Chapter Three

I studied the surprisingly thin file until the very last rays of sunlight had stealthily departed my office. I found nature’s energy to be much cheaper, so I relied on it to the final moment. With the imminent darkness leaving no alternative, I reached across the small kitchen table that doubles as my desk to a reading lamp that glows with as much illumination as I can afford. Turning it on, I found my place and purposefully resumed.

The file consisted of a reasonably detailed profile of a suspected art smuggler, Tarren Kiranse. Kiranse was a tall and impressively built man in his late forties. He was recently widowed, but the file image indicated few signs of his age or excessive strain. Exceedingly wealthy, only the most well connected socialites ran in his circle. Kiranse owned Oriental Curios and Designs, specializing in Asian imports.

It appeared there was negligible evidence linking Kiranse to any smuggling excepting the claims of a rival, Q’uan Zhi Art. QZA, based in Beijing, believed him to be the architect behind the loss of several valuable pieces. Nearly two years ago they first employed the services of DIS, but it seemed little headway had been made. I couldn’t help but wonder why QZA was still pursuing the matter, and even more so, why Ridgeback would waste his time and money putting me on the case. This seemed like a lost cause, but as long as there was a possibility, albeit slim, of resolving the issue, I had to try.

Other than a couple of addresses and a photo of Kiranse and his late wife, the profile offered no more assistance. There was one scrap of wrinkled, yellow paper taped to the back of the file listing DIS objectives. Surveillance of Kiranse topped the list, as well as obtaining verification of the QZA claims. Almost as an afterthought, the phrase “Who else knows?” was scrawled beneath.

Essentially, I was beginning with almost no information and three vague objectives. As I sat back in the firm, wooden chair, I considered my first move. After a few minutes of stillness, I realized how rusty my skills had become. I glanced once more at the fragment of yellow paper and figured it was as good of a starting place as any.

In the soft light of the small lamp I crossed the kitchen and retrieved a dusty camera case from the uppermost shelf of the closet. Carefully removing the camera, I retraced my steps, switched off the light, and headed out the door.

Chapter Two

“Mr. Walker…you can come right this way.”

Apparently I had dozed off for a bit in the exceptionally comfortable, black leather chair, having missed out on my opportunity to come to my senses. I scrambled to my feet, trying to shake illusory cobwebs from my mind. Regrettably, this had become a daily routine. I proceeded to walk through an enormous doorway that hardly seemed in harmony with the tight fit of the outer office, and continued down a short, spacious corridor leading to a large door with “James T. Ridgeback” stamped across it in gleaming gold letters.

My guide, with his long strides, had already reached the door, knocked, and cracked it open. A low, authoritative voice granted him entrance as he pushed the door open, simultaneously allowing me to enter and announcing my arrival. Unbeknownst to him, this overly formal display was not only intimidating, but had interrupted my frantic attempt to unearth a legitimate purpose for this visit.

As I crossed the threshold, I was greeted with the customary firm handshake and polite introduction. “James Ridgeback. It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Walker. Please have a seat.”

As I took a seat, Ridgeback, a husky, though hardly overweight man with streaks of black in his thinning grey hair, took his seat behind a dark mahogany desk, cluttered with open manila files, loose papers, and several take-out menus. He possessed the visage of a man deeply immersed in his work, with years of anxiety and late nights taking their toll. “What can I do for you?”

His amiable approach, yet direct nature eased my uncertainties somewhat, and I remembered why I had come to DIS. My divorce left me with precious little to call my own. Apparently, judges rarely favor alcoholics. I now have a studio apartment and a used car, neither of which I can afford. I haven’t had a case for two months, and desperation had set in. I needed a job, and I needed it now.

“I’m looking for a job, Mr. Ridgeback. Just something temporary. To help get me back on my feet.” Ridgeback simply nodded, and as I had not been halted, I hurriedly continued. “I’ve been a private-eye for nearly two years now, but business has been slow. I was wondering if you could utilize an…’independent contractor,’ so to speak?” I was expecting nothing, but discovered I had disregarded all respiratory functions since I had begun to speak. I took a breath and ventured a glance at Ridgeback. He had not made any gestures that could be interpreted as good or bad. Rather, he remained sitting, peering pensively through a side window.

An uneasy silence flowed through the room like an icy veil, freezing any possible words in my throat. I was certain my appeal was too little. Like a cornered animal, I had nothing to lose, and I was most assuredly not going down without a fight. As I worked up the nerve to speak once more, Ridgeback suddenly swiveled his chair toward me.

“I think I can help, Mr. Walker. I have one case in particular that requires the full attention of a detective, and unfortunately, I cannot give it.”

Not daring to interrupt, but understanding his words as an offer, I merely shook my head in assent and let him continue.

“It is a delicate case requiring heavy surveillance and, I believe, involving some form of organized crime. I haven’t learned enough yet to make that judgment.” Ridgeback paused momentarily, and seemed to deliberate on his next words. Before he could compose his thoughts, he shook his head and grabbed a file from his desk. “It’s all in here.”

As he handed me the file, he appeared relieved to have it off his desk. He rose, indicating it was time to leave. I wasn’t able to take more than a cursory glimpse into the file as I pulled myself from the seat and followed Ridgeback to the door.

As he swung the heavy door inward, he abruptly finished the conversation, informing me that my pay was contingent upon completion of the case, I would have to work from home, and he would expect frequent reports of my progress. I was thrilled to be working at last, but astonished by the relative ease with which I was signed on. As I left the office and crossed the street, I couldn’t help but laugh. Ethan Masse couldn’t find work to save his life, but apparently Johnny Walker had no problem.