,” I told her.

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “Do I need one? I'm a constituent of this ward.”

  “I'm sorry sir, but Mr. Juarez is very busy at the moment. I'd be happy to make an appointment for you.”

  “All right, then. My name is Gray.” I had no intention of making an appointment. I did, however, intend on making a scene until I got some information, and this was part one of the plan.

  “Okay, Mr. Gray. What will be the nature of your meeting, so Mr. Juarez will be prepared?”

  Time to make her uncomfortable. “I'd like to speak with him about a man named Victor Sanz.”

  Her demeanor instantly changed from warm to wary. If I was right about being stonewalled, she wouldn't simply make me an appointment now, but neither could she outright refuse to make one—politics, you know. On the other hand, if she had told me the truth on the phone, she would make the appointment and let the alderman tell me again.

  “One moment, please. I need to check with his assistant to see when he is available.” She punched a few buttons on the phone, avoiding eye contact, then spoke into the handset, “Yes, a gentleman named Mr. Gray is inquiring about a Victor Sanz and would like to make an appointment.” A pause, then, “Uh huh. Thank you. I'll let him know.” She hung up the phone. “You can have a seat over there. Someone will be with you shortly.”

  That was unexpected.

  Perhaps this was a different tactic, a wait-‘em-out game. They’d feign an interest in what I wanted, then leave me sitting in the lobby for hours, saying “It will just be a few more minutes” every so often until I got frustrated and left or the office closed.

  I was wrong again. Within ten minutes, a young, dark-haired fellow with a sharp beak of a nose came down the hallway. He wore khaki slacks, a blue JC Penny button-up, and a bow tie. Seriously, a bow tie. Apparently, they’re making a comeback with the twenty-somethings.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Gray,” he began. “I’m Jason Gallagher, Mr. Juarez’s personal assistant.” He extended his right hand and, on reflex, I shook it. I felt something stick me in the palm when I did, but before I could pull away, he grabbed my hand with his left in a firm two-handed shake before continuing to speak. “I’m very sorry that Mr. Juarez couldn’t speak with you personally about your issue at this time. Please know that your concerns are our concerns...”

  I stopped listening, trying to figure out what was poking me in the hand. It wasn’t a needle or blade, as I’d initially feared. It was softer and had more give to it, like the edge of a business card. In fact, I concluded, that’s exactly what it was. That was very odd. Truthfully, this whole encounter was odd.

  “... I hope you understand, and we thank you for your continued support.” When he finished, he gave my hand two hard shakes and made sure I kept my fist balled around whatever it was. He stared at me, searching my eyes to see if I did actually understand.

  My neurons fired off along a hundred different pathways as I considered the implications. The card in my hand could have absolutely nothing on it—it could be just another ploy to get rid of me. Maybe they figured if I walked out the door, I would be reluctant to come back in and make a stink. It was also possible that Victor Sanz’s address was written on this card, but no one wanted to admit that he was connected to the office. That would make sense: what politician wants to deal with the murder of a staff member? Whatever was on this card was intended to remain a secret.

  I thought about looking at the card then and there to thumb my nose at “the man” —I couldn’t care less about Mr. Juarez’s political machinations. Then I thought about the mistaken identity scenario I’d come up with earlier. If someone wanted me dead, I probably shouldn't antagonize them.

  Caution won out, and I mumbled, “Sure... sure, no problem.”

  The assistant released me but maintained eye contact until I turned and walked to the door. I nodded to the receptionist, who gave me a trite smile, then looked back over my shoulder. Mr. Gallagher had already disappeared down the hallway.

  I waited until I was halfway to the El before looking at the crumpled piece of cardstock still clutched in my fist. Sure enough, it was a business card for Alderman Juarez. I flipped it over and read the hastily scribbled note: Carol's 9:30.

  5

  My watch said it was five thirty, and I hadn’t eaten lunch yet, so I stopped off at Duck Walk, my favorite little Thai place in Lincoln Park. Honestly, I liked it better when it was a hole in the wall up in Lakeview off the Belmont stop. It was super cheap and it only sat eight or so people, but the food was fan-freaking-tastic. The new location is a little swankier, and they’ve raised the prices some, but the grub is the same. For the urban gastronomist the Tom Kha soup is ambrosia- or amrita, the Buddhist equivalent, if you want to get technical about it. The sweet coconut milk base is the perfect palette on which the heat of crushed red peppers, the zing of fresh ginger, and the tang of lime mingle to create a tempting tableaux of taste. None of this has any bearing on the case, of course, but it provided me with a needed break so I could focus on the simple pleasures of life.

  After that I grabbed a cab and went back to the office.

  Some people don’t believe in luck; they think it’s only a function of opportunity and preparedness. Some people don’t believe in coincidence; they claim all occurrences are part of a grand design. Me, I think it’s just a matter of semantics; the end result is the same. But whatever you want to call it, it worked in my favor that day.

  Here's what happened as best as I can recall.

  I went up the back way to the office again. Like many other multi-unit buildings in Chicago, the back of our building has a wooden staircase that leads to a landing at each floor. These landings always have a handrail of some kind; ours had a solid plywood enclosure about waist high.

  I pulled my keys out as I reached the landing and was about to unlock the door when I felt a ten-pound furball brush against my legs. I glanced down at our resident alley cat, One-eyed Willy, and said hi. Apparently, verbal recognition wasn't enough, because he let out a loud growling meow. I knelt down to scratch him behind his scarred and mangled ear.

  That timing saved my life.

  As soon as I moved, I heard a thwack on the wall where my head had been. Several tiny stone chips rained down on me. I immediately dropped to my stomach, and Willy took off.

  Someone had just taken a shot at me.

  Though the plywood wall would offer no protection from a normal round of ammunition, I hoped it would be shield enough from the type my attacker was using, since there’d been no audible crack to accompany the gunshot.

  Many people believe that a silencer on the end of a barrel literally silences the gunshot or converts it into a high-pitched fffttt sound. That isn’t true. The reason a gunshot is so loud is because the bullet travels faster than the speed of sound, creating a sonic boom. The only way to silence a gunshot is to slow the bullet. That’s not usually possible, but there is one way: a low-velocity .22-caliber ammunition on the market which effectively makes a .22 rifle no louder than a BB gun. It's highly illegal in most states, but when has that ever stopped a would-be criminal?

  Those slowed-down bullets might penetrate plywood, but they’d lose most of their energy in doing so. Lying prone, I should be safe for the time being, but I couldn't sta
y like that forever.

  I considered my options.

  I could draw my own piece and return fire, but I only had a vague idea of the assailant’s position. By the time I zeroed in on him, I'd be dead.

  I could try to unlock the door and get inside. I glanced up at the lock. It was above the protection of the wall. That was no good either: my head would be exposed.

  I had my phone, so I could call the cops. Any normal person would. The problem with that was that it could take them twenty minutes to get there, and if this assassin really wanted me dead, he'd finish me off before that. I needed to get to a safer position first.

  I decided to call the office. If Frank was there, he could open the door from inside.

  The phone rang seven times, then the voice mail picked up. Shit.

  My mind scrabbled like a frantic hamster on a wheel as I tried to find a way out, then froze on a scene from the front of the building when the cabbie dropped me off. A powder blue Beetle had been parked on the side street—the same car that Mac drove. He must be inside, working on the computer issue. Perfect.

  I dialed Mac's cell. He picked up on the second ring.

  “Computer 911,” he said. “If you've got a problem, I've got the solution.”

  “Good, 'cause I've got one hell of a problem.”

  “Oh, hi, Gray. I'm glad you called. I found something—”

  “Not now,” I interrupted. “I need you to do exactly what I say, and I need you to do it now.”

  “Okay...”

  “Come to the back door, but stay away from the windows. Whatever you do, don't stand or walk in front of them.”

  “Shit, Gray, you're scaring me. What's going on?”

  “I'll tell you in a minute. Right now, just follow my directions.”

  “Okay, I'm at the back door. Now what?”

  “In a second, you're going to open the door, but make sure you're standing behind it. I'm going to somersault in, and as soon as I'm clear, you close the door. Got it?”

  “I think so.”