by Deek Rhew
“First things first,” he said, “I’ve been on the road all day. Anywhere around here I can stay tonight?”
“Ah, yep!” She beamed with pride. “My sister is runnin’ the night shift at the fanciest hotel in town. Just tell her I sent you, and she’ll give you the best room in the joint.”
18
In his hotel “suite,” Sam studied Monica’s picture: blondish-brown hair, intelligent hazel eyes, dark complexion, smattering of freckles, and a distinct Marilyn Monroe mole above her thin lips. A pretty girl, though no one would confuse her with the temptress who had seduced one of the country’s favorite presidents.
Mary Beth said Susan looked about twenty-five. That and the rest of her description fell into alignment with the pictures in front of him. The barista had been playing Cupid, trying to pair the two of them up, so she did her best to make Susan sound attractive. The physical part matched, but polite and quiet? From everything he’d read, Monica had been anything but. Insolent and disruptive, disrespectful and incorrigible seemed to be her modus operandi.
I don’t like this, Chet informed him.
Sam frowned. I know. There are some inconsistencies. Maybe Mary Beth talked so much it only seemed like Susan was quiet and polite.
That’s not what I mean. This case, there isn’t shit in it that makes a lick of sense.
Sam paused, laying Monica’s picture on the desk. Which parts?
All of it. Look, I could see these mob guys using her, but somehow she magically became third in command of a billion-dollar operation? Impossible. You work your way up in the business, you know that. If they like you and you don’t mess up, maybe you get to keep all your body parts. If they don’t, then you wind up in a hole in the ground with your head mounted above someone’s mantel between a prize buck and one of those plastic singing fish.
Sam searched through the stack of papers and pulled a report. The informant fingering her as a chief in the mob had only been identified as a “reliable witness” within the organization.
Chet said, There’s nothing other than the one police report that says anything but “college student.” Not the murder, not the drug charge. Zilch.
Her intelligence tests are off the charts; maybe they liked that about her and decided to use her. Maybe she’s like some super economic or business strategist?
Chet sneered. Or maybe she learned to walk through walls and teleport into bank vaults. You’re reaching.
Sam shook his head. But she went incognito as soon as the shit hit the fan with the mob boss. Of everything, that is easily the most damning piece of evidence. I don’t care what else the file says, she’s got something to hide. Sam had finally scored a point. If he could have done the touchdown dance, he would have.
But you don’t know what.
Sam turned the page on the police report. Well, I guess I’ll have to find out.
Maybe you will and maybe you won’t. And if this Susan and Monica are the same person, why the hell did she move to this God-forsaken wretched place on the edge of nowhere? Why not simply go dark for a while in the city, move out to a farm, or, if she’s really that smart, give herself a new identity someplace else? Someplace where she could have a life. This may as well be prison.
She could be trying to hide, Sam pointed out. Pissed off the wrong people like you said. Who knows? She’s super smart, maybe that’s what those sorts do to throw the rest of us off. None of this makes any difference. We aren’t doing a documentary, we just need to find her, not learn her life story.
Uh oh. Look out, everyone. Here comes Prince Uncharming. Since you’re on a roll, U.C., maybe you’ll be able to dropkick a dwarf and shoot all the forest animals on your way to butcher the damsel in distress.
Sam rolled his eyes at his inner conscience. I hardly think she’s in distress.
Whatever. Do what you have to do to justify not thinking and blindly following orders. For the record, your song and dance is getting old. It’s time for a new routine.
In spite of Chet’s disapproving glare, Sam shoved his doubts aside. He had been hired to track and find, not to question. I’ll get the verbal confirm and check in with Josha. Maybe by then new information will have been released.
Sometimes clients wanted verbal confirmation, which meant Sam had to get his targets to confess their identities. The upside? Virtually no chance of misidentification. On the flip side, verbal confirms took a lot more time and required intimate contact. He had to gain the target’s trust, so much so that they felt comfortable enough to reveal their true identity.
Yeah, okay, Chet said. Carry on, soldier.
The discordances troubled Sam too, but he had a job to plan. He sighed, flipped the inch-thick folder back to the first page, and started reading again.
19
The next morning, Sam set up an appointment to look at the little house Mary Beth had told him about. The real estate agent offered directions, which Sam declined. He doubted he’d have any trouble navigating the four square miles that comprised Walberg.
Itching to get in some exercise, Sam slipped into his running gear and headed down the main avenue. He wanted to get the lay of the land, and hopefully the extra blood flow would knock loose some of the mental rust that kept the blinders on. Chet seemed certain Sam had missed something, but he had no idea what that something could be.
The bleached hands of the town clock had yet to strike the 8:00 a.m. hour, but the asphalt already shimmered with wavy rays of heat from the merciless sun. The harsh, unforgiving desert light did nothing to improve the demeanor of the little city. Half the businesses had boarded-up storefronts, and those that remained open looked like they were on the brink of financial collapse. The suburbs had an even more decrepit, abandoned vibe. The vast majority of the housing consisted of mobile home parks and neglected ranch-style bungalows.
After his depressing run, Sam showered and went to the little diner for breakfast, the only eating establishment besides The Cluck House for forty miles in any direction. He pushed the plate aside halfway through the meal. The daily “special”—watery eggs, greasy bacon, and hash browns—would sit in his stomach undigested for hours. He tried to drink the swill the place passed as coffee, but after a few sips, he simply couldn’t add it to the indignities he had already bestowed upon his stomach.
Mary Beth may be a town simpleton, but she had been dead on about the brew. He paid his bill and headed toward the door to meet with the realtor.
Sam parked his bike in front of the ramshackle bungalow. A forty-ish, undistinguished-looking man in a cheap plaid suit with a mop of sweaty red hair waited on the crisp front lawn.
He approached the man that had to be Ralph’s cousin, Bobby. Sam disliked him on sight, the feeling of repulsion as palpable as though he’d bitten into an apple only to find half a maggot inside. He didn’t need much from the realtor. Just a little information, and he could be done with him.
Put on your dancing shoes, and fire up the acting skills. You’re going to need them, Chet said.
Bobby stepped forward, holding his hand out for the mandatory shake, and Sam caught a whiff of unpleasant body odor. The real estate agent introduced himself and smiled, displaying a mouth full of bad teeth and emitting the putrid smell of his acrid breath.
He loathed touching the man but, having no choice, returned the greeting. Upon release, Sam’s palm was damp with the other man’s sweat. He wiped his hand on his jeans, though he wanted to take a bath in hand sanitizer.
If Bobby represented the successful businessmen in Walberg, what the hell did Brother Ralph look like? No one would call Mary Beth a knockout, but seriously, the testosterone pool the women of the town had to choose from must be very shallow indeed.
“So,” Bobby began, “Mary Beth tells me you are thinking about moving to our little corner of the world. Well, you couldn’t have chosen a nicer patch of earth. And talk about impeccable timing! Right now, we have so many excellent opportunities to buy.
Some great houses just came on the market, for a steal too.”
I’ll bet, Sam thought, but he said, “Really? Good time to buy, huh? Why is that?”
“Oh, lots of reasons folks are selling. With the new pipeline that went in a few years back, folks are buying bigger and better. Putting some smaller lots on the market for a single gent such as yourself to come in and snatch up a good deal. But let me tell you, more and more from out of town been coming here to settle, so these deals are going quick.”
“Uh huh.” The numerous foreclosure signs around town countered this statement, but Sam let it go. “Well, I’m not looking to buy, I just want to rent.”
The smarmy salesman’s face faltered for a second, before he pasted a grin over his frown. “That’s not a problem. Several pieces of prime real estate, including the one I’m showing you today, are lease with an option to buy.”
Sam nodded as though the idea had merit. Yeah, there’s no chance of that happening. “Okay. Well, I heard you put a new gal that came to town not long ago in a good place. Tell me about that.”
Bobby might have been a greasy buffoon, but his businessman’s hospitality gave way to old-fashioned suspicion. “Now why would ya want me to tell ya about that?”
“Well, from my experience, people from in town get better deals and get shown the prime pieces of land before us out-of-towners. You just said this house has the option to purchase and I know a fair deal about buying and selling houses, so by knowing what she got, I’ll have a baseline of what to expect.” Sam, of course, knew little about the housing market, but he wanted to get right to the point with the little man, who likely had all day to pussyfoot around.
“Well I don’t know who you’ve been talking to, but that ain’t the case. No sir! It don’t matter where you’re from, you will always get a good deal with Bobby Cooper. Always. That little gal you mentioned, let’s see,” he said, tapping his yellow teeth. “Oh yeah! I put her in a nice little green-and-brown bungalow with shutters and fireplace on the south side of town. It’s on Sagebrush Lane. We can drive over if you’re thinking her place is better than the one I’m showing ya. It ain’t, but if you’re worried, we can.”
“Show me around the place first.” So Bobby led him through a tour of the house. Sam, though no expert on building construction, thought the place looked closer to being ready for the wrecking ball than new tenants. Large chunks of concrete were missing in the foundation, and thick peels of faded paint waved in the hot, lazy breeze. When they stepped on the porch, it groaned and creaked. Their combined weight could very well cause it to fail while they stood on it, and Sam breathed a sigh of relief when they stepped onto the weed-infested sidewalk. Bobby, so engrossed in his own spiel, continued to prattle on, failing to notice his customer had stopped paying attention.
At some point, Bobby switched from talking about the house to boasting about the town and surrounding landscape. “You won’t find a better place for things to do. Hiking, exploring, ATVs. And the nightlife. Why, there’s so much to do, I’m not sure where to start.”
Sam couldn’t take any more blather, so he interrupted the smarmy little man. “I’ll take it.”
“I—What? Huh? Come again?”
“Here’s what I want you to do. Give me a copy of the lease. I’ll read it over and bring it back to you later in the day. After I move in, I’ll think over purchasing the place and let you know.”
The little man shook his head. “Well, just so you know, I have a couple from Florida coming to look at it this afternoon. They’re pretty serious about buying.”
Sam stared at him until Bobby started to squirm, caught in the obvious lie.
“Want me to drive you, or are you gonna follow me?” Bobby asked.
“I’ll follow you.”
* * *
They drove the five minutes to Bobby’s ramshackle un-air-conditioned office. A lazy ceiling fan, its blades black with dust, stirred the stale air. A half hour later, Sam had the thick stack of documents that, once signed, would make him the proud tenant of a run-down, two-bedroom “bungalow.” Bobby reiterated that he could not hold the place and that Sam shouldn’t risk not signing right then and there.
Right. Besides, Sam had really only met with the man because he needed the documents. He didn’t care two bits about the house.
Sam despised the smarmy real estate agent, and he disliked the town. The citizens had a defeated, slump-shouldered air about them. They had simply given up and accepted the inevitable slide of their dilapidated city into oblivion. The place had no money and no relevant source of income. If not already broke, it would be soon, new pipeline or no new pipeline. In a few years, it would be deserted—just another abandoned ghost town in the middle of the desert.
He asked himself again: why would a smart girl like Monica move to a hellhole like this?
20
Relief from the oppressive heat washed over Sam as he entered the air-conditioned law office of Bunder and Associates. Simple, old-fashioned filing cabinets lined one of the dark, paneled walls of the small and efficient space. Other than a modest waiting area, half a dozen second-hand desks, which might have been new in 1955, took up the bulk of the floor. Not big-city prestigious but clean and well organized, the place seemed distinguished for the little town of Walberg.
Only two people occupied the office—both women. One sat behind a desk at the back of the room, sorting through files from a pile of boxes. The haphazard mountain of paperwork stacked around her looked on the verge of collapse. At any minute, the whole precarious slew appeared as though it would crush her in an avalanche of legal briefs, affidavits, and resolutions. Distinct, white chords dangled from her ears, sending tinny music drifting through the cool air.
The other woman sat behind the desk closest to the entrance and read something with such affixed attention, Sam could only surmise the document she held must be a vital and pressing piece of town legislature. He couldn’t see her face, and no nameplate adorned her desk, not that there would have been room for one among the random assemblages of papers.
Neither of them glanced his direction when he came in, but the one with the headset waved and told him to have a seat.
After several minutes, the woman at the first desk set the document aside and looked up. “How can I help you?”
Sam studied her face as he approached. Hazel eyes, freckles, dark complexion, Marilyn Monroe mole. Nailed it.
She gave him a once-over as he approached, her eyes stopping on his smile, and she reflected the one he beamed at her. She leaned over her desk as he took the opposite seat.
“I’m thinking about signing a lease on a piece of property, and I wanted someone to review the paperwork for me before I do. The real estate agent seemed a little...” Sam pursed his lips.
“Trustworthy and on the up and up?” the woman offered.
“Ummm, not exactly what I was thinking.”
“Smarmy?”
He grinned and pointed at her. “Exactly.”
She held his gaze. Her pupils had grown since the beginning of their conversation, blotting out a good portion of the hazel irises surrounding them. “Yes, well we only have one real estate agent in town, and as hard as it is to believe, Mr. Cooper has been known to try and take advantage from time to time. Let me see what you’ve got.”
Sam handed her the paperwork Bobby had given him that afternoon. “I’m Peter Morrell.” He extended his hand.
She stood, smoothing out her skirt as she did so. “Susan Rosenberg. Nice to meet you.”
Give her a little start, then reel her in, Chet said.
I know what I’m doing, Sam bit back. This isn’t my first rodeo.
I’m just making sure you know not to blow it. The first meeting is the most crucial, and you’re not exactly Casanova.
Would you like to take over?
If only I could. Look, just pay attention and don’t eff up, and it should be a cakewalk.
“
Oh, Susan! You’re the other newbie in town.”
She went rigid. She stared at him with suspicion, her mouth tightening to a slit while her eyes narrowed. Her entire body tensed as if preparing to run.
Bambi smells fire, Chet said.
“And how exactly do you know this?” she asked. She seemed to be going for an air of nonchalance, but the rigidity of her body told a different story.
Sam pretended he hadn’t noticed the changes in her demeanor. Laughing, he said, “The first place I went to when I got to town was the coffee shop, where I met the proprietor’s fiancée, Mary Beth. It took Cupid all of about five minutes before she was trying to pair us up. I probably have far more insight about your coffee habits, marital and dating status”—he ticked off the points on his fingers—“your new house, your job, basically your entire life.” He coughed gently into his hand and feigned embarrassment. “It’s far more than I have any right to know.”
Susan visibly relaxed. Her shoulders returned to their office-bound slump, and she laughed too.
Rule # 15:
The quickest way to bond with someone is through a common enemy.
“Nothing will give two individuals or groups of people something in common as swiftly as a shared foe. This creates a rich ground in which to plant the seeds of bonds and alliance. It forms a bridge and assists those from differing ilks and backgrounds to almost immediately coalesce into a single, unified team. This adversary can either be real or perceived, their threat great or small. No actual qualities or facts matter, only that both parties believe they may have or could potentially be wronged or manipulated by said enemy.”
—122 Rules of Psychology
“My god, that woman is presumptuous, isn’t she?” Susan said, shaking her head. “Guess I’m not really surprised. She has been trying to match me with just about every eligible bachelor in town. Now that we have about tapped that pool, she’s been hitting up random strangers.”
