Give Us This Day

by Tom Avitabile

  The computer screen flickered as it sped through the thousands of images of deplaning passengers. It was a split screen being fed by two cameras; the right side of the screen showed the faces of arriving passengers while the left-hand side showed the backs of their heads. When departing passengers used the same gate, it was reversed, with their faces on the left. Every face had a generated box around it that would flutter for a few seconds then the image moved forward in time. Some of the boxes stayed for a while. George could see they had some resemblance to Cynthia, but apparently not all twenty-seven data points. Then the computer sounded a chime and the movement of the images stopped.

  “Here she is, entering the country at 11:30 a.m. last Tuesday.”

  “Okay, your system works. Now can you tell me when she left?”

  Two hours later, the machine had gone through the entire airport, cruise ship, and even bus station footage for the last eight days and Cynthia wasn’t there. They even corrected for sunglasses but the list of probables that search generated really didn’t fit her height and weight profile.

  Then George had a thought. “Efrain, can you go back to her arrival?”

  “Sure. What are we looking for this time?”

  “There was a note in her room from a man named Paul. Let’s see if she came here with anybody.”

  He zipped back to the second day of the disc’s images to the time of her arrival. They watched the whole plane disembark. There were two unaccompanied men. Neither seemed the “hold hands in sand” type Just the same, their images were sent to the passport division to be viewed by the agents on duty to see if they remembered either of them with Cynthia.

  “Well, Efrain, thanks for trying . . .”

  “Sorry we couldn’t find your woman. Could she have left the island on a private charter?”

  “Maybe, but on the hotel lobby footage I saw, she isn’t carrying anything overnight-like. You know, a bag or suitcase. I don’t think she was planning on an extended tour.”

  “Sorry about not finding the other person named Paul.”

  George nodded as he turned to leave.

  “Very popular American name it seems . . .”

  George stopped in his tracks. “What do you mean by that?”

  .G.

  “Nigel, I hope you are ready to tell me where Prescott is,” Brooke said as she came back to her office with a cup of tea.

  “My boys, back at the home office in Vauxhall, have him in Moscow.”

  “So he high-tailed it out of here and now he’s un-extraditable in the arms of Mother Russia?”

  “It would appear so.”

  “I’ll get the Secretary of State to speak with the Russian foreign minister; maybe we can exchange ole Morgan Prescott for some low-level spy type.”

  “Good luck with that.”

  “Oh and Nigel, thank the chaps at MI6 for me, will you?”

  “Of course. By the way, I still can’t shake the idea that the priest wasn’t rattled by someone aiming a pistol at his heart.”

  “You are like a dog with a bone.”

  “Bulldog or English fox hound?” he asked striking a pose.

  “Otterhound, I think, Otterson.”

  “You certainly know your English breeds . . . Now, about the priest.”

  “Right . . .”

  “What if we got it wrong?”

  “Got what wrong?”

  “No ambulance, no reaction to the gun . . . What if he was attacking the boy?”

  “And the boy was defending himself . . .”

  Nigel could see Brooke’s mind grasp the alternative theory.

  “He did stop me from chasing him . . . And he was looking to leave as soon as you got here,” she said, piecing her way through it.

  “Maybe he thought me a policeman? Last person he wanted to see.”

  “Nigel, it all fits. I think you cracked the case of the wayward priest!”

  “Funny how things like that stay in one’s mind . . . with all this Prescott business I mean.”

  “Speaking of the devil, if we make the deal with the Russians, can I ask you to go pick him up and bring him back to us here in the Capitalist Capital?”

  “Sure, I really haven’t much else to do.”

  “I’m sure something will come up soon. Meanwhile, why don’t you take in the sights, see a show. Hey, the Circle Line is a hoot.”

  “Actually, I was thinking of a walking tour; you know, take in the neighborhoods, the churches, the different ethnicities . . .”

  “Churches, huh?”

  “Oh, I am a big fan . . .”

  “And of course priests hang out in churches, so this sudden interest wouldn’t have anything to do with . . .”

  “‘Parish’ the thought,” Nigel said with a proper English ‘tisk-tisk’.

  “Touché, Otterhound”

  “Call if you need me.” He headed for the door.

  “Hey, you know, once I was in Switzerland . . .”

  Nigel stopped and turned back to Brooke.

  “. . . and I did a little moonlighting while I was on another case and I have a 9-mm hole in my side as a reminder to NOT do that, too much, ever again.”

  “Duly noted, ta-ta . . .” He waved his open hand as he nodded his head and left.

  Brooke just shook her head, smiled and said under her breath, to herself, “Not my ta tas, my side.” Then she picked up the phone to call Secretary of State Charles Pickering to see if she had enough juice to convince him to get Morgan Prescott back in the USA.

  .G.

  George was in the US Consular Agency in the Caymans and was finishing his report to Brooke. They were using an encrypted form of Skype.

  “So she didn’t leave by any traditional or at least monitored means of conveyance,” George said to the image of Brooke on the monitor in the consulate’s conference room.

  “And no idea of who this Paul on the card could be?”

  “No one in the hotel saw her with any man and she booked single occupancy.”

  Brooke pondered all they had just discussed and then she had a thought. “George, can you have the techs put up that picture of Cynthia from the lobby of the hotel last time she left, and have them blow it up?”

  George nodded to the tech who clicked on the image that was now buried on his desktop. The tech dragged it into the area that put it on the big monitor, then he zoomed into the high-def picture. On the little picture-in-picture box on the big screen, George could see Brooke analyzing the photo.

  “Good, good. Okay, so here’s what I think: George, that wrap she’s wearing is a Hermès, it cost like four grand and it’s the only one they make. Can’t be too many wrapped around the rich and famous down there. Now, could you please let me see the other camera showing her leaving at the front door?”

  The image on the screen shifted to the angle on the hotel’s entrance from inside the lobby. The action of her walking jogged back and forth till the tech had a good, full-length, full-framed shot.

  “Great, now please zoom in to her feet. That area right under her heel would be great.”

  Brooke leaned forward to scrutinize the shot. “Zoom more, please. Hold it. And, George, those shoes are killer sandals. See the red reflection in the dark marble floor under her lifted heel? Those are Lady Flats from Louboutin . . . like eight hundred for the pair. Cynthia’s sense of style may get us a hit from those designers or high-end boutiques.”

  George looked up from the pad that he had scribbled the word “lewbatons” on but they just looked like a pair of silver sandals to him and the wrap was just like a thing a woman would cover herself with in a hotel lobby.

  “Here’s what I want you to do, George. Get that freeze frame of her leaving the hotel printed in color and then circulate it to every charter, fishing boat rental, and seaplane operator . . . an
d include their staff. Maybe somebody will recognize her from her outfit.”

  “Good thinking, boss.”

  “Female thinking, George!”

  .G.

  Mrs. Ratner in 1A was like the RA of 549 West Fiftieth Street. No one came in or out of her “dorm” without her notice. She was the one who told that man of the ruckus with the priest upstairs.

  Mrs. Ratner approached the good-looking man on the stoop with her usual sunny disposition. “What do you want?”

  “Frightfully sorry to bother you. But I was wondering if you knew a Ms. Brooke Burrell?”

  “What if I do?”

  “Well, I was hoping that you’d give her a message for me, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble.”

  “What’s the message?”

  “Tell her Nigel came by and I found something. Meet me at . . . I’m sorry; can you write this down?”

  “Don’t got no pen.”

  “Allow me, madam,” the English-accented man pulled a pen and pad out of his jacket pocket and handed it to her. “If you’d please, I have the most god-awful scrawl. You’d never be able to read it I’m afraid.”

  She took down the message, tore off the paper, and handed the pen and pad back to the gentlemen who nodded and bid her, “Adieu.”

  “Good looking man . . . Wonder if she’s going to boff him.” she said to herself as she closed the front door.

  .G.

  Brooke looked at her watch and decided she had to do something she might regret later, but it had to be done. She ran home to get dressed.

  When she got to her brownstone, she heard the theme from the TV show The Rockford Files blaring out from old Mrs. Ratner’s apartment. Good, no third degree tonight, she thought but still stepped up the stairs lightly, lest she get involved in a ten minute “how was your day, dear?” conversation.

  In her apartment, she stripped, did a fast wash-up, and walked through a cloud of Chanel No. 5—she still liked the classics. She touched up her makeup and didn’t want to take the time for eye shadow, so she went with a darker blush for night and put on her old faithful LBD, the little black cocktail dress that always fit the occasion. Then she grabbed the other accessory she wouldn’t be caught dead without and strapped it high on her thigh. Then she slipped on her sweet, painful peau de soie pumps, grabbed her evening clutch, made sure she had her keys, and hit the lights.

  On the way down, Jim Rockford was involved in some sort of shootout and so her exit was also not challenged.

  .G.

  The Harvard Club was the perfect choice for the reception because the Saudi Prince had graduated from there back in 1992. Also most of the current lions of Wall Street and the government hailed from its legendary hallowed halls in Cambridge.

  Brooke approached the reception desk.

  “Welcome to the Harvard Club. May I have your name please?”

  Brooke opened her ID wallet. She had jazzed it up a little with her FinCEN Creds on one side and her FBI badge (retired) on the other. She could see the confusion on the young girl’s face whose only job was to cross names off lists.

  Brooke decided to help her so she read her name off her tag. “Tiffany, can you get me the organizer of tonight’s reception? Tell her it’s official business.”

  The kid got up and backed away from Brooke like she was some kind of vampire. Brooke looked around. The hoi polloi were out in force. She was glad that she had gone home to change.

  Tiffany returned with a harried woman in an Ann Klein A-line and earbud coil dangling from her ear. “May I help you?”

  Brooke flashed her tin again. “Brooke Burrell, Treasury Department. I need to talk to the secretary.”

  “You mean Warren Cass?”

  “Yes, Ms . . .”—she read her name tag—“Flaherty. I need to speak with him now.”

  “Let me call my security,” she said.

  “Listen, I outrank your security and I am only taking time with you as a courtesy. Now I am going to walk in there, see my boss, and be out of here in three minutes. Or I am going to slap you with a charge of interfering with an ongoing federal investigation, got it?”

  Flaherty was dumbfounded. Brooke turned and went up to the metal detector. She put her leg up on a chair, raised her dress and un-Velcroed her leg holster, and handed her clutch and holster with her gun inside, to the guard. Then she flashed her ID at him. She walked uneventfully through the machine, reached around and took her bag and gun back from him.

  Rather than giving another show to the male guards at the detector, she slid the holstered gun into her clutch.

  She grabbed a flute of champagne off a passing waiter’s tray and zeroed in on Cass on the other side of the room. He was talking to a man in an Armani suit and Arab Keffiyeh headdress.

  The prince’s head tracked her like a laser range finder. “Well, hello. Come join us.”

  Cass turned in the direction of the prince’s megawatt smile and was surprised to see Brooke.

  “These are my dear friends, Barry Kitman and Warren Cass, and I am . . .”

  “Prince Abdula bin Rahman. Yes, I know of you, and I know Warren. We work together. But I don’t know Mr. Kitman,” she said extending her hand. “Brooke Burrell-Morton. Pleasure to meet you.”

  Brooke thought she saw a moment of hesitation on his face as if a mental connection had clicked in, but then Kitman just sheepishly smiled and nodded.

  “Warren, you are a very lucky man,” the prince said, interrupting her on-the-spot analysis.

  Cass looked right at Brooke. “We’ll see about that.” Then he changed his tone. “Ms. Burrell, I didn’t expect to see you here. I mean, I really didn’t expect to see you . . . here.” The last part as an aside through clenched teeth.

  She turned to the prince. “A thousands pardons, Your Highness . . . Mr. Kitman. But may I borrow Warren for just a minute?”

  The next-in-line to the House of Saud grabbed her hand and blew a kiss over it as he looked in her eyes. “If you promise to personally return him yourself.”

  “Has anyone ever refused such a dashing man?”

  Cass rolled his eyes, and led Brooke out of earshot. “Now, what’s got you interrupting my diplomatic duties?”

  From the corner of her eye, she saw Flaherty parting the crowd, making her way to Brooke with two big private security guys in tow.

  “Sir, I felt I owed you this—there’s been an unfortunate development and it involves . . .”

  Cass held up his hand and waved Flaherty and her men off.

  Brooke deliberately didn’t look at her. When Warren looked back to her she continued, “Cynthia has disappeared. She was last seen in the Cayman Islands. That was three days ago.”

  Cass, not a stupid man, immediately understood the position that put him in. “Thank you for coming to me with this first. Do you have anything incriminating on her?”

  “No, sir. In fact if she hadn’t run, I would have never have had anything at all.”

  Cass just looked out at the celebrants and the furrow on his brow told Brooke he was intensely considering his next words. Then he mumbled something.

  Brooke could hardly make it out but it sounded like, “That’s why George went to the Caymans.”

  Then he turned to her and said, “So, she is still listed as a friendly witness, right?”

  “Until this.”

  “Would it be possible to not change her status for, say, seventy-two hours? You know, maybe this whole thing just spooked her. Maybe she just had to get away and think it out.”

  Brooke was about to inform him that it didn’t look like that, but then she saw the genuine concern in his eyes. She decided to let him have . . . let Cynthia have, three more days. Besides, since she was missing, changing her status was a purely academic procedure. But it would stop a backlash from stinging Warren. Her job done, she said, “Plea
se extend my sincere apologies to the prince.” And she turned and walked out of the event.

  Many heads turned.

  He returned to his guest of honor, but the prince was quietly giving orders to his royal body man. He stood next to Kitman.

  “She seems very capable,” Kitman said.

  “Brooke? Yes, she’s a top asset. She’s the one I told you about who was looking into PCM for me.”

  “That’s right, I remember now,” Kitman said as he took a sip of his Dewar’s double malt.

  As she walked through the lobby, an out-of-breath man with broad shoulders and an earpiece in his ear caught up to her. She didn’t slow her stride.

  “His Highness asked me to extend his heartfelt wish that you might join him later for dinner.”

  Brooke stopped. She laughed. “He did, did he?”

  “Most assuredly.”

  “Look, that’s very sweet, but I’ve seen this movie, and it doesn’t end well.” Brooke had solved the case of a murdered body man in Switzerland who’d performed the same service for his royal bad boy.

  The bodyguard stood confused. “So what shall I tell the prince?”

  Brooke held up her left hand and pointed. “Tell him he missed this when he kissed it.”

  The guard immediately understood the gold band and the diamond ring duet on her finger.

  “I see . . . of course,” he said with a bow.

  She walked off but couldn’t resist. She stopped and faced him once again. “Tell him I am flattered, though.”

  She turned and walked away with just the slightest spring to her step.

  As she got out of the cab, she leaned on the bottom of the stoop of her brownstone and slid off the pumps. “Ahhh” She was glad to get those off her feet. Plus it would make her less audible as she ascended the stairs past Mrs. Ratner.

  Using all her training she unlocked the front door as if she had picked the lock to the Royal Palace, then held the door until it silently closed, releasing the knob only once the door was fully closed and only then, slowly, with barely so much as a click as it passed the striker plate.

  She turned and placed her bare foot on the first step and it creaked.

  She winced and shut her eyes. Immediately heard the sound of the peephole of 1A snap shut, then the police lock clang, then the Medico lock clunk, then the deadbolt slide, then the door lock clink, the door chain rattle, and finally the doorknob squeak. “Good evening Miss-ses. Rat-ner,” she said to the ceiling.