Perpetual Motion (2 page)

Mumbling a plea for forgiveness into the
hurricane that whirled above his head, he waited for absolution or
destruction; he no longer cared which. But neither came. No one was
listening, or so he thought.

A far-away ringing broke up a fever dream
involving an over-zealous internal affairs agent. Cynical looked
around the room in a state of total confusion as the ringing grew
louder and more insistent, like Quasimodo swinging on the bell
rope.

Using what deductive reasoning he had left
with his three remaining brain cells, he honed his search to his
cell phone. Rolling over to the other side of the bed, he looked at
the LA area code on the caller ID and answered it with a mournful,
“Yeah?”

“Cynical?” The question came from a voice he
recognized, but couldn’t quite place off the top of his splitting
head.

“Yeah,” he repeated.

“Paul Abrams,” the voice reported. “Where are
you? I can barely hear you.”

Abrams was a high priced LA attorney who held
court on the top floor of a Century City smog scraper. They had run
into each other when Cynical was a real detective with the LAPD. He
had busted one of Abram’s clients and, even though they had been on
opposite ends of the case, the lawyer had admired the detective’s
tenacity.

When Cynical had gone out on his own, the
attorney had thrown the new PI a few bones; digging up dirt on an
adversary, doing light surveillance work, even arranging security
detail for a visiting client. Abrams was well-connected and, most
importantly, always paid on time. That made him aces in Cynical’s
checkbook.

“I’m on vacation,” the PI said. “What can I
do for you?”

“A client of mine needs to find someone
quickly and quietly,” Abrams said, speaking slowly and loudly into
the phone.

“I’m not cutting my vacation short for a bail
jumper. This is paradise,” Cynical said, squinting through his
blinds at scattered trash and a couple of beaten down palm
trees.

“This isn’t a bail jumper,” the attorney
insisted. “This was a business deal that seems to have gotten off
track. My client wants to find his missing partner.”

“Missing partner?” Cynical repeated. “So, did
this guy take off with the company piggy bank?”

“More like intellectual property. I don’t
really know the details,” Abrams added. “What I do know is he’ll
pay fifty thousand dollars to find this guy.”

Cynical’s eyebrows rose. Letting the
curtain’s thin metallic slat pop back into place, he stepped away
from the window.

“Are you interested or not?”

His big vacation had been a disaster,
literally and figuratively, and it was time to cut his losses.
Beefore starting to pack, he wanted to make sure he didn’t leave
any money on the table.

“What’s this ‘intellectual property’ worth?”
Cynical asked. “I only ask because if I go out of state, I usually
get twenty percent.”

“As you said, this is not bail jumper. Fifty
thousand is the rate, and it’s generous,” Abrams said firmly.
“Besides, the person you’re after isn’t dangerous. Just smart.”

“The smart ones are the most dangerous,”
Cynical said, all kidding aside. Anybody could be taken down; size
didn’t matter, much. Getting your hands on them was the tricky
part. Since Abram wasn’t taking his bait, he tried, “I want my
expenses covered whether I find him or not. Like you said, since
this isn’t a bail skipper, those rules don’t apply.”

There was a slight pause on the other end of
the line.

“Fine,” Abrams relented. “You can send your
expenses directly to me.”

Whether he found the guy or not, at least
Cynical was going to get his return trip paid for. “What can you
tell me about the person I’m looking for?”

“Not much,” Abrams admitted. “Do you have a
computer with you?”

Yeah,” Cynical said, looking around his
room.

“I’m forwarding a file on him now,” Abrams
said. “It also has my client’s contact information. If you find
him, call the client directly. He’ll come to you.”

“Yeah, okay,” Cynical said. “Who am I working
for?”

There was a momentary pause before Abrams
said, “His name is Mancuso, but listen, he’s very private, so, if
anyone asks, keep his name out of this. This one is important to
me, so I’m counting on you. I told him you were the best.”

“Now you’re making me blush,” Cynical said
dryly.

“Just find this guy.”

“I’ll do my best,” Cynical said.

“You always do,” Abrams said, before breaking
the line.

Cynical tossed the phone down. Instinctively,
he reached out to drain the watery remains of his Widow Maker; then
thought better of it. He was on a case now.

In the time it took his laptop computer to
warm up, Cynical had managed to pack up his few clothes and coax a
cup out of the room’s mini coffee maker. Taking his first sip, he
sifted through a week of worthless spam.

The last email he received was from Abrams, a
forward from his client, Mancuso. If this guy was important to
Abrams, he was probably a big deal. Even his email looked
impressive. Hailing from the City of London, all it lacked was a
digital watermark and a 3-D embossed suit of arms.

Cynical opened the attachment and stared at a
driver’s license photo of the man he was supposed to locate.
Michael Avery Dexter didn’t match his expectations of a slick white
collar conman. Instead, the baby faced boy was pale and studious
looking.

Twenty-eight years old, six foot one inches
tall, black hair, and big inquisitive blue eyes that sparkled under
glasses. He needed those corrective lenses to drive a Chevy Nova
circa 1970 that was registered to him…Cool car for such a nerdy
kid…His address was listed in an industrial area near downtown
LA.

The next attachment held photocopies of
receipts for a couple of wire orders that added up to 450 thousand
dollars. The monies had originated at a brokerage house in London
and been transferred to an entity doing business as “O-Motors.” The
business was the same address as Michael’s residence.

Cynical paused, drawing some preliminary
conclusions from the electronic paper trail. If he had to guess,
Mancuso had invested in Michael’s business, O-Motors, and probably
didn’t have much to show for it. Now Michael was missing, along
with his money; hence the frantic attempt to track him down.

A PDF dossier of Michael Dexter was the third
and final attachment. Scattered with redacted passages, it was the
type of report he’d run into the few times he’d come across certain
military personal files and secretive corporate documents. The
blacked out portions seemed to be hiding the specifics of the work
he had been doing; however, some impressive academic institutions
and accomplishments still came through.

Scanning down the page, he narrowed in on the
nine digits at the bottom of the page. Armed with Michael Dexter’s
social security number, he ran a quick credit check. Within
minutes, a report popped up in his in-box. While a somewhat
lackluster credit score wasn’t exactly newsworthy, it did give him
Michael’s credit card company.

Grabbing his phone, he called up the company
and punched his way through the phone tree. Early in his private
detective career, he’d actually hesitated to use such techniques on
ethical grounds. That notion seemed quant now.

He wasn’t sure which one was harder; stealing
a person’s identity or getting a live person to answer the phone.
After holding in easy-listening limbo, a far-away, heavily accented
man named “Kris” answered.

“May I have your credit card number
please?”

“Well that’s the problem,” Cynical said,
putting a crease of concern in his voice. “I can’t find my wallet
and I’m afraid someone may have my credit card.”

“What is your name sir?” Kris asked.

“Michael Avery Dexter.”

“Yes, Mr. Dexter, can you please give me your
social security number?”

Cynical read the magic numbers from his
computer screen.

“And your home address please?”

Again, Cynical read the information Mancuso
had provided.

“Thank you Mr. Dexter. Would you like for me
to cancel your card and send out a new one?”

“Well, can you tell me if anyone has used my
card in the last day or so?”

“Let’s see,” Kris said, scanning his own
screen. “It looks like the last purchase was at the Bellagio Hotel
in Las Vegas. That was two days ago.”

“Really?” Cynical said, pondering the Vegas
angle.

“Did you not make that purchase sir?”

“Yeah, I mean, I’m not sure. I was a little
intoxicated that night. I do remember swimming through fountains
with showgirls.”

Kris wasn’t sure what to make of American
humor.

“I’m just kidding,” Cynical said, trying to
sound reassuring. “Yeah, that was me.”

“Actually, that wasn’t a purchase,” Kris said
after he’d had a chance to take a closer look at the transaction.
“That was just a hold on your card.”

Hotels get credit card imprints up front.
While they don’t charge them, they do get approval for the amount
they think the customer will end up spending; just to make sure
they’re good for it.

“Okay, yeah, right,” Cynical said, as if it
was all coming back to him. “But that was the last time the card
was used?”

“Yes,” Kris said slowly, perhaps growing
suspicious. “Would you like to freeze the account until you have
located the card, sir?”

“No, that’s okay,” he said, just in case
Michael was dumb enough to make another purchase. “I’m sure it will
show up.”

Hanging up, he stared at the photograph of
Michael Dexter, placing that face in the City of Sin. Perhaps there
was a little mischievousness mixed in with those shining eyes.
Yeah, maybe the kid wasn’t so innocent after all. And maybe he
wasn’t all that clever. In less than thirty minutes, he’d already
discovered where the kid was hiding.

Cynical was headed to Vegas, although
actually getting there without tickets in the wake of a hurricane
presented its own set of challenges. As he waited through layovers
in San Juan, Miami, and Atlanta, he had plenty of time to review
what he knew, even if that wasn’t much. And what little he did know
only begged more questions.

The dossier Mancuso had provided on Michael
Dexter had been so scrubbed and sanitized it only made the former
LAPD detective more curious. What was the big secret? What had
Michael been working on? Had Mancuso invested in something shady or
illegal? Or was he just embarrassed to have been swindled?

If Mancuso was such an important client to
Abrams, he was probably a pretty savvy businessman. If that were
true, it would stand to reason that Michael had to be capable of
running a sophisticated scam. If that was the case, why was a slick
conman on the run handing his credit card over to a hotel clerk?
Even a convenience store stick-up-man knew to use cash or a stolen
credit card to make his get-away.

Vegas made sense though; it was the perfect
place to wash out a paper trail. By converting cash into chips,
then back to cash, Michael could establish a fresh record for the
money. Getting the money back into a bank was another trick, but
there were plenty of reputable institutions that would take cash
without asking too many questions - for a sizeable percentage fee,
of course.

While he waited at Hartsfield, he made a call
to the Bellagio and reserved the cheapest room they had. Since he
already had them on the phone, he inquired about “Mr. Dexter,” and
wasn’t terribly surprised to learn they didn’t have anyone staying
under that name. He had been lucky once, and once was usually all
you got in Vegas.

Michael might be staying under an assumed
name or have moved to another hotel. For that matter, he could be
in Canada or Mexico by now. Of course, he might not even have been
the one who had used the credit card in the first place. If he was
a real hustler, he could have paid someone to take the card to
Vegas just to throw a pursuer off the trail.

If it was just a ruse, he’d fallen for it, or
so he thought, as he looked out the plane window. The Vegas strip
reminded him of a fist full of polished gems scattered against
velvet. While it glistened with an undeniable beauty, the city
itself was an elaborately designed game of misdirection - dazzle
with one hand while the other steals your wallet.

The city reminded him of his ex, Ilene. At
her insistence, it was where they’d gone to get married. They’d
just been kids and were hopelessly in love or lust or some
combination. That fairy tale hadn’t exactly worked out. In fact,
just like Vegas could do, she had taken him for almost everything
he’d saved up to that point in his life.

Always one to live on the edge, Cynical
unbuckled his seat belt before the plane had come to a complete
stop. As soon as they were at the terminal, he grabbed his laptop
out of the overhead bin and began maneuvering to the front.

It was a lost cause to hurry because the
baggage claim set him back an additional thirty minutes. The last
to crawl out from behind the plastic curtain, his black leather bag
dawdled along sheepishly, as if it had stopped to have a beer with
the handlers.

By the time he rented a car, it was 7:00 pm
Pacific, but felt more like 2:00 am. The hangover and layovers had
caught up with him as he drove down the strip to the Bellagio. He
left the car and a five dollar bill with a very unimpressed valet.
A chirpy young girl at the front desk greeted him with a smile that
was as plastic as her nameplate.

“Hello sir and welcome to the Bellagio!”
Missy said, exuding pep.

“Yeah, I have a reservation under Jones.”