"Well, I wouldn't say that myself," he replied, setting his slate down and looking up with small, warm brown eyes. "Because there are no real metrics out there for it. And because I like to think I am quite humble. As humble as a dashing rogue can be, anyway."
Gwen smiled. She didn't feel comfortable enough to laugh.
The man seemed to realize something. He pantomimed smacking himself in the head, then stuck his hand out to shake with her.
"Oscar Graves," he said. "Just to be clear; you hired me to act as your private investigator, and not for any of the other trades I offer. Correct?"
Gwen turned her cup around nervously. “What other trades do you offer?"
“That depends."
“On what?"
"It depends on what you need,” Oscar said darkly.
“I-I just need surveillance. That's all,” Gwen whispered, suddenly feeling even more paranoid.
“Got it. Just wanted to make sure. When people are hiring for this kind of work, they tend to be a bit... I dunno, I guess clandestine is not too strong a word. They sometimes talk in code, you know? Use ambiguous terminology and such."
Gwen chuckled. "Was that how I acted on the phone?"
"A little bit."
"Sorry, I..."
"No worries. You're nervous. You're new to this whole thing. You haven't done it before. And now you've asked me to investigate your husband, the person you vowed to trust and cherish and love and yadda-yadda forever and ever, right? It can be scary. But look, I totally understand. My mom was in a similar situation. With my dad. He could get... mean, you know? But that's not what we're talking about here."
He twisted the data slate around so that she could see the screen. She saw a huge list of collapsible bullet points. Tapping each one brought a whole other tree of bullet points out. Nested folders of them. Dozens and dozens. Most of them had links in them, leading to still shots or short clips of video.
"This is what I've been able to gather," Oscar explained. "Most of it is probably junk. Just ordinary stuff. But you never know. To put a puzzle together, sometimes it's also important to find out what pieces don't fit. So you can discard them and distill the whole thing down. For instance, I know that your husband likes to stop at a specific convenience store for a mid-afternoon pick-me-up. Usually a cold brew coffee. Is that relevant to the investigation? Probably not. But then again, maybe it is. We just don't know until later. In forensics, this sort of thing happens a lot... a thorough, overly cautious detective scrapes a bit of paint off a car or a bit of dirt from someone's shoe. Then, a decade later, that piece of evidence is found to contain a crucial clue..."
Gwen's head was on the verge of spinning. This guy loved to hear himself talk. But he probably spent most of his time silent and alone, skulking around in shadows.
"Anyway," he added, "let's get things straight here. Because I'm not sure I actually heard you right on the phone. You're worried that your husband is being unfaithful, right?"
"Yes," Gwen answered. "That's correct."
"Okay. That's a fairly common thing for me. But this is the part that I'm uncertain about. The reason you think he's being unfaithful is that he used to..." He looked around, making sure no one was close enough to hear. "He used to abuse you. But now he isn't doing that anymore?"
Gwen nodded. "Right. He hasn't laid a hand on me in over a month. Romantically or violently. We went to counseling. And after that, it's like he transformed overnight. A complete and abrupt change. I think the lack of sensual touch is because of some kind of shame. The shame that comes from being unfaithful. And it's also the reason he hasn't hit me lately. Someone else is stealing his passion away. He basically just ignores me. It's like I don't even exist to him anymore."
Oscar nodded. "And do you think this change of demeanor might have just resulted from the counseling?"
Gwen shook her head. "No. He barely paid attention at our sessions. He bitched and moaned about them all the way home. Even now, he'll make an occasional remark about how worthless counseling is. I think something else happened, around the same time. Just a coincidence."
"Okay. You also mentioned he is seeing some other specialist?"
"Yeah. Someone he works with referred him to this guy. Some kind of 'masculine health' guru. But I think he just goes to those sessions because the guy is fun to talk to. They aren't the reason for his change, either."
"Any other ideas?" Oscar asked. "Any clue as to what might have caused his behavioral change?"
Gwen shook her head. "Nothing. That's why I hired you."
"Right!" Oscar sat back, taking a long drink of coffee. Although he was already wired and certainly didn't need it. "I've been watching him for a few days..."
"Only a few days?" Gwen asked, glancing at the proliferation of notes on the data slate.
"I like to be thorough, Mrs. Wolfe. Very thorough. First of all, I've been following him day and night. He doesn't go anywhere at all without me knowing about it. I've also been scouring his online presence. Social media and whatnot. I've discovered a lot. But there are two things in particular which I think might interest you greatly."
Gwen leaned forward, paying close attention.
"I have to say," Oscar continued, "that I have not personally witnessed any sign of infidelity. I have not seen him interacting inappropriately with any women. I haven’t seen him talking to anyone he doesn't work with, beyond brief conversations with strangers in public areas. And he hasn't been going to anyone's house or apartment as far as I can tell."
"What about after work?" Gwen asked quickly. "Around seven or eight?"
Oscar raised his eyebrows. "It's interesting you should say that. Of course, you would notice that your own husband has been going out. Have you asked him about it?"
"Of course."
"What does he say?"
"That he needs to go back into work and finish something. For the record, I never bought it."
"No? Why not?"
Gwen smiled. "He's the CEO of the company. He has underlings for any task you could think of. My husband already went through his years of overworking. He used to put in seventy or eighty hours a week, sometimes. But he always complained about it. He enjoys his work, but he's never been unhealthily obsessed with it. He wouldn't just go back into the office when he could be doing something else."
"Well... I can prove that you're right. He has not been going into work. But he has been going somewhere. The same place, each time. Without fail."
"But not someone's house?" Gwen asked. "Just to be clear..."
"Nope. This is some sort of business building. Take a look."
He tapped a few items on his data slate and a video feed popped up. It showed her husband stepping out of his car. The car shutting its door, racing off to find its own parking. Drake Wolfe then looked both ways, over his shoulders, and continued up the sidewalk and through a tinted glass door into a building. All she could see was the entry bay. A sort of airlock, consisting of two sets of doors. Certainly not an uncommon design on any commercial building. But it meant she wasn't able to see into the building itself. By the time Drake was walking inside, the outer doors were sliding shut. The tinted glass blocked everything.
"Your husband has been spending what I would call an unusual amount of time inside this building," said Oscar. "Notice anything funny about it?"
Gwen studied the facade of the building for a long moment. "No, not really. Is there something I should be noticing?"
"It's rather featureless," Oscar said. "Blank concrete walls. Nothing stenciled on the outside, other than the address numbers. No business insignia on the doors. Nothing at all to identify what sort of enterprise occupies this building. I tried to look it up, but there's little information to be had. They claim to be an 'entertainment venue', but that's a pretty broad term. Tells me nothing. I'm not sure how they've been getting away with this, avoiding full disclosure..."
"Could just be a bar," Gwen suggested. Then, feeling inspired, she added, "Or
a strip club."
"No," Oscar remarked, shaking his head. "I don't think it's either of those. Think about this; a so-called entertainment venue, which uses a lack of signage and tinted glass to hide what's happening inside. What does that say to you? I'll tell you what it says to me; I feel like this could be some sort of escort service. Frustrated guys go in, get their rocks off with a detached woman, and go about their lives. I've noticed that-"
"Wait," Gwen broke in. "You said you had no evidence of infidelity."
"And I don't. Nothing solid. This is just a suspicion. A guess. Anyway, I've noticed a pattern of behavior..." He scrubbed back through the ongoing video clip, back to the moment where Drake walked up the sidewalk. "You see here, he is quite tense. A bit rigid. Looks like a man who could use a hot bath and a cold beer, right? But check this out..."
He scrubbed forward. Time passed in a blur on the screen.
"How long does he spend in there?" Gwen asked.
"On this occasion, he was inside for an hour and forty-one minutes. But look here."
He brought the video back to normal speed, just as Drake was walking back out of the building. There was no audio, but Gwen could see that her husband was whistling. His lips were pursed, pushed outward. His gait had taken on a loose, swaying nature.
"All tension gone," Oscar acknowledged. "Whatever he does inside this building, it really loosens him up. Gets out his frustrations."
Gwen sat back. She remembered something she had read about years and years ago. A business idea that she had always thought sounded strangely brilliant.
"There used to be a place," she said, "where people could go and pay a few hundred bucks. They would go into a room, put on safety equipment, and spend an hour or two smashing the hell out of things. Plates, glasses, furniture... I think there was even a premium package that let you beat up on a car."
Oscar shrugged. "Could be something like that. He does usually come out a little sweaty. Sometimes slightly out of breath. But get this..."
He switched to a separate feed. From a different day. It showed Drake walking into the building in his work clothes. Business suit, tie loosened after his day of work. He always came home like that, usually belted down a bit of scotch or something and lazed around for an hour or so before he got up the motivation to switch into pajamas.
Later in the feed, he came back out of the building. But now he was wearing different clothes. A t-shirt and shorts. Sandals rather than his dress shoes. He had a gym bag with him now. Gwen recognized the bag. It was one he had owned for years. He must have had it held somewhere inside, because he hadn't been carrying it earlier in the video.
"I followed him after this, of course," Oscar said. "Guess where he went? Dry cleaners. To get his suit cleaned. He got something on it. Something that he didn't want the broader world to see."
"My god," Gwen said, shutting her eyes for a moment. She felt the universe shrinking around her. Then she opened her eyes, feeling resolute and almost explosively angry.
"Best not to jump to conclusions,” Oscar cautioned. "Maybe the demolition idea is right. Maybe his suit just got super filthy, covered in dust and stuff. Who wants to walk around in filthy clothes? Could be anything."
"You don't sound convinced," Gwen remarked.
"Well... I'm not. Not about the demo idea. I couldn't get much info on this building by traditional methods. But I was able to figure out a bit more, just asking around. Turns out this is some kind of exclusive club. You have to be a member. And of course, you have to pay to become a member. That's why I think it has to be an escort service. Prostitution made legal by some loophole exploited by the super-rich. But I'm not certain. I won't be until I can get in there."
He sighed, draining the last of his coffee and staring longingly into the cloudy dregs.
"Well," he said. "Remember what you told me? Hang back. Keep your distance. That's what I've been doing. And this is what I've been able to learn. If you want more, we'll have to take the next step."
"Which is what?" Gwen asked.
Oscar smiled. "I've taken the liberty of asking a few specialist friends to try and gain access to the building. They were able to hack into the security system. There wasn't a lot of information to be gleaned from that. The system is very basic, doesn't contain anything specific or tailor-made. But they're now able to create a fake membership account. They can even spoof an access card. It would get me into the building, let me see what's up. The fake will be detected eventually, and we'll be locked out. But my friends tell me we would have at least two weeks to poke around before that happens. Plenty of time."
"Plenty," Gwen agreed, nodding. "That's lovely, Oscar. Perfect."
“Just doing my job," he sat back, grinning proudly. "But hey, maybe your friends are right. Maybe I am the best in the city."
"There's just one thing," Gwen said.
"Yeah?"
Gwen bit her lip. "Would it be possible to… put the membership in my name instead? I'd like to be the one to go in."
Oscar stared at her a moment. "Mrs. Wolfe, that would be..."
"Dangerous?” Gwen asked after Oscar trailed off into silence. “Sorry, I just don't know how all this works."
"It could be. Remember, we don't know what this building is all about. Could be anything, right? It's best if I'm the one who goes in. I've got plenty of experience with these sorts of tasks.”
"But what if I insist?" Gwen asked.
Oscar studied her for a moment, unblinking. "Then I would say more power to you. If you want to take this into your own hands, I guess I can help you out. Of course, there’s the matter of…"
He made a gesture with his hand, rubbing his thumb, forefinger, and middle finger together.
Gwen nodded. "Obviously you'll be paid. And a generous tip, too. You've been wonderful. But I have some other favors to ask..."
"Shoot," Oscar said.
"This whole gym bag thing... He obviously has a place inside the building. His own alcove or locker, or whatever. And I bet it's secure."
"Yes, both of those are safe bets. You're a clever one, Mrs. Wolfe."
"He probably has a private room," Gwen continued. "If I can't get into his room, I'll have no way of knowing for sure what he's getting up to."
"You'll have access to your own room. You'll be able to infer the purpose of the building. And that's about as good as seeing your husband in action, I think."
"Unless each client is after something different. Maybe when they decided to call themselves an 'entertainment venue', they weren't lying."
"Right," said Oscar. "It could be that they offer custom experiences, tailored to each person. Like I said, we won't know until we get inside."
"But you can get me inside, right?"
"Yes, of course."
"And I also want to be able to get into my husband's space. Do you think your tech guys can do that, too?"
Oscar thought for a moment, rubbing his chin. "Those guys can do anything. But that’s gonna cost a bit extra. I can't expect them to do all this just as a favor to me, you know?"
"I'll pay. Money's no object, Mr. Graves. Anything you need. But there's one last thing..."
“What is it?" Oscar asked.
"I need a gun," Gwen said. "Something untraceable."
"A gun?"
"For protection. Like you said, we don't know what I'm going to find in that building. Don't you carry one?"
"Touché. The building's security will definitely pick up any ordinary gun. Like the one I carry around. But..." He glanced around again, checking for eavesdroppers. "I can have one printed for you. Completely non-metallic. Mostly plastic and various resins. Generally undetectable. The security systems in a government building can usually find them, but I doubt this place has anything that fancy. Mostly because those systems cost tens of millions of dollars. Good way to throw your profits down the drain."
"When can you get it to me?" Gwen asked.
"It won't take long. A few days. I'll keep in touch. B
ut, again..."
"Money. Yes, I know. Don't worry, you'll be well compensated. So, once I have the gun, what do I do with it?"
"Keep it as long as you like, but don't get caught with it. Printed weapons are illegal, because they're virtually untraceable. There are no serial numbers, no registration. If you want to get rid of it, all you need to do is heat it in an oven to denature the resins. Two hundred degrees for an hour and a half. Then let it cool down, smash it up with a hammer or whatever, and toss it in the garbage. No sweat."
"Thanks. What about ammo?"
"A full clip will be provided. Hardened resin bullets. Technically not as deadly as the real thing, but if you shoot someone they won't be able to tell much of a difference. There will be ten bullets. No more after that, unless you want to track down your own illegal weapons dealer and buy from them."
Gwen pulled out her wallet and started to prepare a transfer of funds on her own mini-data slate. Oscar scrawled out a figure on a napkin and passed it over. Gwen entered this figure in, then tacked on a healthy tip. She wasn't worried about money. Drake was worth a few billion and even her own personal savings account held almost seven million credits. She gave Oscar a twenty percent tip. More than worth it, to have a guy like him on her side.
"Very good," Oscar said, when the funds flashed through his slate on their way into his account. "A pleasure, Gwen. We'll meet back here again in... well, just call me again in two days.
Same number. I'll let you know."
"Thank you very much," she said, standing up and swinging her purse over her shoulder.
CHAPTER 2
◆◆◆
Time passed. As it likes to do. As planned, Gwen called Oscar again two days after their initial meeting. They set up another meeting at the same coffee shop. They sipped java and engaged in about twenty minutes of casual conversation about nothing in general. On the way out, the PI discretely handed over a wrapped bundle of goodies. Gwen shoved it into her coat, and they went their separate ways.
Darkside Dreams - The Complete First Series Page 5
