Once you've infiltrated a hostile enemy environment, the best way to find out if anyone cares about anything is to be as general as possible. Have specifics ready in case the conversation should devolve, but on the strong chance you're dealing with someone who clearly only has eyes for themselves- which, in the civil world (or the world not possessed by top secret documents, locations of missing nuclear warheads, stashes of drugs and guns) is the majority of the population-all you'll need is earnest banality rendered in the blandest colors.
'There was a benefit we attended last year; and Daisy just adored the ice sculpture. We were hoping we might take a look through your file photos, perhaps make a copy or two, so that Daisy can show it to an artist she has in mind for our own event.' I reached over and put my hand on Fiona's, to let James know this was all her fault, that we were just two guys who knew that when our ladies wanted something, well, we did what we could.
'What was the gig?'
The gig. I wondered if I was on camera somewhere. 'A fund-raiser for literacy held at Love/ Blue,' I said.
'Yeah, yeah,' James said. 'What month was that?'
'May,' Fiona said.
'May, and they had an ice sculpture?' James said. He shook his head like he was trying to get water out of his ears. 'Cuh-razy.' James gave us both an incredulous smile.
'Tell you what,' I said. I was pretty much done being Jay Gatz. 'Why don't you go get that magazine, figure out where you keep the photos and maybe bring me and my lady a bottle of water?' A yogurt wouldn't hurt, but I figured I shouldn't push it. Not that James Dimon would feel the push. He wouldn't have known if I broke two of his ribs. He'd just keep on keeping on. I added, 'Please,' however, just to be cordial.
'Hey, pas de probleme, Mr. Gatz.' James stepped outside his office for a moment and came back in with the issue in hand. A moment later, an assistant walked in with water for both of us. I wasn't thirsty, but I liked asking James to get us water. 'Yeah, yeah,' he said. He had the magazine open and was scanning each image, commenting page by page. 'Lighting was all wrong. Can't tell if it was a party or a funeral. Too many saggy-baggies. Gunther, always an F-stop off.'
'James,' I said. 'Sport. That favor. The pictures.'
An hour and forty minutes later, we found what we were looking for. James Dimon was long gone, as even he had quickly tired of our patter as we sifted through the photos-I said sport at least twelve times, Fiona used darling as a verb, noun and adjective, sometimes in the same sentence-and left us in the art morgue after the first five minutes, saying he had to get back to the renovation of the moment. I told him I'd be in touch. Fiona kissed him on both cheeks. He sent in his assistant with coffee and even more bottled water. It was like being on vacation.
After searching through contact sheets and stills filled with photos of young women dancing with old men, old women dancing with young men, young men dancing with old men, and young men dancing with other young men, all in the name of literacy and, it appeared, very shiny clothing, we finally found a photo of Dixon Woods and Cricket O'Connor.
It wasn't from the original photo in the magazine that first drew us into the office of Palm Life, but one that was taken as the guests were first arriving at the event. There were actually four photos taken of the couple, all a millisecond apart. In the first photo, Cricket and Dixon can be seen holding hands and looking straight ahead, but already Dixon's hand is rising up to cover his face, by the last photo he's fully concealed. There isn't a single shot of his entire face, but rather four shots of his face in varying degrees of cover.
'You can piece these together into a head shot?' I asked Fiona.
'Easy,' she said. There was a more serious tone to her voice than I expected.
'Do you know him?'
'No,' she said.
'He's not Special Forces,' I said, though he had his game down, at least in terms of photos.
'No,' she said, 'he's not.'
'I'd guess he wasn't even ROTC.'
Fiona rearranged the photos on the table, put a hand over Cricket, then over Dixon's hair, then again across his midsection.
'Is there a reason he'd want to buy guns?' Fiona asked.
Before I could answer, my cell rang. It was Sam.
'Mikey,' he said, his voice a barely audible whisper, 'I'm in a bit of a… situation.'
'Where are you?'
'Offices of Longstreet Security,' he said. He gave me the address. It was near the airport, just a few miles away.
'Armed?'
'Them?'
'You.'
'Not enough.'
I checked my watch. 'We'll be there in fifteen minutes.'
'At the gate, if they ask, tell them you're with Chazz Finley,' Sam said. 'That's two Zs.'
5
When you're Sam Axe, certain things come easy.
Women.
Free drinks.
Trouble.
Before he called me asking for help, Sam had spent the afternoon doing two things: One: getting Cricket O'Connor out of her house and into a safe temporary location, which, in this case, meant Veronica's place for a few hours, so he could… Two: learn as much as possible about Dixon Woods in hopes it would lead him to the man scamming Cricket.
He figured a trip down to Longstreet's offices would be as good a place as any to search for a man who, according to the government, didn't exist. Well, that's not entirely true: The FBI told Sam that Dixon existed from 1966 through 1984. Then existed in a number of different authorized government capacities. And then, upon discharge, some unauthorized capacities before latching on with Longstreet. But none of these roles had managed to require a valid passport, credit history or permanent address.
'Born in Portland, Oregon. Moved to Fort Lauderdale with his parents during high school. Entered the Army at age eighteen,' one of Sam's sources told him, and then ran down the same information Sam already had. Strictly HR stuff. Sam's source was a guy named Kyle. Sam had never met Kyle in real life, thought that if he ever did meet him that he'd be about five foot one and ninety-seven pounds but would drive a Corvette. Sam had him pegged as a 'nice-car-sorry-about-your-penis' type-a real compensator. That's why he'd always been such a great source for Sam over the years, even before the FBI made Sam my de facto watchdog, because Sam would regale Kyle with stories about hot missions and hot women and other hot lies, and Kyle would get all hopped up over them. He'd ask for minute details, which gave Sam the impression Kyle was using the stories for some other purpose in his after- work life. Whatever. None of it was true, but if the kid liked it, who was Sam to pass judgment? Kyle was a computer jockey who liked to give Sam information in exchange for stories, and Sam was happy to comply. He hadn't even needed to actually tell a true story yet.
'You got a photo of him there, Philly?' Sam always called him Philly, because Kyle once told Sam he was originally from Philadelphia, so Sam figured the kid might like a nickname, and there was no way to make Kyle sound cool.
'His file has been wiped. All I can get you is his first driver's license photo.'
That was a start. Better than anything else, Sam supposed, but not better than whatever Longstreet probably had. Sam tossed out one other thought. 'There any Interpol reports on him?'
Sam could hear Kyle breathing hard on the other end of the line. Freaky kid. Getting off on this stuff probably, but whatever. Doing fine American service. 'No, but there's a police report out of Jupiter, Florida, from two years
