Chapter two

It was just after Twelve and I was starting to feel hungry, but I wanted to make a start on the case. The first thing on my list was to visit Charles McKenzie's office. He worked the case before me, and it sounded like he found something. If he had disappeared, the chances were, so did whatever he found. But it was still worth taking a look. On the drive over, I put in a call to find out if a missing persons report had been filed. A Detective Lopez informed me that he had a lot of work on, but said he would get back to me when he can. Charles McKenzie had an office on Bonifant Street in Silver Spring. It was a big red-brick building surrounded by other commercial properties. There were a few coffee shops and fast-food joints at street level. They surrounded a square with a few planted trees, greenery and benches. The parking lot was full, so I circled a few times until I found a space that wasn't quite two blocks over. I stepped into a foyer that hadn't been cleaned this side of the McCarthy hearings. The black and white tiled floor was stained with years of spilled coffees and tracked mud. The only water that had gotten close to the floor is the rain when the wind was strong enough to carry it across the threshold. Despite the warm air outside, it felt cold. There weren't many windows to catch the sunlight, so the big empty space was cast in shadow. The Offices were listed on the wall along with floor and door numbers. Charlie's office was one floor up, with Smiler the dentist on one side, although I suspected that was not his real name, and Stubbs Accountancy on the other. The outside door to his office was frosted glass. It said:

Charles McKenzie

Private Investigator

The door was open. I knocked and waited to see if anyone would answer. After a few minutes I decided to let myself in. The office had been turned upside down. I closed the door and looked at it from the other side. It had been forced open with very little delicacy. Whoever it was didn't waste time trying to be quiet. I saw some filing cabinets that were open with the files scattered on the floor. His coat was hanging by the door but there was no sign of him anywhere. Despite the disarray, there were no obvious signs of a struggle. Either Charlie wasn't in his office when it was being searched, or they dealt with him quickly. There was no computer on the desk. As I said, Charlie was an old-fashioned guy. Any files would be in paper form. I tried the rest of the office but came up short. Closing the door after me, I stepped out into the hall. Maybe his neighbours knew something. I looked at the dentist's door and the sign said, "gone to lunch". I tried the other side and knocked on the accountant's door.

"It's open." A voice from inside called. I opened the door and immediately smelled the coffee and grilled cheese sandwich.

"Oh, I'm sorry" The lady behind the desk said, rather embarrassed. "I thought you were someone else." She wiped her hands on a tissue. "I'm waiting for a friend. We're having lunch together."

"Looks like you're getting a head start." I said as I closed the door behind me. She smiled.

"I was hungry." Her hair was long and tied back so tight it stretched her face and pulled her eyebrows up, making her look surprised. She had gone a bit overboard with the make-up and her skin cracked like a poorly maintained sidewalk when she smiled.

"What can I do for you?" She asked. I showed her my card.

"My name's Jack Pearson. I'm a private investigator. Do you know much about what happened next door?"

"You mean Charlie's office?" She asked. I didn't get a chance to answer as she carried on. "I've not heard anything. I figured he forgot to lock his door when he went out. I didn't want to involve myself in something."

"Involve yourself in what?" I asked.

"I heard raised voices a few days ago." She stopped to sip some coffee. "Two men stormed out. But Charlie wasn't one of them. I didn't hear anything else after that, and he must have stayed late because I didn't hear him leave before I locked up."

"Do you know much about him? Have you been neighbours long?" She glanced upwards, as if to pull down a memory she had filed away.

"Maybe three years now. I started renting this place in May 2003, and he had already been here for some time." I sat down in the seat opposite the accountant. "I think he probably carried a gun, though I can't imagine that's very unusual in your line of work."

"How do you know he carried a gun?" I asked.

"He always wore that coat. No matter the weather. I saw him sweating in summer and he still put the coat on" I gave a "hmm"

"If you see him, or if the two men come back, or anyone else for that matter, can you call me?" She said she would, and I thanked her before leaving. A young woman with similar hair and make-up to the accountant nearly bumped into me as I turned.

"You've got some catching up to do, your friend has already started." I said to the woman. She smiled at me before disappearing behind the door. I stepped back into Charlie's office and searched through the pockets of his coat. They were empty.

Next on my list was Randolph Haynes. Eric the butler had given me his address in Arlington before I left, so I started the engine in my battered heap and pulled away from the curb. The drive was quiet. Most people had decided where to eat by this time. The air outside felt cool despite the sun still being out. Charlie Parker was playing his rendition of Summertime. I let myself enjoy the music for a while. My fondness for jazz has been with me for most of my adult life. I kept CDs in the car for my journeys and a collection of old vinyls were stacked in my living room, next to an old record player. I parked my car on Pershing drive and walked over the road to Haynes' Park View apartment. Park View was a tall brick building on a quiet street; the kind of street driving instructors use to teach manoeuvres. The building had its own parking garage in the basement. A gradient led to a remote operated garage door. The pedestrian door next to it had been kept open with a brick. I left my car by the road and entered on foot. There was a faint smell of gasoline and exhaust fumes, and the walls needed a new lick of paint. Each apartment was allocated one parking space. They were mostly European cars. Haynes' apartment was number 12. I found the corresponding parking spot. It was occupied by a dark blue BMW. If there was anyone working maintenance down here, I couldn't see them or hear them. I explored further and found a small room which stored the kind of tools one would expect to find for working on cars. Through the window I could see a chair, desk and television. A young man in oil-stained overalls was devouring a sandwich and laughing maniacally at the screen. I left him there and made my way into the hall. If I needed anything, I knew where to find him.

My footsteps echoed as I made my way across the polished floor of the hallway and found some stairs. The building was well lit and maintained. The walls were a deep red and there was a smell of citrus air freshener. A potted fern stood in each corner. One of Haynes' neighbours had her front door open a crack revealing a watchful eye, half a small nose and part of a fuzzy chin. Her lips were locked tight as she stared at me. Before making my way to my quarry's apartment, I walked right up to the open door and said hello.

"What do you want here?" She asked. I could smell the cigarettes on her breath. Now that I was closer, I could see the wall behind was stained yellow from years of smoking.

"Just looking up an old friend." I replied, keeping the lie simple.

"You're not going to cause any trouble, are you? The others who came made a terrible ruckus. We pay good money for these apartments, and we don't need that sort around here. If this carries on, I'm going to speak to the super about security. Anyone can walk in off the street." Her voice was a hoarse whisper.

"What others?" I asked her.

"Two men. They talked funny, some weird language. They weren't Americans, I can tell you that." I turned back to look at the hallway, as if by doing so I would see it in a new light that would tell me who they were.

"Can you describe them?" I asked.

"Tall, well built." She said after a thoughtful pause. "And black." She added, almost as an afterthought.

"Which apartment did they go in?" I asked.

"I don't know." She said too quickly, looking at the floor and shifting on her feet.

"You saw enough to know there were two of them and that they were black. Come on, spill the rest of it." I put some edge to my voice. It usually worked. I knew her type. Lives alone, bored, more interested in the comings and goings of her neighbours than what's on TV. Always knows what's going on. She doesn't miss anything. Every apartment building has one of her.

"You don't need to be rude." She said in an apologetic tone. "Apartment twelve. Right across the hall."

"Thanks." I replied. I walked over to apartment twelve. I could tell her eyes were still on me.

The door was closed but when I knocked, it opened inwards. I slowly opened the door and stepped over the threshold. I closed the door behind me and reached into my pocket for a pair of disposable gloves. It was a nice-looking apartment. Nice lamps that had been knocked on the floor, nice closets that were open with coats torn and hung haphazardly, or lying on the bottom of the closet. I went into the living room to find a very nice leather sofa, and matching armchair. A nice big TV stood in the corner. Nice antique trinkets and vases and bowls, the kind you would expect an archaeologist to have, that were intended to decorate any free space, instead lay broken on the thick plush carpet. There were signs of a struggle. Dried blood stained one corner of the coffee table and more had soaked into the carpet. I touched it with a gloved finger. It was dry as well. Whatever happened here didn't happen recently. I searched the rest of the apartment but came up empty. Haynes wasn't home despite his car being here. I scratched the back of my head and looked down. A wastepaper basket had been knocked over and a small piece of paper lay on the floor. I could see something was written on it. I picked it up and looked at the phone number scrawled on it. The handwriting was rushed and untidy. I put the paper in my pocket and made my way out. Before leaving, I took out a handkerchief and wiped the inside door handle and anything else I might've touched before putting on my gloves. The men who were here were probably the same ones who searched Charles McKenzie's office. They clearly didn't care about being careful. I made my way back to the garage and found the young man still sitting on his seat, still laughing at the TV. The sandwich had gone, replaced by a can of soda. I opened the door and leaned on the frame. The tools hanging on the walls were clean but rusted and only gleamed in a few spots. The carpet was as stained as his work clothes. On the table next to him was an ashtray filled with cigarette butts and a couple more tools. These looked to be in better condition than the others. His eyes glanced up for a second and went back to his programme.

"Help you?" He asked in a voice that didn't sound like he wanted to help anyone.

"I'm looking for Randolph Haynes."

"He's not in here." The young man helpfully pointed out.

"He told me he'd be in but there was no answer when I knocked." The young man didn't move from his chair. He didn't move in any way that indicated he heard me. His eyes stayed transfixed to his TV.

"If he didn't answer, I guess he's not home." He took a long swig from his can. I took out a cigarette and held out the packet to offer him one. He smiled and slowly stood up. He was a little shorter than me and had a paunch that tried to breakout through his overalls. His red hair flowed freely as he walked. It looked like it couldn't decide between being centre parted or side parted. His face was freckled and had a light fuzz under his chin. His ears had been stuck haphazardly to the sides of his head. The young man took the cigarette, and I held out my lighter for him. I watched as the end of his cigarette glowed orange and smoke started to rise. I could hear the sizzling of the burning paper and smell the tobacco burning under it. When he was satisfied, he stood up straight and looked at me quizzically.

"My name's Jack Pearson." I said while reaching out a hand. He stared at the hand for a few seconds, almost as if he were unsure what to do with it. Eventually he extended his own and we shook.

"Jacob Mosely Jr." He responded. He leaned against the table while taking a long drag on his cigarette. "Thanks for the smoke." He said absently. "Now take a hike, buddy." I ignored him and stepped into his room, looking the place over.

"So, why wouldn't Randolph be home if his car is here?" I asked.

"Maybe he went for a walk." Jacob replied, trying to sound dismissive. I allowed myself a smile.

"Did you see him leave?" I could see he was beginning to get twitchy.

"No, but I wouldn't unless he came this way." He took another long drag and crushed the remainder in his ashtray. I flicked mine and let the ash fall to the floor. His eyes followed it down. He wanted to get tough with me, I could see it in his eyes. But he wasn't sure how to do it. I decided to give him a break and showed him one of my cards.

"I'm a PI working a case. When did you last see him?" I asked. I pinched a folded twenty dollar bill between two fingers.

"Not seen him for a couple of weeks now." Jacob told me while reaching for the twenty. I palmed it before he got a chance. "He doesn't really go out. When he does go, he's gone for weeks, sometimes months."

"Does he normally take his car with him?" He thought for a while before answering.

"Yeah, he does." I thanked the young man and placed the twenty on the table. I went out the way I came in and walked to my car.

I sat in my car for a while and thought about my options. Randolph Haynes and Charles McKenzie had both disappeared. McKenzie's office and Haynes' apartment had both been searched. Someone was ahead of me while I was playing catch-up. Whoever did it wasn't worried about keeping a low profile, so I knew eventually I would gain on them. I had a list of names from Dr Longmore, so I decided to drive to my office and start making phone calls. On the way, I stopped at a drug store for a sandwich and a coffee. My office was on 16th Street, opposite Rock Creek Park. It was a popular spot for picnics and had a golf course, the park, not my office. It was also home of the Rock Creek Park Nature Centre and Planetarium. Sometimes I would walk the nature trails if I needed to clear my head. I always found it very soothing. My office wasn't much to boast about; I had a small waiting room with some old magazines I kept meaning to replace, that lead to my private office where I would invite my potential clients to discuss their problems. There was no kitchen, so I kept a water cooler in the waiting room and coffee on a drip in my private office. There was also a bottle in the deep drawer of my desk but that was just for special occasions. Although my definition of a special occasion was wide enough to encompass surviving the day. The toilets were at the other end of the hallway from my rented premises.

A light was flashing on my answer machine. I pressed some buttons and heard Detective Lopez inform me that a man named Haynes, Randolph had been reported missing. There were no leads, no immediate family to contact, and the faculty member of some university, the name of which he couldn't remember off the top of his head, didn't have any useful information. I knew what that meant. The case would be put on the back burner while they find some easy wins to get their stats up and make them look good in the papers. I poured myself a coffee and sat down at my desk. From my inside pocket, I fished out the list of names Dr Longmore had given me. But first I fished out the phone number I found at Haynes' apartment. I dialled it and waited. After no one picked up it went to voicemail. Charles McKenzie, private investigator informed me he couldn't get to the phone and instructed me to leave my name and number. I hung up. Why would Haynes have Charlie's number? While I pondered that question, I reached for the list of names and started making calls.

The first was to David Maxwell, Head of the Maxwell foundation. His grandfather, Robert Maxwell, founded it in the 1950s and its aim was the discovery and preservation of artefacts of historic significance. History was a passion of his and he used the foundation to funnel as much money into it as he could. He strongly believed in its importance. He tried to pass his passion for history down to his children, but by the time it came to his grandson, David, the foundation's new aim was headlines. He just lacked his grandfather's vision to make those headlines. After five minutes of speaking to his secretary, it became clear that his knowledge of ancient Egypt was even less than mine. The next few phone calls were equally fruitless. But by my sixth call I got lucky. After being passed around a bit, I eventually spoke to Maureen Gantry, a lecturer in Archaeology at the George Washington University. I asked if she was the one who had filed the missing persons report with the police and she said she was. She was friendly enough with Randolph Haynes to be able to give me more information about the archaeological dig where this troublesome artefact was discovered. She also told me that while he mostly worked from home, he did have a favourite bar not far from the university. I wrote down the name and address and thanked her for her time and hung up. I sat back and pondered what I had learned. Dr Longmore financed the dig but was not involved beyond that. He didn't set foot in Egypt and as far as Maureen was aware, had never even been in the same room as the artefact in question. Randolph Haynes had told him about it rather excitedly over the phone and emailed him some photos. It was getting late, but I wanted to chase one more lead.

The bar Maureen Gantry told me about was Sullivan's on Pennsylvania Avenue. An Irish themed pub run by a family who could claim no more Irish heritage than the Emperor of Japan. The family had owned the pub for three generations and not one of them had ever been called Sullivan. While there were many rumours about where the name came from, no one knew for certain. I found it hard to believe this was the type of place Haynes would feel comfortable, but apparently the ambiance was the closest he could find to being back home on the other side of the Atlantic. It was lively when I walked in. There were many conversations taking place and they all bled into each other making it hard to concentrate on just one. I approached the bar and waited for the big, burly bartender, whose body was covered in more art than the National Portrait Gallery, to turn around. When he did, I could see the front was just as covered as the back. He made sure not to wear anything that would cover up too much of his masterpiece. I ordered a beer and looked around. It would have been too much to ask that Randolph Haynes was here, but I might meet someone who knows him. I took a chance and tried to strike up a conversation with the friendly bartender.

"Hi, do you know Randolph Haynes? I'm an old friend and I wanted to look him up while I'm in town." The bartender didn't say anything. He had the facial expression of a hubcap. "I tried him at home but no luck. I remembered he liked coming here." I continued. I could almost hear the echo between his ears. After he decided I wasn't ordering another drink, he gave his attention to the next person he could find. I turned on the spot and leaned against the bar with my drink in my hand. My eyes scanned the premises, and I could sense someone was watching me. I put my drink down to light a cigarette. My eyes continued to scan. There was a woman sitting by herself. There was a book and glass of wine on the table in front of her, but she wasn't paying attention to either. She tried not to make it look obvious but needed more practice. The next time she glanced in my direction, I locked eyes with her to force her hand. She stood up with her glass and placed her book in a handbag that she had kept on the chair next to her and walked over to me. She looked to be around 5.5 and had dyed blond hair down to the top of her neck. The darker roots starting to show. Her blue jeans were worn and faded and the sleeves of her dark green jumper ended at her fingers.

"You know Randy?" She asked. When she spoke, I detected the faint trace of an Irish accent.

"Sure, I know Randy. We go way back." I replied with a smile. "I haven't seen him in a long time though. You a friend of his?" What little smile there was on her face was now gone.

"If you know him, then you know I'm more than a friend. You'd also know he hates being called Randy." She was good. Either that or I wasn't.

"I've never called him Randy, but it's been a lot of years. People change." I tried to recover.

"Where'd you meet 'im?"

"On a dig in Giza."

"You an archaeologist?

"I was just there for the heavy lifting." The quickfire quiz was getting old. "Okay, let's cut to the chase, sister." I said after a sigh. "You know Randolph Haynes pretty well, and you're trying to find out why I wanna find him. I respect that you're looking out for him, but I'm looking for something he discovered on one of his digs. I've been by his place but he's not there. I think he might be in trouble." I may have omitted a few details, but strictly speaking, I wasn't lying.

"Why do you think he's in trouble?" The mystery woman asked. "He likely has something that belongs to someone else." A look in her eyes told me she knew something. But it was only there for a second. Blink and you'd miss it.

"Let's go outside." She suggested. "It's too loud to think in here."

"How about you tell me your name first? I'm not in the habit of following strange women out of bars" I said to her.

"After you." Was her response. I relented.

"Jack Pearson."

"Bridget Murphy." She replied. As we walked out, I motioned to the bar.

"Home away from home?" I asked her. She laughed.

"The only Irish thing about this place is me when I'm drinking here." We both laughed. We walked for a while. The shops were closed, and the shutters were down. The streets were quiet. We passed a few people who were more interested in each other. I felt a slight chill in the air, but Bridget didn't seem to notice it. The only light came from the streetlamps and the headlights of passing cars. The night-time air smelled faintly of smoke.

"So, Jack Pearson. Do you want to tell me why you're looking for Randolph?" Bridget asked after a while.

"Like I said before, I'm looking for something he found in Egypt. It belongs to someone I know, and they tell me Randolph took it." Bridget stopped walking and stared at me.

"If it's what I think it is, it never belonged to Philip Longmore. It belongs to the university." Bridget was the second person to tell me this. Maybe there was some truth to it.

"How do you know the name Longmore?" I asked.

"Randolph talks about him sometimes. He doesn't like him, but he's funded a few of his trips. Randolph sees him as more of a business contact. Someone he has to deal with." "Do you know where I can find Randolph?" It was a longshot, but I thought I'd try anyway. "No." Was all she said. I needed to speak to my client. I gave Bridget Murphy my card and asked her to call if she changes her mind or to give it to Randolph Haynes if she sees him. After some hesitation, she took it. We found my car and I offered her a ride home, but she declined. "One last thing, Bridget." I said as I opened the car door. "Do you know someone called Charles McKenzie?" She thought for a while and then said she didn't. I thanked her and drove away.