Mr. Scary Smart: Part Four

May 11, 2009      

 

A Joe Downing Mystery

The following is fiction:      

 

 

 Part Four: Dude, Where’s My Colt?      

During the night, during my fitful sleep, something in my mind attacked. My sleep was restless, disturbed. Periodically I awoke in the quiet, and saw the eerie, well-kept street filled with shadows and parked cars. No motion of any kind broke the winning streak of the frozen silence. ‘Chelsea is really gone,’ the emptiness seemed to say. ‘Two parents are worried sick, whattya gonna do about it, Ace?’ spoke a voice in my head. SUV’s loomed at the curb, omnipresent. Their dewy, tinted windows intimated secrets not-to-be-told, and an aggressive indifference to the affairs of others. But in my thoughts, there was something that wouldn’t let go, a dark presence pursued me, relentlessly and implacably. It continually hounded me, searching hungrily for my vulnerable point. It probed my defenses, looking for a breach in the walls, searching for a broken battlement over which to scale. Suddenly a feeling of not being strong enough, an intimation of being unable to properly defend myself, came over my haunted senses. This menacing guy, dressed all in black, this abductor, kept coming at me. He wielded an iron rod, and angrily prepared to swing it at me viciously. There was a mindless confidence and certainty to his manner. The nightmare wouldn’t come to a resolution, but yet it wouldn’t cease altogether, either. It maintained a perpetual middle state of unbearable stasis. I tried endlessly to protect what was utterly without defense. I was a city without walls: I felt like someone was sitting on my chest. So I had to knock this guy off, and get back to my life…..I awoke with a shudder.      

 

*******************************************

 

First light came in its own good time. It was getting near 7am before it broke. I had been up for a little bit, though, sitting in one of the pool chairs, pondering, waiting impatiently. My legs were not fresh, more rubbery than anything else. I felt grungy in spite of having gotten clean just a few short hours ago. Finally the orange winter sun made its marvelous, long-delayed entrance, like an operatic diva. It slowly climbed above its rivals, the white-topped, brawny San Gabriel mountains, who themselves soared high above L.A., itself sprawled like a flat octopus 20 miles away from here in a straight north line, in case you’re asking about it. The air was chilly and still. No sound stirred but some crows squawking and some finches chirping.      

 

I started to search the slope and backyard. In the dim light of dawn I still couldn’t see much. I slipped and slided my way up to the ridge, and looked down at the mashed grass, weeds, acacia, and yellow mustard plant, just barely in bloom in December. The signs of the struggle I had experienced the evening before were certainly there, like truth waiting to be caught red-handed: broken vines, twigs, and bushes, for one thing, and footprints, for another. I could discern my own prints, my Converse shoes, like Chelsea’s, and another set: just guess who. They looked like boots or heavy work shoes, with wavy lines in the front part of the sole, and a square indentation with a curved outer edge, marking the heel. Must be fairly small: size nine, perhaps. Spark’s paw prints were there, too, in the mud, like markers of that animal’s noble bravery. The cops had done a good job of not ruining any of the impressions.    

 

I wandered, and then saw deep in some tangled weeds a big, circular, cream-colored button standing on end. I scraped my hand through and I picked it up carefully with thumb and forefinger. I put it in a baggy for the cops. I’m so nice. I walked along the probable path of the man and Chelsea. Actually this path became more discernable the further I went, from the matted-down foliage, so it was more than probable. The foliage became waist-high, and then shoulder-high. After 60 yards or so I came to the further ridge of the mesa, and saw over to the other side. A slope led down steeply to a lonely, serpentine, dirt service road, built obviously for access to the power installation and small radio telescope, both of which came into view as one looked down from the ridge. I had seen it before, of course, all peninsula residents had.      

 

The installation was privately owned by the California Power Service and Utilities Company: CPSUC, the sign said. (Almost thought I was in the old Soviet Union.) A prickly, chain-link fence guarded a small, stout, well-built shack of building blocks. The quiet, steady hum of electrical power emanated from within. (Better watch my exposure – might still wanna have children someday.) I circumnavigated the square perimeter of fence, each side about 9 steps. I crunched the grayscale dirt clods underfoot. Presently I saw, just inside the links of the fence, and leaning against them, another cream-colored object, twinkling with dew, rainbow-like, in the growing sunlight. It was just over an inch long and about 3/8″ wide. It was a flash drive. I put that little Christmas gift into the baggy, too. Soon after this I went back to the Johansen place, looking desperately for my little Colt 22 LR along the way, but to no avail.      

 

As I slipped my clumsy way back down from the ridge, Johansen was in the backyard, speaking to someone on his Blackberry. He raised his chin and eyebrows at me in greeting as he listened to the other end, the very image of the VIP, and he then spoke into the phone with a tired, somewhat irascible voice:      

 

“Mr. Patel, I warned you about investing in emerging markets. I warned you about undercapitalized banks in those markets funding the projects of delinquent borrowers. Indeed I did. You wouldn’t listen. And I warned you that you would be playing Russian Roulette, several times. A high-yield, low-risk investment just doesn’t exist, sir. The laws of economics are like the laws of physics.” Johansen listened to the response, and then countered:      

 

“Yes, Mr. Patel, I am concerned about the capital ratios and balance sheets of banks like that, and that is precisely why I had you sign a waiver, protecting me against malpractice lawsuits. Clients that seek credit from banks like that are a red-flag, sir, and so are their projects. I sympathise with you, sir, but I have to protest that I saw this coming, and that I attempted to dissuade you, sir.” He listened some more, then countered again:      

 

“Very well, Mr. Patel…..yes, sir…..I will schedule you for Monday at the firm in Century City at 10am, with all the partners present, myself included…..yes, sir, I understand, sir…..goodbye, Mr. Patel.” Johansen sighed deeply and put the phone in his slacks. I produced the baggy.      

 

“Look what I found.” Johansen reached out for it, squinting at it like it was a bug.       `

 

“Is that his stuff?”      

 

“Well, that’s what we’re hoping. Can we fire-up this flash drive?”      

 

“Done. Let’s go.” Inside the house, we entered a small den with light-colored, tan carpeting. From upstairs, footsteps could be heard, so Julie was stirring. Johansen had dark circles under his eyes from not sleeping, and I’m sure all of us did.      

 

“You can do this?” Johansen asked, and looked at me, as I opened the flash and documents opened on the monitor.      

 

“I won’t tell if you won’t,” I replied, not turning towards him. “We’ll give it to them eventually, just not right now,” I declared. Johansen flat-out stared at me now, speechless. Microsoft Corporation internal memos then opened before us. They seemed to be confidential updates about ongoing projects for software. “Software Design Engineer” was a fairly frequently employed term. There were also guidelines of some sort as to the proper manner of writing code. There was in addition a job announcement for the position of “Software Design Lead Engineer,” for the NYC office. Most of it was incomprehensible teckie jargon. Then, finally, at the bottom of the drop-down menu, we saw the word ‘resume,’ and opened that file. Voila!    

 

William Jones

666 Fidelity Boulevard Apt. 101

New York, New York 10001

(212) 555-8958

kiddropper@blastmail.com

 

Jones’ job history included, guess what? — ‘Software Design Engineer’ at MS (not Lead, though, evidently) from March ‘02 to November ‘08. He was also a clerk at a computer store before that, both jobs in NYC. Apparently he was unemployed at present. It had been over a year since the MS job had ended. Kidnapping possibly took up all his time now. Hobbies: Chess (Grandmaster, U.S. Top 25), blogging, Internet surfing, IT. PC Platforms: Everything, MS Certified Master. Computer Languages: Everything, baby, you name it.    

 

“At least we know who he is now.” I said.    

 

“You’re sure this is the guy?” Johansen asked, skeptically.    

 

“Reasonably sure, yes. McNulty will send this stuff to the FBI Info Service in West Virginia, if need be, to confirm. But I think we’re gonna track him. Let’s print all this stuff out. I’ll call Mick and tell him what we got.” I used Johansen’s landline in the den and got Mick. He jumped all over me.  

 

“You were caught in the ‘net? Do you know we had the perp in custody? You didn’t say anything, Joe? You couldn’t tell the P.D. that was the guy? You just let him get away?”  

 

“What are you saying, Mick?! I didn’t see the guy, and I had no reason to notice him, and I barely know what he looks like, anyway! Are you crazy, man?! I let him get away?! What?!”  

 

“Did you or did you not see an old, blue Volvo wagon off to the side with the Pedro County Sheriff?”  

 

“…..uh…..yeah…..I guess I did…..I saw somebody off to the side…..that car had a ‘FreeTibet’ bumper sticker on it, I think…..”  

 

“That’s right! It did, Einstein! That was the guy, damn it, Joe! That was him! He got away!”  

 

“…..oh, crap!…..(here we go)…..how do you know it was him?”  

 

“Because of that dog. It had coat fibers in its stomach from what was probably a Burlington Coat Factory trenchcoat. You said the dog was chewing away on this guy. There was also some skin of his in the dog’s teeth. William Jones is his name. You described him as wearing that type of long, dark coat. You missed it, Joe! It was right in front of you!”  

 

“…..God…..all right, Mick, I blew it, I’m sorry. I was so preoccupied with thinking about it I didn’t see what was right there in front of me. But your guys in the Gorge P.D. didn’t see it either. And where was Chelsea?”  

 

“He must have had her in a motel or something. And I know, I know, my guys missed it, too; they’re not used to working with the Rancho Verde P.D. or with the Sheriff. Don’t remind me.”  

 

“Why did your guys pull him over in the first place?” I asked.  

 

“His license plate tags: three months out-of-date.” I didn’t say anything at first. (Plenty of blame to go around, ain’t there? )

 

“Well, we’ve got some stuff for you here.” I said. “I was up on that hill just now and I found a coat button and a flash drive in the dirt with his resume on it.” A shocked silence came over the line, more ominous than a screaming voice.  

 

“You looked at his flash drive? You tampered with evidence? You opened his files, Joe?”  

 

“C’mon Mick, lighten up…..what was I supposed to do? Not look? How was I to know who it belonged to? It could’ve been anybody’s. Anyway, it wasn’t evidence yet,” I said weakly. “I’ll leave it here with Mr. Johansen for you. I might have been the only one who would’ve found it.” (Whoops! He didn’t like that one!) I eventually cooled him off. It was mostly an act on his part, anyway. I know him well enough by now. Besides, he knew I could get out of it. I hung up. Johansen then goes to me,  

 

“I thought you weren’t gonna tell.”  

 

“I was being sarcastic. McNulty’s nobody to mess with…..now, I wonder if the dog swallowed my Colt, too.”  

 

“What?”  

 

“Nothing.” Just out of curiosity, we quickly looked up the Burlington website.  

 

“How could they possibly know the exact brand of the coat?” Johansen queried me earnestly.  

 

“Ya got me, David.” He frowned at me. We searched the NYC area to see if there was a store there: they only had 28 stores in NYC. Okay…..so, he had come all the way from NYC? By car? With CA plates? How did he pull that one off?Or did he steal that, too? Ralphie gets around, does he not? Julie came in just then, as we were reading the monitor. A look of apprehension and a look of resignation were mingled somehow on her face. She was getting better at dealing with this situation.  

 

“I got a message from Chelsea,” she said calmly, holding out a Blackberry stoically. She evinced a sense of dread nevertheless, it seemed, about what the menfolk would be prompted to do upon hearing the news. Johansen reached out for it carefully and slowly, as if Julie might sarcastically and bitterly pull it back out of reach suddenly. She didn’t, of course. Johansen read the text:  

 

“I’m in Las Vegas. I ran out of units! Help me! Ha!”

   
 

Johansen showed it to me. “Mrs. Johansen, did Spark bark at any time between after David left and before David and I arrived?”

 
 

“No…..I don’t think so…..Chelsea was just gone…..I still can’t believe she’s not here.” Sadly and wearily, she leaned against her husband, who gently embraced her.

 
 

“Why do you ask that?” she asked.

 
 

“Well…..just checking…..but I wonder how she could manage to send a text message.”

 
 

“Chelsea is very resourceful, she could find a way, or that horrible man is making her do things like this,” Julie said, gesturing towards the text.

 
 

“Did Chelsea like blogging?” I asked. She looked at her husband anxiously.

 
 

“You mean that computer hobby? That Internet hobby?”

 
 

“Yes,” I replied, and so did she in response to my question. Tom was right – it was computers, it was how they got together. It was decided we would drive to Las Vegas, taking both cars in a caravan. Jones probably didn’t know my Corvette yet, so we needed that car, and if one of the cars broke down, we had the other. (I guess we’d leave the broken-down one by the side of the road?) I tried to persuade Johansen not to go, but he wouldn’t budge, he insisted on going. Well, I suppose old Mr. Patel of the late, unfortunate investments will just have to make do with just the senior partners. We decided to meet in an hour.

 
 

*******************************

 
 

In the meantime, I went to the high school, Portuguese Hills Peninsula High School, to talk to campus security about Jones. There was a guy on duty, walking around slowly. The high school had suffered vandalism in the past to the vending machines and such on holidays, so they had someone there even on Christmas. I got the security guard to talk to me in his little office, more of a maintanance closet for buckets and stuff than anything else. He was about 25, a little portly, and slovenly dressed. He wore dark blue Dickies work pants and a waist-length black jacket over black shoes and white socks. He also sported a black-thread New York Yankees baseball cap in homie-style. This kid was from Gorge, or I’m a monkey’s uncle with three eyes, I’m telling you right now. Paul Blart, Mall Cop, he was not. He sat back in a creaking, ergonomic chair, lit a cigarette, and put his hands in the pockets of the jacket. He began.

 
 

“Yeah, he would talk to that girl. That Jones guy. She seemed okay with it. I thought he was a punk asshole, though. He was just sniffing her out. I didn’t like him around on campus. I gotta do my thing. No stay. I made that punk-ass bitch leave…..I guess he played some chess sometimes with the PLC, too. I guess he was pretty good at it.”

 
 

“Oh, so he played some chess with the high school kids?…..what’s the PLC?”

 
 

“Uh…..I guess it means the ‘Portuguese Logicans Club’ or something.”

 
 

“You mean ‘Logicians Club?’”

 
 

“Yeah, home, that sounds right.”

 
 

“Did Chelsea hate him?”

 
 

“No, I wouldn’t say that. Not at all. She seemed to kinda look up to him. I don’t know why, though,” he chuckled. “But he hated those smart chess kids, though.”

 
 

“Why? Did they beat him at chess?”

 
 

“No, I think he beat them. All of them, easy. He would play a bunch of them all at one time and beat every single one of ‘em. They called him some name he didn’t like to get back at him — they found out something about him somehow.”

 
 

“What was the name?”

 
 

“I can’t remember. It wasn’t worth remembering.”

 
 

“That’s okay. Let me know if you remember, though. Now, the kids knew his name was Jones. You know how they found that out?”

 
 

“Nah, I don’t know nothin’ ’bout that computer shit.”

 
 

“That’s all right. But did you ever go to the authorites about him? Did you ever tell the princi—”

 
 

“Kid Dropper! That was the name – I remember it now. You said tell you if I remember. I do remember it now – those crazy smart kids called that fucknut Jones: ‘Kid Dropper.’ Now I remember.” He looked at me with a look of triumph, and as I looked back at him in dismay, a feeling the exact opposite of triumph came over me. I thanked the guard for his time and info. He said I could buy him dinner. He meant it, so I gave him a sawbuck. Don’t give me any crap about it. I hurried out to the car in the big, deserted, asphalt parking lot. I sat in the silence of the car, shivering, trying to warm up. Nice way to spend Christmas. I paused, took a deep breath, then started the engine. I had no choice but to drive to Las Vegas with Johansen, and track down this God-knows-what human fubar named: ‘William Jones.’

 

…..to be continued…..

 

Tony Downing