Chapter 5

Jimmy stood outside the door of the Photography Lab, not daring to breath or make a sound. He pressed his ear to the frosted glass and waited, his blond hair obscuring the dark lettering that identified the room.

There.

Soft footsteps, a faint rustling of papers.

Someone was inside the Lab.

Maybe another photographer had forgotten something and returned. But they would have signed in at the security desk just as he had. The security guard even said everyone had left for the night. Jimmy had seen the sign out log. The last person to leave had been the Publisher, C.B. Spender and that had been several hours ago.

And why would someone be sneaking around in the dark?

Another sound dragged his attention back to the lab. This time it was a soft snick. Someone was opening the filing cabinets.

Anger and confusion blazed inside him at the thought of someone rummaging through the files. Why? It didn't make sense. There was nothing of real value in there. Just photographs that…

His stomach twisted in a sick sense of understanding. The missing photos of Professor Langly and Yves Harlow he had spent hours searching for and believed to be misplaced: someone had stolen them. And now perhaps the thief had returned.

But why?

Jimmy wanted answers. His heart thudding against his chest, he gripped the doorknob, took a slow, steadying breath and pushed the door open. Flipping on the overhead light, he shouted with bravado he didn't feel, "Hey! What are you do…"

The words died in his throat when he saw the intruder.

Yves Harlow gazed back at him with a cool confidence that implied she had every right to be in the lab in the middle of the night.

His mouth went dry as he watched her fingers smooth her black, tight fitting clothes that revealed a curvaceous body.

"Mr. Bond," she said in that lilting English accent. "What a surprise to see you here."

"I…uh…could say…um…the same thing," Jimmy stuttered. He swallowed hard and tore his gaze from the slow, sure movements of her hands to focus on her face. "I mean, what are you doing here?"

A coy smile touched her lips. "It's rather embarrassing," she said. "You see: my employer has this phobia about having his picture taken." Her soft, husky voice sent shivers up his spine. Or maybe it was because, as she talked, she closed the short distance between them until there was only a hand's breadth separating them.

"It's silly, I know," she continued, "but he asked me to retrieve them. Perhaps…?" She let the sentence hang between them.

"Sorry." Jimmy's voice cracked and he cleared his throat. "I can't help you."

Yves touched his chest gently then slid her hand up slowly until he felt her cool fingers caressing the bare skin at the nape of his neck. Sparks shot down to his toes. Tilting her head, she gazed up at him, her brown eyes soft and inviting. "Is there anything I can do to convince you?"

They were so close that if he angled his head down and moved toward her a fraction of an inch, their lips would touch. He wondered what she would taste like.

She parted her lips as if anticipating the contact.

His heart drummed in his chest. Staring at her full, scarlet lips, he bent his head and inhaled her scent. She smelled of wild flowers and wine.

"I can't." The words came out thick, nearly sticking in his throat.

She smiled reassuringly. "Don't you find me attractive?"

Jimmy nearly choked at that. "I… You're amazing."

"Then there's no problem," she whispered.

The space between them melted away and there was only the soft warmth of her body touching his. He couldn't think, not with her tantalizing scent surrounding him.

He wanted to touch her. He reached up and brushed the back of his hand down her cheek, thrilling at her smooth, satiny warmth, then brushed a lock of hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear then skimmed down the center of her spine, stopping to rest at the small of her back.

She whispered his name in a way that made him ache.

He wanted her. Oh, God, he wanted her.

But not like this.

"No," he managed, pulling away from her. "It wouldn't be right."

He glimpsed surprise on her face before turning from her and what she had been offering him. It was then he saw the open file cabinets. It was an ice-cold awakening.

"You're too late." He couldn't keep the disappointment from his voice. "The pictures are gone."

"Where are they?" Yves demanded; cool, composed and all business as if she had never tried to seduce him.

It was dumb but it hurt, knowing she would use him that way just to get the pictures.

Jimmy shrugged, trying to mimic her attitude but failed miserably. "I figured they've been misfiled in the morgue. That's like a huge library where we keep…" He trailed off at her impatient look. "But I couldn't find them anywhere," he continued. "Someone must have stolen them."

"Do you know who stole the pictures?"

Jimmy shook his head. "No idea."

She gazed intently at him, weighing his answer. "Did that reporter write a story about the Professor?"

"Spender? Nah, he didn't think there was anything to it."

"Who else knows about this?"

Jimmy started to answer when he realized she was asking all the questions. "Wait a minute. What's going on anyway? Just who are you?"

She took a step toward him. "Who else knows about this," she repeated, her voice low and cold. "Did you tell anyone else?"

Jimmy heard the dangerous undertone in her words but oddly it only made him curious. "No one," he fudged, lowering his eyes. "Spender made it plain that if I tried to convince another reporter to talk to the Professor, he'd have my job." This time he did meet her tense gaze. "I figured I could do the story myself."

It was odd, he thought. She seemed relieved that no one knew about Professor Langly yet concerned by his admission he was looking into it.

He went over the facts as he knew them, trying to make sense of it all: the empty lab; the professor and Miss Harlow's sudden disappearance; the poorly erased chalkboard; the stolen pictures.

"Professor Langly broke the Nazi code," Jimmy exclaimed, "or he's close. And you're helping him." It was all too incredible, he thought, but it fit. The allies would be able to find a way to defeat Hitler and he was the one who discovered the story.

A thrill of excitement went through him until he saw Yves' face. With the dawning clarity of a developing photograph, he saw in her what he'd seen a few days ago in the police officers during that seeming endless hostage standoff: the exhaustion that came from unrelenting hours of vigilance.

His next thought was both disturbing and frightening. "They know," he said, stunned. "They know what you and the Professor are doing." He thought again of the empty lab, the claim of running from a bad relationship. "You went into hiding, didn't you?"

Her expression remained neutral, neither confirming nor denying his statement. It didn't matter. He knew it was true and she was in trouble. He moved closer to her and, without thinking about it, said, "I want to help you, Yves. Let me help you."

She looked at him sharply. "Mr. Bond, You'll do well to stay away from this." With those words, she turned and strode from the room. The door slammed shut behind her.

"Wait!" Jimmy was a handful of shocked seconds behind her. He yanked open the door. "Yves, wait I…"

He stared down the empty hall.

She was gone.

Thursday, September 26, 1940

It was well past two the next day when Frohike finally turned up at work a little worse for wear. Maggie knew he'd probably gone on a bender and had called him at home to let him know his presence was needed in the office.

Maggie could be such a nag sometimes but Frohike knew it was her patience and even her persistence that kept him in business.

He hadn't done very well at first. His drinking made it difficult to keep clients. Hoping to help his friend out, Fox Mulder had introduced him to Maggie. At first, Frohike was reluctant to take on an employee but Maggie insisted that she at least be given a chance to show Frohike how much help she could be.

Frohike had been so ill tempered those first few weeks, unwilling to admit that he couldn't do the whole job on his own. But in time, he came to see that he really did need the help: if nothing else, there was someone to answer the phone when he wasn't there. If the clients couldn't contact him, how could they hire him?

Mulder had been right when he told Maggie that Frohike was a decent man who had fallen on hard times and just needed a chance to either redeem himself or to work through the horror his life had become.

Maggie truly respected her boss. He'd proven his worth more times than she could count. Sure, he had his bad days, but smoothing over those rough patches with clients, bill collectors or those who simply needed someone to complain to was her job. And she did it well.

She wasn't proud of everything they did, but those questionable clients seemed to be fewer and farther between. More and more, Frohike didn't hesitate to send them on their way if he doubted their veracity. They were beginning to build a much more respectable clientele like the Jennings family.

"Good afternoon," said Maggie with cheery disregard for Frohike's hung over condition. She followed him into his office.

Waiting until after he'd hung up his hat and coat, Maggie said, "I called the hospital this morning. Mrs. Jennings is doing a little better. I spoke to her husband and he said she's at least able to talk about Molly now. They'll probably release her sometime tomorrow."

"You couldn't tell me that on the phone?" Frohike asked sitting down at his desk. He looked around for his newspaper.

"Yes, I could have but there is something else you need to attend to. I called Monica Reyes as you asked."

She had Frohike's undivided attention at that point. "What did she say?"

"She wanted to speak to you right away. She's in the outer office; you walked right past her on your way in."

Getting up from his desk, Frohike hurried out to the reception area. A tall, good-looking brunette with brown eyes, long dark hair and an intelligent face stood up to greet him. She wore an amused expression.

"Monica, I'm sorry I didn't see you there."

"That's all right, Mel," she said taking his offered hand. "Maggie told me you've been working on a tough case and I did show up without an appointment."

"Please, come into my office." He stood aside allowing her to go first.

Once they were both seated, Monica in one of his ancient guest chairs, Frohike behind his desk, he asked. "How much did Maggie tell you about why I needed to talk to you."

"She said that there was a man here asking you to find me for him but that you wanted to tell me the rest."

Frohike nodded. "The man said his name was Morris Fletcher and that he is your long lost cousin." Checking his notes, he continued, "He told me that your Uncle Bernie Brickham died leaving you some money."

Monica shook her head, her eyes downcast and focused on a spot somewhere above the floor in a look that Frohike recognized as someone searching her memory.

"I don't remember an Uncle Bernie. Did this Morris Fletcher say we knew each other as children?"

"No, but he did give me that impression. He said, 'We called him Uncle BB' and I took that to mean both of you. I could be mistaken."

Monica's brow creased with concern. "Did he give you any indication that he was aware that you and I already knew each other?"

"No, he didn't, which is why I didn't mention it to him."

"Thank you, I'm glad you didn't say anything."

"What would you like me to do about this?" Frohike asked.

Monica didn't seem to hear the question. "This man…what did he look like?"

Frohike carefully observed her reactions as he described the man. She seemed to be growing more and more tense as he answered her questions.

When she didn't say anything for a few moments, he asked. "Monica, what is it? You don't need to worry about this. I won't tell this guy where you are."

"No, it's not that; I trust you. It's just…" She stopped, collecting her thoughts. "I was surprised when Maggie called me yesterday. I've been debating whether or not I needed to contact you myself."

It was Frohike's turn to be concerned. "Why? What's happened? Is it your sister again?"

"No, nothing like that." She hesitated. "I think I'm being followed."

"Followed?" Frohike asked in surprise. "Do you think it's this Morris Fletcher guy?"

Monica shook her head. "No, not from your description."

"Who then?"

"I don't know but this man is younger and thinner and has a full head of hair."

Frohike took a pencil out of his desk. "How many times have you seen him?"

"I'm not entirely sure. I got my first really good look at him three days ago and I realized then that I'd seen him before."

"What does he look like?" Frohike asked turning to a fresh page in his note pad.

"Tall, about six feet or so; early forties; brown hair. He has a long face and prominent ears."

"When did you last see him?"

"Last night, when I left work."

"Did he follow you home?"

"I didn't go home. When I saw him again, I went out to dinner in the hopes he'd get bored and go find something else to do. I didn't see him when I left the restaurant."

"Did you call the police?"

"I did but since I couldn't prove anything, they said to call them back if something happened."

"Let me talk to them and see what I can do."

Monica looked relieved. "Thank you, I'd appreciate that but there's something else… I think someone broke into my apartment."

If anyone else had come into his office with such a story, he'd take the information with a grain of salt, but not Monica. In his past dealings with her, Frohike sensed that she was not a woman who was easily frightened or prone to seeing imaginary enemies around every corner.

"When did this happen?" Frohike asked.

"Yesterday, sometime. I'm not sure when. As I said, I went out to dinner."

"What did the police have to say about that?"

"I didn't call them because, yet again, I can't prove it. Nothing was taken but some things had been moved. They weren't in their usual spot."

Frohike had seen the inside of Monica's apartment and understood how she would know. She wasn't obsessively neat but she wasn't a slob either. And since she lived alone, she should know if objects were not where she'd left them.

"You're sure nothing was taken."

Monica shrugged. "I checked my valuables. They're all there."

"But it may not be your valuables they were after." Frohike studied his notes. He said nothing for a few minutes thinking about all he'd heard.

Monica waited. She had become familiar with how he worked when she hired him the first time and knew he would speak when he was ready.

"All right," he said, "here's what we're going to do."

Relieved that someone finally believed her, Monica sat forward a bit in her chair anxious to hear how Frohike planned to solve her problem.

"First of all," he said, "I want you to take the rest of the day off and go shopping."

"Shopping?"

"Yes, shopping."

With Monica safely out in public for the rest of the afternoon, Frohike decided to hunt down Officer Mulder. Although he did not find Molly Jennings alive, he was still determined to locate the man who had abducted and killed her. It was the least he could do for her parents. And, he had to admit, for his own peace of mind.

Frohike found Mulder walking his beat.

"You mean you're actually doing the job they pay you for?" Frohike asked as Mulder jumped into his car.

Mulder snorted. "I was until you showed up. I tell you, if the Chief knew how much of my time was spent hunting down information for you, he'd probably kick me to the curb."

"Like he hasn't done that already." Frohike shot back.

"Not recently," Mulder said with a smile. "Fortunately, I got that police report back in the files before he noticed it was gone."

"Which is why I'm here," the private investigator explained. "You were going to check around for someone who fit the old woman's description."

"Yeah, the Charlie Chaplin look-alike. Not much luck there. I've only got one guy who says he might know who the lady meant."

"Who's that?" Frohike asked meaning the snitch, not the suspect.

"Kimmy, the Weasel."

Frohike's lip curled in disgust. He'd used Kimmy as an informant before. His information was sometimes questionable but he was correct often enough to warrant checking out what he had to say. "Is he at his usual watering hole?"

"That's where I found him," Mulder said.

"Lou's," Frohike thought, tossing a cursory glance at the flickering light of the dying neon sign. The place was dingy and smoke filled. There were only a few customers: most of them shabbily dressed but all of them with lives so wretched that sitting in this place in the middle of the day was the best they could do.

No one paid much attention to Frohike as he entered.

He scanned the mismatched tables many of which would need a good sandblasting to get them clean. Trying to ignore the smell of stale sweat, cheap beer and too much cologne, he spotted who he was looking for seated at the bar.

The man was rail thin. His hair was combed back over his head with so much pomade in it that the stuff nearly dripped off the ends.

"Well, if it isn't Kimmy the Weasel," Frohike proclaimed sitting down on a barstool next to him.

Kimmy rounded on Frohike. "Kimmy, the Snake. My name is Kimmy, the Snake. Can't you ever get that right?"

Kimmy had earned his hated nickname because of his sharp features and the squinty-eyed expression he usually wore. The man simply refused to admit he needed glasses.

"Oh, yeah. Sorry, Bub, I forgot."

"You don't even try. You just do that to piss me off."

"And it works so well," Frohike thought but didn't say this out loud. He needed the man's help.

Frohike placed a five-dollar bill on the bar. Kimmy's eyes lit up at the sight of the money. He reached out for it but Frohike slammed his hand down over the fiver before Kimmy could pick it up.

"Mulder says you have some information for me."

Kimmy's eyes narrowed as he turned to look at Frohike. "Yeah, but it's going to cost you more than what you've got there."

"Let's call this a down payment." Frohike had figured he'd end up paying dearly for this but, if he managed to find a suspect with the information, it would be worth it.

The informant grasped the money between two fingers and pulled on it gently not taking his eyes off Frohike. The PI eventually removed his hand and Kimmy quickly stuffed the money into his shirt pocket.

"Now, a name," Frohike said.

"I don't have a name."

Grabbing the front of Kimmy's not too clean shirt, Frohike demanded, "What do you mean you don't have a name?" With his free hand, he reached into Kimmy's pocket to take the five dollars back. Kimmy pushed against Frohike's arms.

"Wait! WAIT!" he shouted. "I don't know his name but I know where you can find him!"

Frohike eyebrows drew together in a scowl as he considered Kimmy for a moment. "You'd better not be lying."

"I'm not! Honest!" the nervous snitch swore with one hand raised in the air for good measure. "I wouldn't lie to you."

Frohike tightened his grip on the other man's shirt a little more pulling him a bit closer. "You have in the past."

"Well, yeah," Kimmy said with a touch of arrogant pride in his voice. "But you were so ripe for it that time." He then grew serious. "But this guy…anyone that does what he did to a little kid…that's just not right."

Releasing Kimmy's shirt, Frohike sat back on his stool. He glanced over at the bartender who was talking to a customer at the other end of the bar and pointedly ignoring what was going on at their end.

Frohike could almost taste the whiskey but he shook off the desire, the need to have a drink, just one drink. He had too much to do. He had to catch this guy and there was also Monica to consider. He would be of no help to anyone if he got drunk again. And experience told him that one drink would become two drinks then another and another.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out another five-dollar bill and held it up for Kimmy to see. "Tell me what you know about this guy."