Chapter 2: Eight Months Later

TROUBLE BLEW INTO MY OFFICE with the scent of lilacs on a spring breeze. A tear collected in the corner of my eye.

I sneezed.

Damn allergies.

“Are you Dag Hamar?” she snapped, turning toward me.

“Yes ma’am,” I responded, standing. There were still tears in my eyes. Floral scents really kill me.

“I liked you better with long hair and a beard.” I wiped my eyes and looked at her—above the spike heels, tight skirt and ample bosom. The bubble burst. What she meant was she liked me better 30 years ago.

“You found your way in, I assume you can find your way out,” I growled as I sat back down.

“I want to hire you,” she said. “I need a private investigator.”

I was about to tell her to have her privates investigated elsewhere when Maizie came to the rescue. She slipped up behind my unwanted guest and stuck her cold wet nose in the back of her right knee. The lady gave a short screech, tottered on her high heels and fell over backward into the chair behind her. I couldn’t help it. I laughed.

“What the hell is that?” she asked indignantly, clamping her knees together to block Maizie’s assault on her next target.

“My dog,” I said. “Maizie, here! No personal sniffing.” Maizie came scrabbling around the corner of my desk with all four feet skidding to gain purchase on the hardwood floor. She leaped up into my lap and began licking my ear.

“I can see it’s a dog, but what is it?”

“She’s a mix,” I said. Then I went ahead, “A Pit Bull and Dachsund mix.” I could see the wheels start turning.

“Which was... ?” she started. “Never mind,” she finished, shaking her head. She started again. “I need your help. Not some other detective. It has to be you. Please treat me as you would any client.”

Any client? Not likely. This woman was one of Seattle’s most prominent women. Her picture was in the paper at least once a month shaking hands with the mayor, the governor, or the president of a major corporation. Rumor had it that she had a finger or some other body part in any arts, politics, or business plan in the city. There weren’t many reasons I could think of for her to want me on an investigation, and those I could think of weren’t good.

“Okay, Mrs. Barnett” I said. “Let’s suppose you just came in here to hire me. If the job interests me, won’t interfere with my other work, and if I like the client, I might take it. So spill.”

“Simon is missing,” she plunged in. “I haven’t heard from him since he left Sunday before last. I need you to find him.”

Simon Barnett was the president and majority owner of a privately held conglomerate with revenues in nine or ten figures and a net measured in billions. His office was on the top floor of the Washington Building, but for all the space, I’d heard he employed relatively few people there.

The Simon Barnett that I knew was more than a corporate bigwig—and much less. If I were in his position, I’d probably disappear too. One reason was sitting right in front of me. I stared fixedly at Brenda Barnett. As much as Simon shunned publicity, Brenda lived for newspaper photographers and famous handshakes. While she smiled for the cameras, he quietly bought and sold people in the form of stocks and corporations.

“That’s only ten days,” I said at last. “Surely it can’t be that unusual for your husband to go away for a while. He probably has a mistress.”

“Yes, well...” She paused. “This is different,” she sniffed.

“Did you go to the police?” I asked.

“No. Simon wouldn’t want it.”

“And you think he’d want you to come to me?” Something was fishy here and it wasn’t just the smell of Puget Sound lapping up against the pier where my office was located. “I don’t do missing persons. I’m a computer pathologist.” Computer forensics is actually the field. Most of the time, I try to recover data erased from hard drives. Sometimes the job includes extracting evidence of computer crime for the police. I don’t do missing persons.

“That’s why I’ve brought you this,” she said. She reached into her bag and pulled out a sizable laptop computer. Not the latest model by any means, but a good little computer. I held up both hands to stop her from putting the thing on my desk.

“Hang on,” I said. “Keep that in your lap and not on my desk. I want to know more before it leaves your hands.” She sat back with the laptop on her knees. “Why are you coming to me? I’m not the only one in this business anymore.”

“Simon says,” she answered.

“So we’re playing that game again,” I sighed. Simon Says. The very phrase transported me back to college days with two friends I thought would be with me for the rest of my life. I was older by a couple of years because of my military service, but Simon and Brenda were my constant companions from Freshman Orientation on. Most of the time we agreed on what we were doing, where we were going, and when we were doing things. We were tight. But whenever there was a question, we always yielded to Simon. He was clever about things, knew where things were happening, how to get in, and which direction to take to avoid the campus cops if we were out past curfew. (Yeah, we still had curfews back then.) We started calling it “Simon Says.” If there was a question, we waited for what Simon said, and that’s what we did. Now Brenda was telling me that Simon says he wants me on the case, in spite of the bad blood that had kept us apart for decades.

“Look,” Brenda sighed. “I wouldn’t come to you. Simon left instructions. We have uh ... an open relationship. Hell, he’s probably slept with more women than Wilt Chamberlain. And I’ve ... Never mind. But there’s always been a code. Check in at least once a week. If he doesn’t check in within the week, open the envelope.”

“A week was three days ago,” I said.

“I didn’t want to open it. I didn’t want to know what was in it. I was afraid that it might be a farewell note; that he’d left me. I stared at it all day Monday. When I opened it Tuesday, I couldn’t believe what he said.” A tear gathered in a corner of one of her eyes and she dabbed at it with a tissue. I reminded myself that I was dealing with Brenda Barnett.

“What was in the envelope?” She handed me an envelope that had been torn open along one end. I shook the sheet of notepaper out and unfolded it on my desk. The writing was clear. Simon always printed in block letters. Something about having studied drafting way back when. The note was short and simple:

“If you are opening this, I’ve been gone for at least a week without a word. Take my laptop to Dag Hamar. Dag, Simon says, FIND ME.”

I was going to be plunged into the regretful past whether I wanted or not. “Simon says.” Old habits die hard. I found myself unable to say “no.”