Frohike looked up at the seemingly empty warehouse. He double checked the address and turned a questioning eye on Monica. "This is where she works?"
"It's the address Yves gave me in case of an emergency," she replied, no longer sounding certain. She grimaced when she saw a rat scurry along the perimeter of the building before darting behind a trashcan. "I can't imagine her working in this place."
Frohike shut the driver's side door. "Let's go see what this Professor Langly has to say."
Taking Monica's upper arm, he guided her around the worst of the foul smelling trash that littered the ally. Frohike could see that the area had at one time been well cared for but it was quickly falling into disrepair.
Or abandoned. This thought came unbidden to his mind as they climbed some steps then descended to a small landing. He knocked on the door, waited then knocked again. After a few seconds he tried the door.
It was unlocked.
Frohike gave the door a gentle push.
"Professor Langly?" Monica called as they stepped inside. "Melvin, this can't be," she said, distraught. She moved further into the vast, empty warehouse, turning 360 degrees. Her voice reverberated in the open space. "What's going on?"
Frohike just shook his head. It didn't make sense. First, Yves' home was destroyed in an obvious attempt to find something, now this empty building. He scanned the area. From the differing layers of dust, he deduced that there had been furniture there not all that long ago, maybe up to a couple of days previously. Had the same people who recklessly searched Yves Harlow's house also removed everything from the warehouse? Had they found what they were looking for?
Through his ponderings, he walked the circumference of the building looking….for something. Anything that would tell him what happened in this building. "Monica," he said knowing she would hate what he was about to say, "are you sure this Professor Langly is real?"
Monica's gaze snapped to the detective, her cheeks flushed with anger. "What are you inferring, Melvin? That my sister made everything up?" She shook her head. "Forget it. I met the man. Professor Richard Langly is real as you or I."
"You never told me you met him. When was this?" Frohike looked up from the wall he was studying to gaze at Monica.
"It was about a month after Yves moved to the States. At that time, we'd only been able to get together for dinner a few times. I wanted us to have a chance to really talk, so I suggested we go away to the beach for the weekend." Monica smiled for the first time since the whole mess started. "Yves loved the idea. She told me that the beach was one of her favorite spots to go on holiday." Her smile faded. "But she insisted the professor come with us. She said the man was obsessed his work and never took time off.
"I thought it was odd but I agreed." Monica wrapped her arms around herself and rubbed her arms. "He seemed like a lost little boy, unsure what to do with himself. He roamed the beach carrying a walking stick. Yves would call from her deck chair that, if she discovered he was writing equations in the sand, she would toss him in the surf. He would look so guilty."
Monica chuckled. "Like I said, it was very odd but I didn't mind. Yves and I talked and laughed all weekend. It was good." Her amusement faded. "I'm worried about her, Melvin. What's happening… what are you doing?" she demanded. He was feeling along the wall with his fingertips.
He didn't bother to look up. "There's a hidden door here, I'm trying…there we go."
He managed to get the door open. Monica joined him and looked inside. There was a cot and blankets, a small dresser and lamp. Frohike opened a dresser drawer. It was empty. He tried the next two and found some clothing. He picked it up then quickly shoved the men's underwear back into the drawer. He glanced at Monica who was ostensibly looking away.
He stared at the makeshift bedroom. "He was working and living here." He shook his head in disbelief. "Who the hell would want to live in a warehouse?" he muttered. He stirred from his musings. "Let's go. I want to talk to the landlord and see what he says about this Professor Langly."
"I never met the Professor" Albert Simms said as he set two cups of coffee in front of Monica and Frohike. Monica smiled her gratitude and took a sip. When they had first arrived on his doorstep, the man claimed to have no knowledge of Yves but when Monica informed him Yves was her sister and was missing the man relented.
The burly landlord took his seat opposite his visitors before continuing. "I spoke to your sister twice. The first time was when she approached me to rent the warehouse for two months. She paid in cash - up front."
"What about the second time?" Frohike asked.
The man hesitated then shrugged. "The second time she hired me to clean out the warehouse. Said she didn't want anything in there and that I should burn everything. Paid me a hundred dollars." From his expression and the gleam in his eyes, Frohike surmised the man had never seen that much money in one place at one time. Such an amount could buy loyalty or silence up to a point.
"Did she say why she wanted you do this?" Monica asked.
The old man looked at her sympathetically. "She said she was leaving to get away from a bad relationship."
"Boyfriend?" Monica said softly. Yves had never mentioned a boyfriend.
Frohike glanced at Monica and, leaning back in his chair, asked casually. "Did she say who this boyfriend was?"
"I figured it was the guy who showed up the next day looking for her." The old man shook his head and said disdainfully, "Claimed he was a reporter and that she had called him."
It was obvious from the landlord's tone he hadn't believed the man's story but it was Frohike's only lead. "Did he say which newspaper?"
The old man brows knitted together as he tried to remember. "I believe it was the Gazette. Yeah, that's right. The D.C. Gazette."
"Did he say what his name was?" Monica jumped in before Frohike could say anything. "Please, Mr. Simms, my sister may be in danger."
Simms studied Monica. "He did," he said then leaned back in his chair in imitation of Frohike's relaxed posture. Carefully, slowly, he took a cigarette from the pack on the table and put it between his cracked and weathered lips. He struck a match and held it to his cigarette. He inhaled deeply, and then exhaled, blowing smoke in the air.
Puzzled by the man's silence, Monica glanced from Simms to Frohike with growing anxiety. The two men stared at each other for a long moment - a contest of wills - before the detective pulled his wallet out of his pocket and removed several bills setting them in front of the manager.
Simms snatched them up, making them disappear. "Spender. He said his name was Jeffrey Spender."
"I heard it was going to be 18 to 35," Dylan Walsh said, his expression worried.
Jimmy frowned. "You really think the Selective Service bill will pass?"
"Amos Hendriks, on the political beat, seems to think it's a sure thing and he's rarely wrong."
"The Allies could still defeat Germany," Jimmy pointed out.
Dylan shook his head and spoke softly so only Jimmy could hear. "I heard England is bankrupt; they can barely afford to defend themselves. Russia is struggling and the rest of Europe…" he shrugged, raking a hand through his shock of vibrant red hair. "It's just a matter of time before the United States gets involved in the war. And when that happens…two healthy guys like us…we'll be seeing some action alright…on the battlefield."
"Maybe…" Jimmy's spine tingled with the feeling that someone was watching him. He glanced up positive he would see Spender glaring at him.
Surprisingly, it wasn't Spender.
"Who is that?" Jimmy asked.
"What?" Walsh glanced down at Jimmy. "Who?"
"That guy…" Jimmy started to point but thinking better of it said instead, "The one in the trench coat and fedora." The man watched them a moment longer then turned away and slowly scanned the rest of the bullpen as if searching for someone. Around fifty, the man had the face of a bulldog and a demeanor to match.
"Looks like a cop," Dylan guessed.
"Maybe," Jimmy murmured. He continued to watch the man's careful scrutiny before stopping a copy boy that was hurrying past him. They exchanged a few words then the copy boy pointed in the direction of the private offices.
Wondering who the policeman was there to see, Jimmy watched curiously as he approached two men deep in conversation.
The short walk towards them gave Frohike an opportunity to study them closely. One was in his late fifties, perhaps sixties with a craggy face and droopy eyes. He held a lit cigarette between two nicotine stained fingers. The second man was younger, had a weak chin and thin lips.
"Jeffrey Spender?" Both men turned their gaze to him but it was the younger man who spoke.
"Yes," Spender said, irritation passing over his face as he appraised the newcomer. "And you are?"
"Melvin Frohike. I'm a private investigator."
"I'll be in my office, Jeffrey." The older man brought his cigarette to his lips, inhaling deeply. The thought crossed Frohike's mind that the man was evaluating him in a more in-depth manner. The man exhaled, blowing a curtain of smoke out then walked into an office that read 'C.S. Spender' on the door.
Frohike turned his attention back to the younger Spender. "I'm investigating the whereabouts of a missing person, a woman. Her last known location was a small laboratory in the warehouse district."
"I fail to see how this concerns me, Mr. Frohike"
"I spoke to the landlord. He said reporters from the D.C. Gazette had visited her and her employer. He mentioned your name."
"I interview many people in my line of work. It's what I do, Mr. Frohike. Perhaps if you supplied a name."
Frohike slowly counted to five. The man's superior and snotty attitude was grating on his nerves and he felt the need to wipe the man's smirk off his face. Instead he smiled genially. "This is a picture of the missing woman." He took a photograph that Monica had given him from his breast pocket, the only one that hadn't been stolen since she had kept it on her desk at work. "Her name is Yves Harlow."
Frohike met Spender's glare with his own steady gaze until the man lowered his eyes to the picture. "I'm afraid your informant was mistaken." He looked at Frohike. "I've never seen her before."
"Are you sure," Frohike pressed. Had there been a subtle recognition in Spender's eyes, a slight difference in the cadence of his words? "The landlord said 'reporters'. Perhaps there was someone else?"
"Of course I'm sure." Spender clipped the words
"She may be in danger," Frohike tried again.
"Then perhaps her family should go to the police," Spender emphasized the last word, his lips curling into a smile, "instead of a private investigator."
Intuition told Frohike that the man was lying but he sensed that no matter how much he pushed he wouldn't get anything from Spender except a rude diatribe. Frustrated, he left the newspaper office.
As he worked his way through the building, he turned the facts over in his mind. What did he know? Yves Harlow was missing. Her home had been torn apart. Why? What had they been looking for? Had they found it? And who were they - the F.B.I? Or had someone else done this?
Yves's place of employment was deserted with very little left to show that anyone had ever even been there. Why was everything stripped from the lab? What was so much more important in the lab that everything be removed from there but not her home? And should they now be looking for two people: Yves and her boss, Professor Langly?
He had no answers to these questions and neither did Monica.
The only thing he did know for sure was that Yves Harlow had written her sister, warning her of danger. But while Monica confirmed it was Yves's handwriting, the letter itself was suspect. Had the woman been forced to write it or was it penned of her own free will? And if she had been forced to write the letter warning Monica about John Doggett, should they then trust the agent and tell the man everything they knew in the hopes that he might be able to help them find Yves?
"Mr. Frohike?" He felt a hand on his shoulder.
Startled, Frohike whirled around instinctively reaching for his gun in its shoulder holster until he belatedly remembered it was locked in the trunk of his car.
"Whoa. Hey!" The man's eyes widened in startled fear, his hands shooting up; fingers spread wide like they did in the movies.
Frohike kept his hand in his jacket, as if at any moment he would withdraw the nonexistent gun. He eyed the man. Tall and blond with conventional good looks, he had an imposing athlete's physique yet Frohike sensed no menace from the man. "Who are you?"
"My name's Jimmy. You're a cop right?"
He remembered seeing the kid in the Gazette bullpen. "Private investigator," Frohike corrected, taking his hand out of his coat. He tried to ignore the twinge of guilt he felt as he noted the obvious relief on the kid's face. "What are you doing sneaking up on people?"
"I wasn't sneaking," Jimmy protested. "I followed you outside because…" he looked around then up at the building. "Oh no," he muttered, moving backing up towards the door. Frohike followed the other man's line of sight in time to see the blinds from one of the windows move. "If he saw me, I'm as good as fired," he muttered to himself. To Frohike he said, "Can we meet later?"
The kid's disjointed conversation was irritating Frohike. "Why do you want to meet later?"
"To tell you what I know about Miss Harlow and Professor Langly." Jimmy glanced nervously up at the window again. "I get off at 6 p.m. Meet me at Henry's Diner on Lexington." With that, he shot back inside the building.
Frohike stared after the kid not sure whether to be elated or not. He decided to take him at face value. He glanced at his watch. He had somewhere else he needed to be but if he was lucky, he'd have enough time to take care of that matter before needing to meet this guy, Jimmy, at Henry's.
Jeffery Spender watched from his window as Frohike drove away. He had seen the detective talking to Jimmy Bond. Bond had a number of pieces to the puzzle and, while Spender wasn't worried about the photographer figuring anything out, if he told the detective…
"I'll have someone take care of the photographer," Spender said.
"Don't be hasty, Jeffrey."
Jeffrey turned to face his father. Spender Senior took a drag on his cigarette. "Let the photographer tell the detective what he knows." His condescending smile grated Jeffery's nerves but the younger man held his tongue. "Perhaps Mr. Frohike will succeed where you have failed." He took another deep pull on his cigarette; burning it down to the butt. He crushed it out in the ashtray and when he spoke, smoke curled from his lips. "Once the Professor and Miss Harlow's location has been confirmed you can inform our contact at the F.B.I."
Police Officer Fox Mulder was off duty. He paced back and forth outside Lou's waiting for Frohike. He knew Kimmy was inside but, in Mulder's opinion, the less time spent with the man the better. He glanced at his watch; Frohike was late. Mulder knew his friend was working on a missing person case and figured this was what had held him up.
Spotting Frohike's Ford Fordor drive past as he searched for a parking place, Mulder leaned back against the wall knowing his wait was almost over. He hoped that Kimmy had located the man they were searching for.
He experienced a moment of uncertainty. He knew his actions were unprofessional. He should be handing over any pertinent information about Molly Jennings's killer to the detectives in charge of the case, but he felt the need to help Frohike solve this one. He also saw it as an opportunity to prove he could do the job of detective.
He wanted it for himself as much as he wanted it for Frohike.
Mulder heard approaching footsteps. He turned to see Frohike walking quickly towards him. Without saying a word, they entered the establishment together.
Kimmy was not at his usual spot at the bar. Mulder scanned the smoke filled room but still didn't see him. Frohike backhanded him on the arm and pointed to a far corner where there was a figure seated alone in a booth.
They approached him. "Sit down!" Kimmy the Weasel hissed testily. "I don't want anyone to see you talking to me!"
Frohike quickly slid into the booth across from the snitch. Mulder followed him in. "Where's the money you owe me?" Kimmy asked.
"First the information," Frohike insisted.
Kimmy held up a folded piece of paper. "I went to a lot of effort to get this for you. I want my money and the respect I deserve."
Mulder got up and moved around to the other side of the booth effectively blocking Kimmy in. He nodded at Frohike who pulled an envelope of money out of his coat pocket and placed it on the table. "The respect you'll have to earn," Frohike said watching Kimmy gleefully count the money.
"Money is respect," said Kimmy, stuffing the cash in his pocket. Frohike held his hand out, palm up. He gestured at Kimmy with his fingers. Kimmy curled one disdainful lip at the private investigator before placing the folded slip of paper in his hand.
After quickly reading the note, Frohike handed it to Mulder. It said, "Ernie Campbell -4 o'clock - Chuck's Bar and Grill on K Street."
"How will I recognize the guy?" Frohike asked.
"You'll know him," said Kimmy. "He insists on dressing like that actor…"
"…Charlie Chaplin," Mulder finished his sentence for him.
"Yeah," Kimmy agreed, "right down to the ridiculous little mustache."
Mulder was familiar with Chuck's Bar and Grill. The management had ceased selling food years earlier but never got around to changing the sign. Besides, new signs were expensive and most of the patrons were satisfied with the peanuts and popcorn that were provided for free because the salty snacks made them thirsty for more beer.
Entering the bar, they spotted the man seated at a table off to one side. The old woman was right. He did look like Charlie Chaplin, right down to the little, Hitler mustache. Mulder and Frohike approached him. The man looked up at them questioningly as they each pulled out a chair and sat down. "Hey, Ernie!" Mulder said cheerfully.
"I'm trying to have a private drink here," their suspect said. "What do you want?"
"Rumor has it," Frohike said, "that you are the man to see about fulfilling…certain needs."
"I don't know what you're talking about," the man said, suspicion evident in his voice.
Mulder leaned forward, putting an elbow on the table. "Ah, come on," he said. "We got it from a pretty reliable source." He glanced quickly around the room pretending to make sure their conversation was completely private. "Ted Mead mentioned you could hook us up." Mulder hoped that Frohike would trust him. This was not how they discussed playing it out. Campbell was already suspicious of them and Mulder hoped that giving him the name of a known pedophile would help earn the man's confidence.
"You know Ted?" the man asked cautiously studying first one face then the other.
"Yeah," Mulder smiled in a knowing way. "He said your specialty was sweet young things."
Frohike nodded. "Yes, the sweeter and the younger the better." Mulder watched Frohike's fingers curl into a fist then stretch them out flat on the table. He knew how difficult it must be for Frohike to maintain his undercover persona of a pervert.
The man looked at them through narrowed eyes. "How do I know you're not cops?"
Mulder leaned back in his chair and laughed. "Do we look like cops?"
This pronouncement was met with several seconds of silence as Campbell thought about it. Mulder glanced sideways at Frohike remembering the prostitutes on his beat and their assertions that Frohike looked like a dirty old man.
Turning in his chair, Mulder signaled the waitress. She walked over and stopped next to Frohike. "What can I get you?" she said, snapping her chewing gum.
"You want another beer, Ernie?" Mulder asked.
Campbell glanced into his nearly empty glass. "Yeah, I could use another."
"Make it a pitcher and a couple more glasses," Mulder told the waitress.
"Refill, Sugar?"
Jimmy gave the waitress a distracted smile. "Sure." He watched as she topped off his coffee for the third time.
"It looks like your friend's not going to show."
Jimmy glanced at his watch, making a decision. "Do you have a pay phone?"
The waitress inclined her head towards the restrooms. "There's two of 'em back there."
"Thanks." He got up feeling in his pocket for the necessary change.
Keeping an eye on the front door, he dialed the operator. "I need the number for Melvin Frohike." He listened to the operator. "Frohike Investigations? Yeah, that sounds right."
He waited as the operator made the connection. He counted a dozen rings before he hung up with a sigh. He went back to his booth and sat down. Glancing at his watch, he decided to give the man another twenty minutes.
After two additional pitchers of beer, Campbell was getting very talkative. Mulder and Frohike kept the suspect's glass full while only appearing to drink with him.
They let the other man take the lead in the conversation knowing that once he was comfortable with them he would come back to the reason they had approached him in the first place. Mulder noticed Frohike surreptitiously check his watch several times.
"…now if you want a good steak, go to McNulty's. They have the juiciest, most tender steaks in town." Campbell drained his glass and set it back on the table. He watched Frohike refill it. "So," he said lowering his voice and leaning into the table, "how sweet do you want 'em?"
Mulder and Frohike glanced at each other surprised by the sudden change of topic. Mulder slung one arm over the back of his chair. "What do you got?"
Ernie chuckled. "I don't have anything right now but I've got my eye on tasty morsel you might be interested in."
"I've always had a preference for curls," said Frohike.
"You and me both." Ernie chuckled, getting a dreamy, far away look in his eyes. "Recently, I found this one…" He stopped, obviously savoring the memory.
This is it, Mulder thought. "What was she like?"
"She was …special: skin so soft, she smelled clean and fresh, untouched…well, at least until I got to her."
"Did you keep any mementos?" Mulder asked.
He smiled at them and reached into his pocket bringing out a folded handkerchief. He set it on the table and gently turned back the folds to reveal a single curl of light brown hair: the end of which was tied in a pink ribbon.
Glasses went flying as the table was upended. Frohike grabbed Campbell by the front of his shirt, yanking the man out of his chair. He slammed him up against the wall. "You sick bastard!"
Campbell squealed in shock and pain, his eyes bulging in fear. He flailed ineffectively at his assailant.
Startled, Mulder yelled. "Frohike, STOP!"
Deaf to Mulder's order, his rage overwhelming his common sense, Frohike smashed his fist into Campbell's face. "You killed that little girl!"
Mulder scrambled to locate the evidence. If it got destroyed, they would have no case. Spotting the handkerchief containing the precious lock of hair, he snatched it off the floor and shoved it in his pocket.
"Admit it, you filthy animal!" When the man didn't answer immediately, Frohike hit him again. Blood gushed from Campbell's shattered nose.
Grabbing Frohike by one shoulder, Mulder tried to pull him off. Frohike spun around still clutching Campbell. The battered man fell to the ground whimpering. He started to crawl away.
Frohike shoved Mulder sending the cop stumbling backwards over the furniture. As he fell, he saw Frohike fling himself at the bleeding man. The PI seized one of Ernie's outstretched arms and flipped him over.
Campbell stared up at Frohike with terror filled eyes. "Please," he begged, "don't hurt me any more!"
His pleas further enraged Frohike. He yanked the man's head up off the floor. "Did Molly beg for her life? Did you show her any mercy?"
"I don't know what you're talking about!"
Frohike struck him again.
"Stop! Stop!" the man cried, tears mingling with the blood on his face. "What do you want from me?"
"I want you to confess," Frohike roared. "I want you to admit you murdered Molly Jennings."
Mulder struggled to extricate himself from the upturned furniture. He had never seen Frohike so out of control before.
"All right, all right," the injured man implored. "YES, yes, all right. I did it."
"No, you need to say it! Say, I killed Molly Jennings!"
Campbell was now crying in earnest. "I killed Molly Jennings," he sobbed.
Frohike had been teetering on the edge of reason. This simple confession pushed him over that edge.
Mulder watched in horror as Frohike began to smash the man's head against the floor. He ran to them, wrapping his arms around Frohike's chest from behind in an attempt to haul him off the suspect. "Frohike…Mel, STOP! You're going to kill him."
Effortlessly, the private detective shook Mulder off.
"Call the cops and an ambulance," Mulder yelled at the stunned bartender. "NOW!" he ordered when the horrified man didn't move. He barked at the other patrons, "Help me get him off!"
Two men, after a momentary hesitation, rushed to Mulder's side. Mulder and one man each grabbed Frohike by an arm. The other man dragged the now unconscious Campbell out of the fray.
Frohike struggled against his captors. Mulder realized his friend was running on pure adrenaline. "Mel, goddamn it, calm down! You did it. You got the confession. He's going to jail for a long, long time."
Breathing heavily, Frohike's struggles ceased. Mulder's words had finally broken through allowing reason to return.
He looked up at Mulder. "I'm fine. You can let me go now."
Mulder glanced at the bloodied man lying on the floor near the bar. A worried look crossed the police officer's face. "I'm sorry, buddy. I can't."
