Perpetual Motion (8 page)

Mr. Mancuso took his time to file the
agreement away in the cabinet behind his desk. When he had
sufficiently secured the contract, he turned back to the
x-detective.

“I’m not sure if you’ll believe me, but I
assure you, this is true… ”

The private detective sat back in his chair,
waiting for this businessman to tell him what necessitated a
confidentiality agreement.

Mr. Mancuso pursed his lips, as if trying to
decide how to proceed. Finally, after seeming to answer a question
in his head, he asked, “Have you ever heard of a perpetual motion
machine, Mr. Jones?”

Like a Labrador Retriever, Cynical cocked his
head, wondering if this was another test. “Sure,” he said slowly,
“It’s a machine that produces enough energy to sustain itself. In
theory, it can go on running forever. Only nothing like that really
exists. It’s sci-fi stuff.”

“That’s right,” Mancuso said, seemingly
pleased. “The very idea breaks the second law of thermodynamics.
Well, bends it, at least. The scientific community ridicules the
notion. Of course, scientists laughed at the Wright Brothers too.”
With a slight wave of his hand at their surroundings, he added,
“Yet, here we are.”

“So, what are we talking about?” Cynical
asked. “Some sort of a motor that runs without electricity or
gasoline?”

“Yes,” Mancuso said directly. “Michael was
attempting to build a machine that, once started, needed no
external source to continue running.”

Cynical began to grasp the implications – for
cars, homes, buildings, cities. The list of energy needs and
possibilities unfolded and expanded like a roadmap to the universe.
“Something like that would…”

“Change the world,” Mancuso said, finishing
the sentence for him. “Yes, assuming the material required to
produce it was not cost prohibitive.”

“And Michael actually built something like
that?”

“He produced some impressive test results
with a crude model,” Mancuso confirmed. “After I had his research
verified, I provided him with a bit of seed money.”

“So, Michael didn’t steal any money from
you?”

“Oh no,” Mancuso said dismissively. “Michael
paid himself and a couple of employees a mere stipend. He insisted
on spending everything on research and development.” He paused to
fondly remember his young, ambitious inventor. “A month ago, he
informed me he was conducting his own tests and that I would be
very pleased.”

“Then, a little over a week ago, Michael
called me in a panic,” Mancuso continued. “He said his factory had
been broken into and their prototype had been destroyed. Initially,
I thought he might be trying to cover up for not achieving the
results he’d promised. But he seemed devastated. And then, he just
disappeared. Naturally, I was concerned. That’s when I sought
assistance in looking for him.”

“So, what are you going to do if you find
him?”
“I can offer him protection,” Mr. Mancuso said. “I can also provide
him with a safe place to rebuild his device, if that’s what he
wants to do.”

“It will be harder to find him this time,”
Cynical said as he leaned back, thinking though the challenges.
“He’s smart and he’s learning how to stay under the radar.”

“Yes, but he knows who you are,” Mancuso
countered. “And it sounds like he trusts you.”

“Don’t forget that outfit that jumped us
knows who I am too,” Cynical reminded him. “You don’t have any idea
who they could be?”

“No,” Mancuso said. “Although there are
probably quite a few entities that would not want Michael’s
invention to get out.”

As Cynical nodded, he found himself looking
down at the cashier’s checks on the table. While it was a lot of
money for him, it was a pittance to Mancuso, and nothing compared
to the potential of Michael’s invention. He also calculated that
Mancuso did not want to explain this case to too many people.

“This is generous, but you don’t want to pay
me that way.”

Mancuso raised an eyebrow. “What do you
propose?”

“I’m not a greedy man,” Cynical said. “But,
let’s be realistic here. You stand to make a lot of money with the
whiz kid.” Before Mancuso could say anything, he continued, “And I
am putting my life on the line here.”

Mancuso seemed to grow impatient. “What is
your price, Mr. Jones?

“Let’s make it an all or none proposition,”
Cynical said. “If I find Michael, I get, say, a million dollars. If
I don’t, I don’t get squat.”

A glint sparked in Mancuso’s eyes, and
Cynical knew he was playing a dangerous game with a man who was no
stranger to high stakes gambling.

“One million seems steep,” the man finally
said.

“I don’t know,” Cynical said. “One million
seems pretty cheap for technology that could change the world.”

There was a delay as the man calmly
considered his options. With a slight shrug, he seemed to relent.
“All right. One million, it is – if you find Michael for me. I’ll
have a contract printed and sent over to you.”

Surprised that Mancuso went for the deal so
easily, Cynical wondered if he could have asked for more. The older
man turned to a credenza behind his desk and brought out a silver
mobile phone, which he handed over.

“It’s encrypted,” Mancuso said. “From now on,
if you need to contact me, push the star button three times. It’s a
direct line.”

Cynical took the phone and put it in his coat
pocket.

“One more thing Mr. Jones - and I must insist
on this point. I do not want you to engage these people that tried
to abduct Michael again,” he said sternly. “Do you understand? I
don’t want anyone else to get hurt.”
“Don’t worry,” Cynical said. “I’ll avoid them the best I can.”

“Once you find Michael, contact me and await
further instructions.”

“Got it,” Cynical confirmed.

“Good. I’m sure we’ll talk soon,” Mancuso
said with a head nod, signaling the meeting was over. “And please
keep our confidentiality agreement in mind, Mr. Jones.”

“I’ve already forgotten everything you told
me.”

Cynical reluctantly called “Hollywood” home.
Where he lived was anything but glamorous; it was more of a
throwback to the past with concrete film vaults, storage
facilities, and non-descript editing suites. Nearby was a generic
looking mini-studio that was mostly known for providing sound
stages for TV game shows in the 80s.

From the street level entrance to a converted
costume warehouse in Hollywood, Cynical stepped into an elevator,
pulled the grating shut, and pressed the top button. Rising above
the ground level flat of his shut-in landlord, Mr. Webster, he
continued up, passing the second floor residents: a beautiful young
couple, Devin and Dylan. One was a model, the other an aspiring
actor. He wasn’t sure which was which.

On the third floor, his abruptly ride stopped
and, opening the grated doors, he came face-to-face with an
intimidating metal door. Looking directly into an eye scanner built
into the side wall, he muffled a sigh of irritation and tried not
to blink. A moment later, he was given a green light as the metal
door unlatched itself, popping open half-an-inch.

Once inside, he tapped in his personal code
onto a yellow blinking panel, turning off the internal motion
detectors. When activated, if anything bigger than a mouse moved in
the loft, spotlights and video cameras turned on. Even when
deactivated, wireless sensors in the door and windows were always
ready to sound alarms at the slightest disturbance.

It was a ridiculously elaborate system thanks
to security specialists, Morty and Angelo Neuberg. The father and
son team were very good at what they did, and Cynical had thrown
them quite a bit of lucrative business through the years. As a
gesture of good will (and to test some state-of-the-art equipment),
they had outdone themselves when they had rigged up Cynical’s
humble abode.

“It’s all backed up by a secondary power
supply,” Angelo had told Cynical. “You know, just in case.”

“In case of what?” Cynical had asked. “The
Chinese army invades.”

Since then, Cynical had cursed the Neubergs
on numerous occasions for their overzealous handiwork. However, he
had to admit, he slept well at night, provided the alarms weren’t
accidently tripped.

The loft was about 2000 feet of mostly open,
unfinished space. Hardwood floors cried out to be refinished, walls
begged for a fresh coat of paint and even plaster in places. The
mismatched appliances weren’t speaking to each other. It was a true
bachelor’s pad; minimalistic to the max. It was also a
well-protected liar for a loner to hide away from the rest of the
world.

In the kitchen area, he used his culinary
skills to make himself a peanut butter sandwich. Taking his gourmet
meal over to his large wooden desk, he pushed the red blinking
light on his answering machine, sadly noting that he’d been gone
for over a week and all he had to show for it were a couple of
potential business calls, all of which would have to wait.

He turned on his computer and, while it
booted up, he leaned back in his chair and wondered what he’d
gotten himself into. Mancuso had been convincing, but the whole
story still sounded like folly. Whether the so-called perpetual
motion machine was real or not was immaterial, he reminded himself.
All he had to do was find its inventor.

A smile crept across his craggy face as he
checked his email. There was a message from Mancuso with a PDF
document attached. One click brought up a surprisingly short,
one-page contract specifying one million dollars if he was able to
locate Michael Avery Dexter and provide his whereabouts to Alfred
Mancuso.

His own audacity back at the jet made him
laugh out loud. Maybe being in all those casinos had rubbed off him
and he felt compelled to make a big bet. Still, there had been a
pragmatic reason for his decision. Being self-employed, he would
never have a pension or a 401(k), so, seeing his one shot at some
semblance of financial independence, he’d grasped at it.

Normally, he did a cursory check of any new
employers to make sure they were good for the money. Of course, any
client who could afford his own jumbo jet could most likely afford
his services. More out of curiosity, he ran a search, only to find
very little on his client. One article associated Alfred Mancuso
with an asset management company headquartered in London called the
Pyramid Group.

It was noted that the man sat on the board of
several conglomerates, as well as philanthropic foundations.
Concluding that Mancuso was an upstanding citizen who could pay a
seven figure finder’s fee, he moved on with the more challenging
work of actually earning it.

The trouble was, if Michael was randomly
bouncing around the Western United States, it would be virtually
impossible to find him, unless he made a mistake or got in touch
with someone from his past. That meant he needed to find friends,
family, and that fiancé he mentioned. Mancuso had also mentioned
two employees who had worked for Michael.

Somewhere, someone knew this guy. He just had
to find them and get them to talk to him, fast.

It was routine to run background checks on
any missing person, and Cynical subscribed to a few services that
would fill out Michael Dexter’s past, going back to the moment a
doctor welcomed him into the world with a slap on his butt.
Starting with a more complete credit report than the one he’d run
in St. John’s; he then added a personal and criminal background
check for good measure.

These reports could take a day or two to get
back, so Cynical paid the premium to expedite them. Most of the
time, it was filled with stuff you already knew or wasn’t relevant
to the subject’s current whereabouts. Occasionally, however, if you
looked close enough, there was a loose strand you could pull.

Since becoming a PI, Cynical had learned to
be self-reliant, and yet, there were some places he just couldn’t
go on his own. Having managed to salvage a few friends on the
force, Cynical punched in an old number. With so much on the line,
if there was ever a time to cash in a favor, he figured this was
it.

It took a couple of rings before it was
answered by a firm, female voice. “Trudent.”

“Cynthia, it’s me.”

Cynthia Trudent had come up through the ranks
of the LAPD behind him and was now a detective first class. Being a
smart, attractive black woman in the department hadn’t hurt her.
Still, someone had to recognize her abilities. When Cynical was her
superior, he had pushed more responsibility her way, all the while
grooming her for future promotions. She owed part of her success to
him and they both knew it.

Somewhere along the way, their relationship
had blurred into an ambiguous mixture of mutual admiration and
possible attraction. He genuinely liked her; his instincts told him
she felt the same way. They probably would have acted on their
feelings if he hadn’t been married. And, by the time his marriage
was unraveling, she was engaged. Timing was everything and theirs
seemed destined to be off.

“What do you need?” she asked, knowing he was
calling in another favor.

“I have got to find someone. I was wondering
if you could set up an automated check on speeding tickets, ATM
visits; anything at all.”

“I’m really busy Cynical,” she said, her
voice sounding stressed. “I drew a double murder last night.”

“I’ll make it worth your while,” he said. “I
always do.”

Cynical was a believer in greasing the wheel.
He didn’t like giving out cash to friends; that felt too much like
a bribe. But, anything else was fair game: good seats to concerts
and big games, gift certificates to fancy restaurants, and airline
tickets to someplace tropical. Cynthia was a sucker for spa
treatments and Lakers games.