Body Broker

by Daniel M Ford

  “You got a side job looking for a missing watch?”

  “Sure,” I said flatly. “Big, rich blue face, leather band. It looked expensive, but maybe it was just a fifty-dollar job from Sears.”

  “You see a marque on it anywhere?”

  “Are you asking me if it was tarnished?”

  “No, like a maker’s symbol. See, this here is…” He started to show me his chrono-dive or whatever it was. I waved it away.

  “I think so. Some letters. I-W-something.”

  “IWC?”

  “I think that was it, yeah.”

  Brock frowned and waved me away from the keyboard. He opened up a new tab. “What color was it?”

  “Blue face, like I said. Leather band.”

  He typed a few times. Opened up an image and showed it to me. “Something like this?”

  “That looks like the one, or at least very close,” I said, leaning in.

  “That is an IWC Portugieser Automatic. It is not cheap.”

  “How much is not cheap?”

  “About twelve grand, maybe thirteen.”

  I sat bolt upright in my chair. “People pay twelve thousand dollars for a watch?”

  He shrugged. “It’s a statement piece.”

  “Gimme back the keyboard.” I did some rudimentary checking on the money a school psychiatrist or counselor or psychologist could earn. Most of the data was taken from public schools, of course, and Farrington’s tuition was high.

  Still, I didn’t see any reason why Dr. Thalheim should be wearing a twelve thousand-dollar watch.

  “Why do you care so much about a watch, anyway?”

  “Guy wearing it should…maybe not be able to afford it.”

  “You can finance them,” Brock pointed out.

  “Finance a watch?”

  He nodded.

  I made a note in the file about looking at Thalheim’s financial situation if it was in any way possible short of stealing his mail or breaking and entering.

  At that point, my phone rang. The caller was identified as Cecil County Sheriff’s Department.

  I was tired. I was still sore. I was angry at myself for making no headway on the case. So I assayed a joke.

  “Finally decided to check in with a professional?”

  “You need to find a day job so you can make sure not to quit it, Jack.”

  I’d lucked out. It was Bob. “Maybe you’re just not my target audience.”

  A sigh. “How’s the Kennelly case?”

  “I’m developing promising leads.”

  “Don’t fuck around on this. I’m old friends with Susan. She might not be bothering you because she doesn’t want to throw you off, but she’s calling me two, three times a day asking if I’ve heard anything.”

  “Well, maybe you can answer some questions about the dad.”

  “Maybe. Are you working the case tomorrow night?”

  “Why, Corporal Sanderson, are you asking me out?”

  “I’m asking if you want to make some money.”

  “Oh, Bob, tell me this isn’t some bouncer job.”

  “Just one of those barn parties, you know, out in the country? Got a temp liquor license, want a couple of tough looking guys to stand at the door. Could be a couple of hundred bucks.”

  “Just looking tough and checking IDs, yeah?”

  “No big deal. Just a bunch of kids getting a little rowdy on a Friday.”

  “Lot of these kids got gun-racks on their trucks, Bob.”

  “No firearms. Party organizers were very clear about that.”

  “Fine. Pick me up?”

  “Eight p.m. Wear a black t-shirt. And for Chrissakes, try to look tough.”

  He hung up. A few moments later I got a text with an address in it. Google Maps told me it was well out in the woods, practically the Pennsylvania line. Thankfully Bob was driving.

  “Can you get me a gig like that?” Brock had, evidently, been listening.

  “If Bob asks me to recommend somebody, maybe. But he usually only asks me when he doesn’t have anybody else.” Or when he suspects I’ve got less than five hundred bucks to my name. Which was far more often than I’d like to admit.

  “Fine. We done with the case list?”

  “Almost. But we do have some more hands-on work later.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Detecting and then evading potential surveillance. Surveilling in turn. Watching a partner discreetly while they make contact with a person of interest.”

  “Oh, thank god, we get to leave the office. I’ll drive.”

  “Not until we get where we’re going, you won’t.”

  “You’re not driving my car.”

  “Neither are you, Brock. Neon orange accents and loud engines stick out like a fart in a champagne glass. We want to be just another little bubble.”

  We whiled away a few more hours, got in on the office lunch order — I did a salad with chicken, hold the dressing, and everyone made their jokes. While I miserably forked romaine and red onion and radish into my mouth, Brock messily devoured a burger, mozzarella sticks, and fries. None of it looked particularly good on its own, but compared to a double handful of undressed greens and a block of vulcanized chicken breast, it looked like ambrosia.

  “The salads from this place are notoriously terrible,” one of the other break room occupants said as he dug into pasta.

  “Salads are always terrible. Unless you suddenly add enough cheese and mayonnaise and protein and throw out half the lettuce and stick it on a sub roll.”

  “Then why do you eat it?” Brock said. “Why not order something good?”

  The correct answer was that nothing from the local pizzeria, except the pizza, was good. Pizza was always good. What I went with was a little less combative.

  “I eat less at lunch so I can eat more at dinner.”

  “Just run more.”

  “Not everyone’s metabolism is as blessed as yours is, Brock.”

  He shrugged. Our pasta-slurping coworker muttered that I’d know the menus better if I came into the office more.

  “But then,” I said, “I’d be forced to endure your company, Matt.”

  “Why is it you get all these special privileges anyway?” Brock had finished his burger, his mozzarella sticks, and his fries, and was now hunting around in the bag for stray crumbs of fried anything.

  “That’s between me and the boss. Let’s say I don’t do well on land or in group situations.”

  I finished what I could stand of my salad and stood. “I’m going to go do some research.”

  Research, in this case, meant throwing the remains of the greens and chicken into the stand of trees out back of the office and taking a bit of a walk around.

  People. They just rubbed me the wrong way. Even someone like Brock, who was just a big damn hound dog that wanted to help and was too dumb to figure out how.

  A few circuits of the building and I was back at it in front of the computer. I tried to narrow the scope of Thalheim’s likely income a little further. Seemed like he also had a private practice. In fact, it was possible he was simply contracted to the school from his practice.

  This was probably nothing; that school cost an absurd amount of money and they probably used a not inconsiderable amount of it to pay him. Factor in family money, good investment, private practice, who knew what he might have socked away?

  I also researched watches, looking at that model and others like it. None of them seemed to come in south of ten grand, unless they were a deliberate knockoff or purchased in poor condition and refurbished.

  Dr. Thalheim did not seem like the type to spend his weekends hunched over a worktable, wearing magnifying glasses, and carefully cleaning tiny, easily broken watch parts.

  I went pretty far down th
e rabbit hole. Once I realized that I was internalizing the difference between a tourbillon and a chronometer I had to pull the plug.

  It would not do to become a Watch Guy. I had a low-cost aesthetic to maintain. I still had a couple of hours before I could call Gen, so I spun back to the Belle to grab an early dinner. I went digging in the cabinets to find a fresh jar of my staff of life.

  This one had sesame seeds and dried cranberries in it, and had it over the whey-protein stuff in spades. I limited myself to a healthy two spoonfuls, slid the jar into the fridge, and drove slowly back to the office.

  Once there, I dialed Gen’s personal number. It was five-oh-two. I hoped I didn’t look desperate.

  It went a few rings and I thought I was getting the runaround. Then a voice picked up. A voice a little less scared than earlier that day.

  “Jack?”

  “Maybe we ought to stick with Mr. Dixon until you don’t lure me into a beating.”

  “I didn’t want to do that,” she said. Suddenly her voice had a little more spirit in it. “You don’t have to believe that if you don’t want to. I can’t make you. But I didn’t get a choice.”

  People always said that when what they meant was I made a choice that made life easier for me, regardless of what it did to anyone else.

  I didn’t share that thought with her. Moral philosophy, while interesting, rarely got an investigator anywhere much in an interview.

  “Fine. Where do you want to meet?”

  “One of the bars in Trolley Square?”

  “That’s a little far for me,” I said. “How about one of the strip malls along 40 in Glasgow or Bear? Plenty of bars there.”

  “I want a crowd,” she said. “How about Main Street in Newark? Lots of places there.”

  “You can blend there. Anyone looking for me is gonna have no trouble.”

  “Nobody will be looking for you. I promise.”

  “Fine.” I sighed. “Where?”

  “Finn McCool’s,” she said.

  “Fine. I’ll be there. Seven.”

  “Okay.” A pause. “And I am sorry. I didn’t think they’d actually try to…hurt you.”

  “Sure.” We hung up.

  I went inside and gave the kind of low-key guy-to-guy nod to Brock that would let him know it was time to go.

  “You drive,” I said. “But we’re still taking the company car.”

  “Boss says I’m not allowed to take a company car.”

  “Well, how’s he gonna find out?” I tossed him the keys.

  He shrugged and got in.

  Chapter 20

  Halfway up 279 into Newark, I knew exactly why Jason didn’t want Brock behind the wheel of any company cars, and he was right. He was wise and knowing, and I was a fool for having second-guessed him and contravened his commandments.

  “Brock,” I said, fighting for calm control of my voice.

  “Yeah?”

  “Let’s stay within twenty of what’s posted.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about the cops, I got friends.”

  “I’m not worried about the cops. I’m worried that my last meal is gonna be fourteen inches of telephone pole.”

  “Oh.” He eased off a little, and my stomach settled back into detente with the coffee and peanut butter that filled it. “You should take the defensive driving course. I’ve taken it twice. It really — ”

  “Brock. Does taking the course require a car?”

  “Well, yeah, you have to learn on a car you know well first.”

  I went silent and let him work out the problem for himself. When we neared one of the public parking lots I directed him into it.

  It was September, UD was in session, and the weather was good. The bars and the restaurants were going to be full. We were fairly lucky to find a public spot just before a big Thursday night out started up. Even at just past six, students crowded the sidewalks. The air was still just warm enough that muscle shirts, bare-midriff tops, and very small shorts were the order of the day. And my erstwhile partner had noticed that.

  I poked him in the ribs.

  “We ain’t here to pick up co-eds, kid. Or even to watch them. Pay attention.”

  “To what?”

  “Anybody who looks out of place. Anybody who looks like they’re watching me and the person I’m meeting instead of their own date or friends.” I decided to quickly amend that. “Some guys…maybe some girls, too…will look at her because. Well, because. But I’m trusting you to figure out the difference.”

  “What if somebody’s checking you out.”

  “We deal in trying to uncover realities, which means stripping away delusions, Brock.”

  He snorted. “Okay, so where am I going?”

  “Preferably a bar across the street with outdoor seating. I’ll get the same for me and Gen if I can. If I can’t, you find a reason to linger on the street just outside our bar — buy a burrito and sit on a wall or a bench or something. Eat — or drink — slowly. If you think an emergency is imminent, do what you have to do.”

  “Uh, how blank of a check are you writing me, here? And what’s my food budget?”

  “Don’t commit any felonies unless they’re committed at you first. And the firm should reimburse you for any honest expenditures. If you have more than one drink, though, you’re gonna be explaining yourself to Jason.”

  “He has had more than one drink in a workday.”

  “His name is on the door. You’re the most recent hire.”

  He nodded. “Wait a few minutes here. We don’t want to be seen walking along the street together.”

  I went out ahead of him. The crowd was bustling. If I was in any kind of hurry, I could’ve worked up a pretty solid and righteous anger over how no one had any damn spatial awareness. They walked slowly, drifting apart from one another as they chatted and looked at their phones. They stopped dead when a tweet or a snap caught their attention.

  Naturally, I was the very picture of grace, poise, and total situational awareness. Several college students were saved the indignity of bouncing into the street off my chest or my elbow only by my constant awareness of my own physical presence, and the space I occupied.

  “Careful,” I murmured to myself. “Keep thinking this way and you’ll be a grumpy old asshole complaining about the kids for the rest of your life. The kids have many sterling qualities.”

  Name two.

  I ignored that thought and scoped the outside of Finn McCool’s. There were outdoor tables, though nothing too good across the street. I hoped Brock could improvise.

  I walked on for a few blocks past the meeting spot. While I had to admit that a crowd of college students offered its diversions, I manfully ignored them and spent the time casing the place.

  I certainly stood out. While there were no shortage of bearded men with short hair in tight single colored t-shirts, most of them had tattoos up and down their arms, and mine were bare as far as they could be seen. Moreover, I was clearly at least a few years older than the crowd, not walking with a group, not wearing headphones.

  I made it more or less to the end of the commercial part of Main, crossed the street, and started down the other side. I figured Gen would be coming down from Wilmington, which probably meant I-95 to Route 273, which became Main Street. Which meant she’d be coming at me to get to Finn McCool’s. I saw nothing unusual. By which I meant I didn’t see anyone wearing a suit jacket that had been modified for a man with no neck and a weapon on his belt.

  I crossed back at a crosswalk, grabbed a spot of wall and leaned against it, pulled out my phone. I reflected on the fact that, in a movie or a novel, the PI would be reading the paper and probably smoking a pipe while he waited. I wondered when was the last time I’d even bought a paper.

  I kept one eye on the baseball scores on my phone, and the other on the cars that
passed.

  I caught a glimpse of her, leaning forward over the steering wheel of a blue-green Honda Fit, looking for parking. She turned right, down a cross street that would put her in a public lot just a short walk from the street.

  I decided to take a bit of a bold approach, though it would mean Brock would lose me. If, indeed, he had me. I didn’t want to be obvious about looking for him, so I just walked off after her car.

  As I got there, I saw Gen walking toward the exit, looking down at her phone. I put myself right in her path and didn’t move. She did, though, catching herself just before I would’ve filled up her field of vision. She looked up, let out a soft “Oh.” Then, “You.”

  “Me.” I fought the urge to snatch the phone out of her hand to see if she was sending a text or any other kind of message to someone. I didn’t.

  She wore slim fitted black slacks and a sleeveless purple blouse. Her bare arms were toned, and — helping her fit right in — sported a small handful of tastefully inked tattoos. The quality of the work looked good and I definitely felt like I could spend considerable time examining them. I pulled my eyes back to hers. Still large, still brown. Despite the previous day’s unpleasantness, I still liked looking at them.

  “I thought you’d be waiting for me at the bar. Grabbing a table, scoping the place out.”

  “Already did,” I said. “The second part, anyway. This way I get to see if you arrived with anyone who’s going to try and do violence to me again.”

  “Well,” she said, “I didn’t. And now, if you’re going to walk me to the bar, walk me to the bar.” She shifted her bag and the jacket that matched her slacks to her other hand.

  I felt, suddenly, not entirely in command of the situation. While I had several inches on her in height, I didn’t really have to change my stride to walk beside her; she took long yet precise steps, in heels no less.

  “Find the place okay?”

  “Everyone who’s lived around here can find a place on Main Street,” Gen said.

  “Did you go to UD?”

  She shook her head. “Not for undergrad, not right away. Out-of-state tuition. No dice. Had to do community college first, save some money. Now I do, but as a commuter/online student.” I knew this stuff already, but it was good to hear her telling me the truth.