Missing: A Mason Gray Case

by William Markham

  It was 1:05 in the afternoon. After my trip to the library, it had taken me almost two hours to get to Evanston on the Red Line and then a cab to Northwestern University.

  “Not a problem. I don’t get too many students during office hours, so I’m glad for a break from all these term papers.” He flicked the paper he was holding and grinned at me as he set it down on a stack in front of him. He removed his glasses and asked, “So what brings you here today? I must admit, I’m quite curious to know how my studies could assist with your line of work.”

  I didn’t want to sound crazy, so I tried to explain as best as I could.

  “The case I’m working on has brought me into contact with... peculiar individuals. I have very strong reason to believe that they may be part of a cult that fancies themselves to be vampires. I need to be able to predict their behavior, to identify weaknesses in their routines and beliefs that I could exploit.”

  “I see,” he replied. “You are aware that my expertise is historical in nature and not of modern fantasy?”

  “Yes, sir. I’m hoping that if I can learn the commonalities that exist across the mythology, it will give me a basic understanding of this group that I can flesh out as I learn more details about them specifically.” The professor nodded his head, clutching the earpiece of his glasses in his teeth.

  “I like your thinking,” he said. “Yes, that sounds like a good thesis paper for one of my students.” He chuckled to himself. “Sorry, teaching on the brain. I would think, that, in our culture, they would stick to the traditional vampire archetype popularized by Bram Stoker’s Dracula, which has its roots in Romanian folklore. Even modern vampire stories are descendants of that tale, albeit each with their own twists and embellishments.”

  “Are there other vampire legends before Dracula?” I asked.

  “Most certainly. In fact, there is vampire mythology from nearly every culture around the globe. The earliest on record dates back to the early Persian empire around 500 BC. Of course, they weren’t called vampires. They had a wide variety of names, including demons and devils. Some even claim the ancient Lilith was the first vampire. But whatever they were called, they share many of the same characteristics, which is what you are after—am I right?”

  “Yep.”

  “Okay, let’s think about this. The most basic thing all the legends have in common is that they subsist on the life force of others, usually by drinking their blood.” McManus paused to gather his thoughts. “The only other thing I can think of that applies across the board is that they have some level of immortality—they’re either raised from the dead or are of demonic origin.”

  “That’s not much to go on,” I said. Had this trip been a waste of time?

  “No, not really,” McManus agreed, “but let me rethink the parameters. Let’s begin with the Romanian folklore and cross-reference that with other legends and myths to see if any patterns emerge.”

  “All right.”

  He placed his glasses on the desk, leaned back in his chair, and steepled his fingers. “Okay, I think we can do away with the shape-shifting powers—no turning into bats or wolves—but most, though not all, of the stories I’m familiar with allude to the creatures’ nocturnal nature. There’s also a thread of charismatic hypnosis that manifests in different ways.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Well, Dracula could stare into his victim’s eyes and lull them into a hypnotic trance. Other references assign these creatures the ability to cast spells that bend the will of others. But the most ancient texts simply describe them as charismatic. Despite popular belief, most of the demons characterized in religious texts are portrayed not as hideous monsters that rule through fear, but rather as beautiful creatures who appeal to our vanity and sense of self.”

  “Hmmm,” I mused. “That explains the sexy vampire trend of late.”

  “Indeed.”

  “What about lacking a reflection, sleeping in a coffin, being allergic to garlic... that sort of thing?”

  “Most of that lore is relatively modern, I’m afraid. There doesn’t seem to be any historical basis for it. Although most of these creatures are said to have some weakness to silver.”

  Silver. Every dark cloud has a silver lining. Interesting.

  I pushed the conversation a little further.

  “Do you think these stories have any basis in fact? Could there actually have been a vampire-like creature in the past?”

  The professor’s eyes twinkled. He picked up his spectacles and twirled them between his fingers.

  “That, Mr. Gray, is the question we would all like answered.”

  McManus spent the next twenty minutes regaling me with his theories about the origins of vampire stories and other myths and legends. I had opened a can of worms, it seemed, and he was delighted to have a captive audience.

  The short of it was that, yes, he did believe that these legends had some root in fact. Most legends did, he said, but they had been exaggerated and twisted over the years until they took on a life on their own.

  Manatees, for example, were the basis for stories about mermaids, giant squids gave rise to the tale of the Kraken, and people who contracted rabies may have been construed as werewolves. Of course, the origins of many myths were still shrouded in mystery, either because the legend bore no resemblance to its historical counterpart or because whatever had inspired it no longer existed. As for vampires, McManus felt they were an iteration of ancient demons who may have been an explanation for some disease or other.

  I finally excused myself, thanked him for his time and expertise, and saw myself out of the University.

  ***

  The stores didn’t close for another couple of hours, so I made my way back downtown. I wanted to scope out the area in West Town to which Mac had traced the virus-containing email. If people were still on the streets, I could snoop around without attracting attention. Plus, I’d be that much closer to Frank’s when dinnertime rolled around.

  Randolph and Halsted is a busy intersection. There are several bars and restaurants, some stores, and a bank or two at ground level and apartments on the upper floors. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for, exactly, but I at least wanted to get the lay of the land.

  I walked north on Halsted, pondering what type of place a human trafficker would use to shelter the people he abducted. It would have to be unobtrusive: hidden in plain sight, perhaps, but out of the way, where no one would stumble upon it. It would need to be quiet, too, or at least soundproof. Of course, an email could have been sent from just about anywhere; I wasn’t necessarily looking for a slaver’s hideout. An idea popped into my head at the sight of a boutique real estate place. I needed to narrow my search, and I thought I knew where to start.

  The place was called Shabby Chic Real Estate. Behind the counter sat a curvy brunette typing on a computer. She was young, maybe in her mid-twenties, and wore a forest green jacket over a white blouse with a wide collar. She looked up when I entered and smiled, but the smile didn’t reach her eyes.

  “Hello. How can I help you today?” she asked.

  “Hi...” I glanced at the nameplate on the counter. “Brenda. I have a couple of questions about listings in the neighborhood. I could come back tomorrow if you’re about to close up.”

  “I’m here until six,” she said.

  “Could you pull up a list of all the buildings for sale or rent in a one block radius around Randolph and Halsted?”

  She looked at me funny.

  “I know it’s kind of specific, but as they say, location, location, location.”

  “All right. Commercial or residential?”

  “Both.”

  She gave me another funny look.

  I shrugged and said, “I like to work close to home.”

  I could tell she didn’t buy my lie at all, but she humored me anyway, clicking her mouse several times. A nearby printer whirred to life, feeding out several sheets of paper. She stood and grabbed them off the t
ray and picked up a pen.

  “The computer can’t limit the search exactly within those boundaries, but I’ll cross off anything that’s outside your search area.” She read over the pages and marked through a couple of listings.

  “You know this area pretty well, I take it?”

  “I suppose so. Why?”

  “Know of anyone in the area who would be interested in selling or renting but hasn’t listed?”

  “Um... maybe,” she said, squinting in thought. She eyed me up and down. “Are you really interested in buying something?”

  I should have answered with an emphatic “Of course,” but I hesitated.

  One thing you discover quickly in my line of work is that if someone hesitates before answering a simple question and then gives the “right” answer, they’re usually lying. Even if you don’t consciously pick up on the fact that you’ve just been lied to, your brain still gets it. Suspicion is automatically aroused; what they said just feels wrong.

  For some reason, a gut feeling, I wanted this woman to trust me… and my gut was usually right.

  “Actually, no,” I admitted.

  She narrowed her eyes.

  “I am looking for a place in the neighborhood, but it’s not for me.” I lowered my voice to a conspiratorial tone. “I’m a private investigator. I’m looking for someone who may be hiding out in this area. I have an idea of the type of place they might be, and I was hoping you could help me narrow my search.”

  Brenda glanced down the hallway, where I imagined the actual realtors had offices, and lowered her voice as well. “I don’t know how much help I’ll be, but I can try.”

  I filled her in on the kind of place I was looking for. It was most likely not on the market, but was vacant or used for storage. Her eyes widened, and she took half a step back.

  Just then, a door opened down the hallway. Brenda looked over her shoulder again, then met my eyes once more.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” she said in an even but slightly louder tone, “but we don’t currently have any properties that fit those parameters. If your requirements change at all, please give us a call at this number.” She scribbled something onto one of the printouts and handed me the stack of papers. We made eye contact again, and this time she held it. Her eyebrows arched a smidge; she firmly gripped the papers.

  I nodded just a bit. Her face relaxed, and she let go.

  “Thanks for stopping in,” she said, and returned to her computer. I turned and walked out the door. Outside, I glanced down at the paperwork and saw not a phone number, but an address. Weird. Brenda wanted to tell me something, but for whatever reason didn’t feel comfortable doing so in the office.

  ***

  It was only five thirty, so the little bar on the corner was mostly empty. I found a table by a window where I could keep an eye on the real estate place, ordered a gin and tonic, and waited.

  The address written on the paper wasn’t in the neighborhood, so I wasn’t sure what to make of it. I wanted to talk to Brenda again, to figure out what she wanted to tell me.

  A few minutes after six, she left the office and locked the door behind her. She walked past the bar and stopped just shy of the corner at the bus stop. While she waited, she looked around nervously, finally glancing across the street in my direction.

  Her gaze stopped roving when she saw me. I laid a ten on the table, then pushed back my chair to get up, but she slowly shook her head, warning me off.

  A minute later, the bus pulled up, and she got on. As it drove away, a beat-up black Ford Taurus with tinted windows pulled away from the curb and followed it.

  I hurried from the bar and stood on the sidewalk to get a better look. Instead of passing the bus, the car slowed down when it made its next stop. It appeared my receptionist friend had a tail. I decided to tail the tail, and I flagged down the next cab that came by.

  It only took a couple of blocks to catch up, as the bus seemed to be stopping at every intersection, with the Taurus still easing along behind it. I had the cabbie pull over: I wanted to stay far enough back that they wouldn’t notice me, but close enough that I could see when Brenda got off.

  While we were stopped, I punched the address she had given me into my phone and saw that it was about two miles south of where we were now. I figured that’s where she was headed. I was tempted to have the cab take me straight there, but I didn’t like the way she was being followed, and I had no time frame on when she’d arrive, so I figured I’d better keep watching.

  Sure enough, Brenda got off the bus a couple of miles down, then headed west. The Taurus turned and drove past her; she watched it carefully. It was a wide boulevard with a decent amount of traffic so I figured my cab wouldn’t be noticed. I had the driver keep following the Taurus. It parked on the north side of the road about two blocks down, across from a large brick apartment building. I told the cabbie to keep driving and turn right at the next street, then had him drop me off. Not knowing how long this would take, I paid him and sent him on his way.

  I walked back to the corner to get a peek at the car. By this point, the driver, a slick-looking guy wearing a black topcoat and sunglasses, had gotten out and was leaning against the driver’s side door. Brenda made her way down the other side of the street, going out of her way not to look at him.

  She let herself in through a wrought-iron gate that opened onto a grassy courtyard and proceeded into the building.

  I hung out on the corner, waiting to see if Slick would follow her in. He didn’t. He lit up a cigarette and stood there, glaring at the apartment building. I followed suit, because no one would think twice about some guy hanging out on the corner for a smoke break. When the guy finished his cigarette, he got back into the car and peeled off. I lingered a few more minutes to make sure he didn’t double back, then crushed the butt of mine on the sidewalk with my heel.

  I casually strolled back the way I had come and crossed the street. The gate to the courtyard had a busted lock, and it opened with a gentle push. The building’s front door was a different story. It was sturdy with a fully functional deadbolt. After a quick inspection I decided that I could force it open if need be, but what was the point? I had an address with me, and there were buzzers.

  I found the correct button, labeled 3E, and pressed it.

  A crackly voice came over the tiny speaker. “Hello.”

  “I think I found something that belongs to you,” I said. “It’s a piece of paper with this address on it. I think it’s important.”

  There was a brief pause, then a loud buzz as the door lock disengaged.

  18

  “Come in,” said Brenda as she cautiously opened the door, glancing up and down the hallway.

  “He’s gone,” I assured her, and stepped into the small one-bedroom unit.

  A little boy, about two or three, sat on a couch to the left of the door in the living room. He was completely engrossed in some cartoon playing on an older tube-style TV, oblivious to my presence.

  The apartment was small but well-kept, its furnishings sparse but tasteful, and the place had a warm, homey feel. An apartment in the city was expensive, especially for a single mother—I didn’t see any sign of a man living here—but Brenda clearly took pride in her little abode.

  “Coffee?” she asked.

  “Sure,” I replied, and took another step inside.

  She gestured to a small table just in front of the doorway that led to the kitchen, then busied herself making a pot of fresh coffee. I took a seat and waited. For some reason, I got the feeling our conversation wasn’t going to begin until the coffee was served, and it didn’t feel right to push it.

  Eventually, she placed a heavy cup in front of me and settled herself in the chair across the table with her own cup. I took a tentative sip. It was remarkably good.

  “So,” she began. “I’m sorry I couldn’t talk at the office. Things there are... complicated.”

  “They usually are,” I said. “Why are you being followed?”
<
br />   She pressed her lips into a thin line. “They don’t want me talking to anyone about what’s going on. Did they see you come in here?”

  “No, I made sure your tail was gone first. So, what’s going on?”

  “I’m not sure where to begin.” She sipped her coffee while gathering her thoughts. “I’ve noticed a lot of inconsistencies in business deals. We’ve sold certain properties to small companies that quickly go broke. Once they’re foreclosed on, we swoop in and repurchase the property at a substantially reduced price, only to sell them again. But I think the small businesses are actually subsidiaries of our company whose only purpose is to go broke. We also offer financing options with adjustable rates that crank up ridiculously high after a few months.”

  Swindling the banks and predatory lending. How delightful. Brenda was working for some real winners.

  “Do you have any evidence?” I asked.

  “Lots, but I can’t take it anywhere. They’ve threatened me and Benjamin.” She looked toward her son and sighed. “I don’t want to be a part of this anymore, but I don’t know what to do. These people are scary. I thought my boss was bad, but then his boss showed up yesterday, and...” She shivered.

  I took another swig and watched her over the brim of my mug.

  “Maybe we can help each other out?” I offered. She perked up.

  “I get the feeling you can point me toward the kind of place I mentioned earlier, that maybe you know exactly what I’m looking for, and I have a friend on the force who I could talk to about your employer.”

  “Really? You’d do that?”

  “Of course. Let’s start with the threats they’ve made.”

  Brenda explained that she’d received pictures of her son at his daycare and that she’d been warned to keep quiet unless she wanted to lose everything. She was afraid that someone working at the daycare was connected to her employer, since they’d recommended it. The man I’d seen in the Taurus had followed her every day for several months, though he’d made no overt contact.