Brave New World_A Sam Prichard Mystery

by David Archer

  Indie went back and clicked the next link, and the page that opened held a newspaper story regarding the wedding of Steven McGill to Rebecca Downey three years earlier. The story was capped with a photo of the happy couple, and mentioned that theirs was a May-November romance, since there was nearly a thirty year gap between their ages.

  “Well, that fits,” Indie said. “Pretty young thing marries a wealthy older man? Now she wants a lot of money to reveal information the police need? Sounds like a gold digger.”

  “That’s pretty harsh,” Sam said, “but I’d have to agree. On the other hand, that information she’s got could be invaluable to this investigation. Think you can track her down?”

  “I can try. That photo from their wedding story is not that old, and there are a few more on Facebook, so I can give them to Herman and let him start searching security cameras and traffic cameras in San Francisco. Since she’s missing, I’ll have him go through the archives. If she only disappeared this morning, there’s a fair possibility he might find her on something, and I can limit the search to the last forty-eight hours in the archives.”

  “Go for it. If we can find her, we might be able to convince her that giving us that information will provide us with incentive to keep her safe.”

  “Or it could lead the bad guys right straight to you,” Indie said, “and, just saying, I’m a lot more interested in keeping you safe.”

  “If it brought them out into the open, I’d take it,” Sam said. “Just between you and me, I don’t know how to go about trying to find this chip, or any information about who took it. This is going to be a whole new experience for me.”

  “Just don’t think of it as anything new,” Indie said. “The only thing you need to remember is that a crime took place, and underneath everything else, you’re still a cop. What do cops do? They find and catch the criminals. It's what you’ve always done, Sam, so I know you’ll do it again. Don’t try to overthink it, just treat it like another crime and you’ll be fine.”

  Sam grinned at her. “How did I get so lucky?”

  She stuck her tongue out at him. “You weren’t lucky, you were smart. You didn’t let me get away once you found me.”

  5

  Going to the office, Sam thought the next morning, for the first time in years. This ought to be an experience.

  It was Tuesday morning. Sam and Indie had gotten up together and made breakfast, and Sam had dropped Kenzie off at school on his way to his first day in his new position. The old building where Windlass Security maintained its offices was out in Northglenn, near the intersection of 108th Street and Irma Drive. It had once been an automotive performance shop where hot rods were built, but several of the shop bays had been walled in and converted to office space since Ron and Jeff had bought it from Uncle Sam.

  Sam pulled into the parking lot and shut off the Mustang. He was actually due to arrive at nine, but Kenzie’s school began at eight-fifteen and it was only a twenty minute drive from there. He climbed out of the car and walked up to the front door.

  The last time Sam had been here, he and Karen Parks had been held at gunpoint by a cop named Forsyth. Forsyth wanted a video that Sam had, showing several police officers involved in the murders of three teenagers, and Sam had concocted the story that he had left the tablet with the video with Ron. With Forsyth holding a gun on Karen, Sam had gone to the same front door and knocked, then asked Ron for the tablet.

  Since Sam had not dropped off any tablet, Ron caught on that there was a problem. He went back inside for a moment and came out with one, and then Jeff and another man armed with submachine guns had stormed out and captured Forsyth while he was distracted. Sam and Karen owed them their lives, and neither had ever forgotten.

  As he knocked on the door this time, Sam wondered briefly if that had been the reason he had so willingly accepted the job. It hadn’t been the money, though it was awfully good; Sam had been rewarded more than once by Harry Winslow for helping with national security matters and other things, so he and Indie had nearly a quarter million socked away. With what he actually earned as a private investigator and some royalties from songs he had written, money wasn't something Sam worried about a lot.

  It hadn’t been the benefits, either, although Sam would admit that he wasn't going to mind letting the company pay that bill for a while. Keeping insurance for his family had been setting him back over a thousand a month, but he couldn't imagine not having it.

  The door opened and a woman looked out at him. “Yes?” she asked.

  Sam grinned. “I’m Sam Prichard,” he said. “I’m supposed to report here to work today.”

  The woman, who looked to be in her late forties with prematurely gray hair, sniffed. “You didn’t see the sign?”

  Sam’s eyes narrowed. “What sign?”

  She pointed to a small sign just to the right of the door that read, “Walk In.” “That sign,” she said. “We’re open for business, you don’t gotta knock.”

  Sam felt his face turning red, since he hadn’t noticed the sign at all. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he said. “No, I’m afraid I didn’t see it.” He started to step inside and she moved back to let him in.

  “No worries,” she said. “I’m Eileen Thomas, Ron’s mother. If you’re Prichard, then you and I are scheduled for a meeting. The boys got back late last night, but they’re here already. Ron will come to see you once I get you all settled in.”

  “Okay,” Sam said. “I’m guessing you’re handling human resources?”

  “I’m the general business manager, which covers everything from personnel to bookkeeping. I just need to get all your paperwork done so the government knows to take your money. Come on, my office is down the hall.”

  Sam followed her about fifty feet, and caught a glimpse of Jeff Donaldson through one of the open doors. Jeff was on a phone, but he looked up and waved as Sam and Eileen walked by. A second later, Eileen opened a door and led Sam into an office where three women were working at computers.

  “Girls,” Eileen said loudly, and they all looked up. “This is the famous Sam Prichard. Sam, these are my girls, Judy, Kate, and Nadia. They do all the real work of paying bills and keeping track of the expense accounts, invoicing the clients and making payroll and all that stuff. I just get to sit here and hope I understand what they’re talking about, most of the time.”

  All three of the women waved, and then went back to whatever they were doing while Sam took the chair Eileen pointed to. It was alongside her desk, rather than in front of it, but at least it was comfortable.

  The next hour was spent filling out all the forms necessary to Sam’s employment at Windlass. Tax forms, forms about insurance, forms that had to be filed with the state for Sam to move his PI License to the office, and dozens of others all came out of Eileen’s printer and laid out for Sam to sign. The last one was a form about line-of-duty life insurance, showing Sam that if he died as a result of his employment, Indie would receive a pension equal to half of his annual salary at the time of his death for the rest of her life. He hadn’t expected that, but he admitted to himself that he felt a weight lift off his shoulders when he signed it.

  “Okay,” Eileen said, “I think that’s everything. I've got some new ID coming in for you from our printers later today. It’ll have your PI license number on it with the company logo and this address, and you get a badge to go with it. Come on, I’ll show you your office and then Ron wants to give you the tour and make the formal introductions to your staff.”

  “My staff?” Sam asked.

  “Yeah, didn’t they tell you? You get two office assistants, and you’re in charge of the investigators. All of them work for you, now.”

  Sam grinned. Ron had said something about running the company’s investigations, but Sam missed anything about having a staff. He hoped he would be able to work with them.

  Eileen led him further down the hall and opened a door on the left, and led Sam through a room where a man and a woman sat at different desks
, flanking another door. She opened that one and Sam stepped into a room that was about fifteen feet deep by twenty-five feet wide, and whistled. There was a nice desk on one end with a couple of leather-bound chairs in front of it, and a conference table at the other end.

  “This used to be Harry’s office,” Eileen said. “Ron said it never felt right for either of them to take it over after Harry left, so it’s been sitting here unused. He told us on Friday to get it cleaned up, so everything’s just been dusted and wiped down. If you think of anything you need, just let me know and I’ll get it for you. Office supplies are in my office, just tell any of the girls what you need and they’ll give it to you. Don’t worry about your printer unless you run out of paper, we keep a close eye on all of them most of the time, and we’ve got cases of ink and paper and stuff. Oh, and there’s a break room three doors down with snacks, coffee, and soft drinks, just help yourself.”

  “Wow,” Sam said. “Harry’s office? I’m not sure I’m ready for this.”

  Eileen smiled, the first time Sam had seen her do so. “That’s not what I hear. Ron says Harry told him a few months ago to keep it ready for you, that you were the only one who ought to use it.” She turned and walked out the door, and Sam stood there and looked around.

  There weren’t any of Harry’s personal things left in the office, of course, but Sam could still feel the old man’s presence. He walked to the desk and sat in the big chair behind it, surprised to find that it was built like a recliner. He touched a button on the side of the left arm and the footstool extended while the back leaned a bit, and he couldn't help letting out a laugh.

  A knock came on the door frame, and Sam looked to see Ron standing there. “Getting all settled in, I see,” he quipped. “Don’t get too comfy, I’ve got reps for CerebroLink coming in at ten-thirty. Mom says all your paperwork is done?”

  “I hope so,” Sam said. “I didn’t have to sign that many times when I joined the Army. Anything I need to know about now?”

  Ron stepped inside and sat in one of the chairs in front of the desk. “A couple things. I’m going to be introducing you to all of your staff in a minute, so you can meet everyone. You’ve got two assistants to handle the droll stuff—that’s them, just outside your office—and we already employ six full time investigators who will now report to you. You, of course, report only to me or Jeff; telling either one of us is the same as telling both of us, the way we work. Each of us has it set up so when we make notes of something going on, the other gets a copy by secure email instantly.” He smiled. “Maybe one day we’ll get some of these chips, so we both know all the same things all the time.”

  Sam felt a shiver run down his spine. “That’s a little too far out there for me,” he said. “I’ll stick to phones and email, thanks.”

  Ron chuckled. “I’m probably only kidding, it depends on how well they work out the bugs. One of the things you’re going to learn today is a whole lot more about what the chip can do. I’ll let the brains from C-Link explain all that. Ready to go meet your people?”

  Sam got to his feet. “Let’s do it,” he said.

  They stepped into the anteroom and a young woman looked up and smiled.

  “Hey,” she said. “Mr. Prichard, I’m a fan.” She was probably about thirty-five, Sam figured, and her blonde curls framed a face that was round and happy. About five foot three, the rest of her was easily as round as her face.

  “Sam,” Ron said, “this is Jenna Smalley. Jenna is your executive assistant, although she likes to refer to herself as a secretary.”

  “No sense in putting on airs,” Jenna said, still smiling. “My mother was a secretary for twenty years, there’s nothing wrong with it. I’ll handle appointments for you, make travel arrangements, that sort of thing. If you need information from a file, I’ll get it, things like that. I’m button one on your desk phone, it connects you straight to me. If I’m not at my desk, it comes to my cell, so I’m never out of touch.”

  Sam grinned. “Sounds good,” he said. “Might take me a bit to get used to it, I haven’t had a secretary before.”

  Ron pointed at the young man whose desk was on the other side of the door from Jenna’s. “This is Jeremy Levins. Jeremy is actually a paralegal, and he’ll help you with any legal issues you might need to deal with. He’s a genius, graduated high school at thirteen and then started pre-law, but he said being a lawyer would mean—how did you put it?”

  Jeremy grinned. “It would mean pretending I believe in the justice system, which I can’t. It's so badly broken that I figure at least one prison inmate in twelve is probably innocent of the crime that put them there.” He coughed politely. “Which doesn’t mean they’re all actually innocent; just that they got railroaded on that particular charge. I figure one in forty-four are genuinely innocent of any crime, but they were bullied into a plea bargain by threats and intimidation. Most prosecutors today will do that if they get a chance, as long as it means a conviction. I didn’t want to be part of that world.”

  Ron smirked. “See? He’s probably more knowledgeable about the law than any attorney around here, and he has access to the laws of every state and the federal government through his computer, so there shouldn’t be much he can’t figure out.”

  “Good to meet you, sir,” Jeremy said. He rose and extended a hand and Sam shook with him.

  “Pleasure’s mine,” Sam said. “I’ll probably drive you crazy at times.”

  “Too late, sir,” Jeremy said. “Ron beat you to that about a year ago.” His completely deadpan expression made Sam burst out laughing, and Ron joined in.

  “Jeremy is our straight man,” Ron said. “If anyone can get a laugh, it’s him, and he always seems to know when a dose of humor will do the most good around here. We’ve learned to appreciate him.” He patted Jeremy on the shoulder and led Sam out of the anteroom and down the hall. The six investigators were housed in what used to be the body and paint shop, and sat in office-like cubicles.

  “Sam, these are our current investigators,” Ron said. He pointed at the young woman who occupied the cubicle closest to the door. “This is Jade Miller, Sam. Jade is a former police officer from Dallas. She came to work with us back when we were still with DHS, and we were lucky enough to entice her to stay on when we went private. She was and remains a specialist in cybercrime, so she comes in very handy around here.”

  Sam shook hands with her. Jade was in her early thirties, Sam guessed, and was a very attractive woman of Asian descent. She stood about five foot five, with a slender build that would get the attention of most men, and she smiled with a confidence Sam was glad to see. “Great to meet you, sir,” she said with no trace of an accent. “I follow your blog.”

  Sam rolled his eyes. “It's actually my wife’s blog,” he said, “but thanks. Good to have you on the team.”

  “Pleasure’s all mine. Hope I get to meet Indie one day, I’d love to learn more about Herman.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Sam said, as Ron tugged on his shirtsleeve.

  Ron motioned to an older man who was watching Sam closely. “Sam, this is...”

  “Steve Beck,” Sam said, breaking into a grin. “Steve, you old buzzard, I thought you went to Florida to retire.” He grabbed the man’s hand when it was offered.

  “I did,” Steve said. “Did you know that retirement means you gotta sit around the house and listen to the old lady complain about you being in the way all the time? I couldn't even go play golf without feeling like I was in the way somehow, so I looked online for jobs for a retired detective and saw this one. Edith was happy, ’cause it got her back to Denver, and she doesn’t gripe about me anymore because I ain’t never home.”

  Ron was looking from one of them the other and back. “I didn’t know you knew each other,” he said.

  “Oh, yeah,” Sam replied. “Steve was a detective with Golden when I first joined the force, and he was occasionally a guest speaker at the Academy. We got into a couple of arguments over proper poli
ce etiquette and ended up friends. I used to call him up now and then when I needed to let off steam, and...”

  “And I did the same. This kid’s heard almost every complaint I ever had about being a cop, and he was always able to get me to chill out and give up the idea of shoving my badge up the chief’s rear end. Good to see you again, Sam, and good to have you for a boss.”

  “I’ll be calling on you, Steve, you know it.”

  Ron smiled and turned to the next person. “This is Denny Cortlandt,” he said. “Denny was with MI6 in the U.K. for several years, and relocated here when he mustered out two years ago. His father had been a police inspector, and his experience was attractive to us, so we hired him when we found him looking for a spot. He’s been all over the world, so he handles most of the international work for us.”

  “Hello, mate,” Denny said. “Glad to be on your team, after the stories I’ve heard lately.”

  “Good to have you,” Sam said, shaking hands. The Brit made a show of squeezing Sam’s hand, but laughed when Sam gave as good as he got.

  “Cor, there’s naught soft about you, eh? Well done, that man!”

  Ron chuckled, and Sam realized the hand squeeze was probably normal for Denny.

  “Sam,” Ron said, “this is Summer Raines, and yes, that’s her real name. Summer is a specialist in interrogation and behavior analysis, and she has a lot of fun when we let her go undercover. So far, she hasn’t found a man she couldn't tease into telling her whatever she wanted to know.”

  “I think it’s because they feel fatherly toward me,” Summer said innocently as she smiled at Sam. She was about five foot three and one of the most stunningly beautiful women Sam had ever seen, other than his wife. She had a model’s figure and face, but Sam got the impression there was something more to her.

  “Fatherly?” he asked. “I’m not sure I’d make that assumption.”

  Summer laughed. “I don’t, not really,” she said, “though I've found it’s usually best to let them think that’s how I see them, regardless of how old or young they might be. These looks of mine? Just a tool I use to do my job, Mr. Prichard, don’t worry. And I can take care of myself, so don’t worry about that, either.”