John noticed his nametag read Morris.
“I’m looking for a detective Romax. He was the reporting detective on my client’s case.” John expanded with a brief description of the events at the Pacific Rim.
“You have identification?” the sergeant asked.
John passed him a business card. The sergeant read it then studied him carefully.
“So, Mr. Black, what kind of security work do you do?”
“Whatever is needed.”
John’s mother used to say he had an honest face, but somewhere along the way, he had grown out of it.
Morris passed the card back and shook his head. “Sorry buddy, we don’t have a detective Romax here. If you can wait a while, I can get you in to see the Captain. He could find out if Romax works in another precinct.”
John eyed the few vacant chairs and took in the atmosphere. The foyer had the population and sounds of a Cairo bazaar. It only lacked smoke and the smell of camel dung.
“Sorry, I still have a life. Can’t you find out for me?”
“We can’t give out information on officers without the Captain’s permission.”
“I don’t need information on him. I just need to know if there is a Detective Romax in the San Francisco Police Department.”
Morris frowned, then turned to his computer, and typed in a query. A few seconds later, he shook his head. “Looks like you must have gotten the name wrong. There’s no one in the computer named Romax.”
John nodded. “Okay, thanks anyway, Sergeant Morris.”
“Yeah, just doing my job.”
John made his way back past the dregs of San Francisco’s West Side and back out into the bright morning sunshine. It was nearly noon. He squinted at the sky, slipped on his sunglasses, and pulled the brim of his hat down on his forehead. He was hungry and far from his regular haunts.
There was a sign for a Chinese restaurant just down the street. John decided to leave his car where it was and grab a bite.
The restaurant wasn’t packed, but there were only a few booths left vacant. While waiting for the maitre’ de, John scanned the menu mounted on the wall by the front door. The maitre’ de arrived, and John asked for and was taken to a booth at the back of the room. He sat facing the door. The maitre’ de disappeared, and a waiter arrived a moment later and asked if he wanted the buffet. John “no thanked” him and ordered black tea, fried rice, and General Pao chicken.
The waiter gave a slight bow and vanished into the kitchen.
The tea came in a small porcelain pot with an even smaller handle-less cup. John poured a small amount into the cup and raised it to his lips. It was hot, astringent, and excellent.
As he refilled the cup, the front door opened, and two suits walked in. John felt his gut tighten. They could have been twins. One had her hair pulled back in a tight knot while the other’s hair was cropped close around her ears in a style that had been very popular a decade or so ago. Their suits were dark blue, with vertical pin stripes, cut loose to conceal the bulges at the right sides of their belts.
More people with guns, this was getting a little too interesting.
As they swept the restaurant with their gaze, John knew they were going to be introducing themselves to him very shortly.
The one with the knot spotted him, and her twin turned to him immediately as if there was some mental link between them.
He tried to stay relaxed as they drew near. These suits had the unpleasant aroma of the federal government following them like a cloud. His first instinct was to leave by the back door, but that wouldn’t help Caitlin.
John sipped his tea and waited.
They stopped just out of reach, a nice safe distance when confronting an unknown element.
“Black?” The hair knot asked.
John gazed up into her mirrored sunglasses and smiled. “I prefer African-American.”
“What?” She didn’t return the smile.
“Humor. You know. You ask a question. I make a snappy reply. We all laugh.”
The tightening of her lips did nothing for his attitude.
“Are you Mr. John Black?” she demanded.
“Perhaps. Depends on who’s asking.”
They both reached into inside coat pockets, and he remained calm. Their weapons were on their hips. Like animatronics, they pulled out holograph ID cards. They held them out like tiny shields against his question, and then simultaneously returned them to their sanctuaries.
“Is your name Mr. John Black, alias Mr. John Blalock, of the Blalock Security Services Agency?” the Knot asked in more detail.
He put down his tea and stared into her mirrored glasses. He had taken a good look at their ID before the holograph images disappeared back into their pockets. He’d seen the National Counterintelligence Executive, the NCIX, emblem on holographs before. He’d pegged these two as Feds the instant they started toward him. No matter which way fashion trends drifted, Feds always wore the same neatly tailored suits. Unless, of course, they were undercover, but these two could hardly be in disguise.
“Yeah, that’s me.” John motioned toward the opposite side of the booth. The knot sat down, her partner pulled a chair up and reversed it and sat just far enough to the side to force John to turn his head to look at her.
“What can I do for the Executive?” John asked.
“I’m Agent Bailey, this is Agent Wesson. We’re looking for a client of yours. A Ms. Caitlin Maxwell,” Knot said.
Unknown killers, the Japanese, and now the Feds, San Francisco was starting to feel crowded.
“Any particular reason?” John asked and sipped his tea.
“Nothing too serious. There are some questions we want to ask her,” Bailey said.
“Anything you can expand on?” he
