“Tell me about Victor Madrigas,” I said.
My daughter, Jennifer, stopped walking and looked at me. She was on a break from her new after-school job at Copy King, which called itself a document-service shop but looked to me like a poor man’s Kinko’s. We were walking across the strip mall parking lot to a Starbucks on the other side.
“Is that why you came to see me?” she said. “To ask about Victor?”
“That’s one reason. I’ll get to my other reason in a minute. What can you tell me about him?”
“Why are you asking about Victor?” I explained that Victor’s father had asked me to look into his suicide, to see if there was any evidence that it could have been an accident. Jennifer nodded and slowly began walking again. I stepped in beside her. Finally, she said, “Was it an accident?”
“I don’t know. Probably not. I don’t know if we’ll ever know. What do you think?”
We reached the door of the Starbucks and she stopped. “I just can’t picture Victor doing that. He couldn’t….” Her eyes filled with tears and I gently pulled her away from the door, where she was blocking a group of patrons from exiting. I continued to hold her arm in what I hoped was some sort of comforting gesture. Despite the crucible we’d gone through during the summer, when she was abducted, we still didn’t have what you might call a “close” relationship. The fact that we were now able to speak in civil sentences was epic progress in our father-daughter interactions. But a hug just wasn’t a natural response for me here.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “It’s too soon to be asking you questions like that. I didn’t realize that you and Victor were so close.”
Jennifer produced a tissue from her purse and wiped her nose. “We weren’t really. I mean, he was Carrie’s brother, so y’know, we kinda knew each other.” I nodded, recalling that Carrie was one of Jennifer’s core group of school friends. “But he was so nice. He was always protecting things. He found this stray cat once and it took him, like, five hours to catch it. But he did and brought it to the shelter. He even paid for its shots. He’d make the football players stop picking on nerdy guys in the hallway. He even told me and Carrie that if anyone bothered us, he would take care of it.” She wiped her eyes, but the tears were streaming again. I stood quietly, giving her a moment to collect herself. It was hard to watch my daughter in such distress. “Why would he kill himself? Why would he do that?”
“I don’t know, honey. Unfortunately, these things usually don’t make very much sense.” I gave her arm a squeeze. “C’mon. I’ll buy you a double mocha frappalatte thing with extra whipped cream.”
Jennifer attempted a smile and blew her nose. We made our way into the shop and ordered our drinks, the whipped mocha concoction for her, a cup of strong black bean for me.
“So what’s the other thing?” Jennifer asked as we sat at a small table.
“Other thing?”
“Yeah, you said there were two things you wanted to talk to me about.”
“Right … right. Yeah, see, I’ve got some news. Nothing bad. Nothing about the cancer. But it’s big. I’m just not sure how to say it.”
“Okay.”
“Well, it’s just that, I know it’ll seem weird, but …”
My bugged eyes and slack jaw informed her that, yes, indeed, she was going to be a big sister.
“How did you …” I managed to mutter.
“It’s, like, so obvious.” Jennifer blinked innocently before admitting, “Cam told me.”
“Cam—”
“Don’t get mad. We went to lunch the other day and she, like, had to get up twice to puke and three times to pee. So she told me why. She said she was doing you a favor, anyway. She said you’d be all squirmy and uncomfortable trying to tell me.”
“She was right.”
“Yeah.” Jennifer managed a chuckle. “You shoulda seen your face.” She took a long pull on her drink. “So, are you guys gonna get married again or what?”
“Probably the what. It’s complicated.”
“Well, I think it’s totally awesome. I can’t wait. I can help babysit and pick out clothes and toys and everything. I think I can even change a diaper.” She made an icky face at the thought. “Maybe.”
I breathed a very large and literal sigh of relief. Jennifer and I were just forging a new and improved relationship, so the last thing I needed was to introduce a new baby and the elements of jealousy and resentment into the mix. I wasn’t exactly the world’s greatest father to Jennifer growing up, and she might not be too thrilled with the prospect of my getting a parental “do-over.” But, so far, she seemed genuinely excited. That was a good start.
“And you know what’s the best part?” Jennifer asked, leaning conspiratorially across the table. “When she hears, Mom is gonna totally freak.”
Jennifer was right. Becky freaked.
When I spoke to her from my apartment the next day, she had six hundred and twelve reasons why my being a father again was a terrible idea. I had cancer. Cam and I were divorced. I was a crappy father the first time around. I was too old for a baby. I was irresponsible. My career was in tatters. I was colossally selfish (she actually used the word colossally). They were all valid reasons. They were certainly all true. But I trumped them all with the simple statement that Cam was having the baby anyway and I was going to be a father again in spite of all the reasons amassed against me. Then I smiled and calmly pressed the End button on my phone.
While there is generally nothing good about divorce and I wouldn’t recommend it to anyone, I will admit that one positive consequence is the fact that I was no longer forced to listen to Becky’s crap. When I was diagnosed with cancer, Becky turned off the sourpuss-ex-wife routine and became nothing but supportive and sad. Now that it looked like I might actually survive, at least for a while, the sourpuss was back. Even with her new husband to focus on, judging me was still her favorite hobby. But divorce and a terminal illness had provided me with Teflon shorts. Becky could judge all she wanted. I couldn’t care less.
As soon as I hung up, the phone rang again. I pressed Answer.
“Look, Becky,” I said. “It’s none of your business.”
“Who the hell is Becky?” answered the raspy voice on the other end.
With my finely tuned investigative skills, I realized that in fact it was not Becky calling back to continue our argument.
“Sally?” I asked.
“So who’s Becky and what’s none of her business?”
“My ex-wife. And pretty much everything.”
“Believe me, after four husbands, I understand.”
“What have you got, Sal? Good news for me?”
“I got news. You decide if it’s good. The kid, Jonathan, up and quit without notice almost three weeks ago. If you want details, go see his ex-supervisor. Name’s Ed O’Malley. Works in IT. You know where that is?”
“Yeah. Can I mention your name or will O’Malley be happy to see me?”
“No need to mention me. O’Malley may not be happy to see you, but he’ll help if he can. Just tell him your name.”
“Thanks, Sal. I owe you one.”
“I’ll keep that in mind the next time I get divorced.”
It was late morning when I walked into Ed O’Malley’s downtown office. O’Malley was about my height and carrying a few pounds too many. He was in his mid- to late thirties but was clearly trying to appear at least ten years younger. He had a little brown soul patch on his chin and was dressed in a shiny purple shirt with a monochrome tie. The look might have suited an NBA point guard, but it didn’t even come close to working for him. O’Malley’s few extra pounds stretched the stomach buttons on his shirt more than style dictated. From a fashion standpoint, his reach far exceeded his grasp.
“Ed O’Malley?” I said from the doorway.
He didn’t look up from his computer screen. He breathed heavily through his nose. His fingers flew across the keyboard.
“I prefer Edward,” he said.
“Can I talk to you for a minute?”
“I am quite busy. It seems the city of Orlando is the target of a very nasty worm. Very nasty indeed. I am protecting our servers as we speak.”
“That’s good. But I’ll only take a minute.” I seated myself in one of the office guest chairs.
O’Malley was still focused on his computer screen, not looking at me as he spoke. “Please make an appointment and return at a future date. I will be pleased to converse with you at that time.”
“Normally, that would be fine. But I’m under a bit of a deadline. I don’t have time to make an appointment.”
“Will I have to call security to escort you from my office?” He continued to stare at his computer, typing furiously.
“I hope not. Look, my name’s Mike Garrity and I just have a couple of questions—”
At O’Malley’s head finally popped up and his dark, hooded eyes zeroed in on me. He stopped typing.
“Mike Garrity, did you say?” He pursed his lips and absently scratched the soul patch.
“Yeah.”
“Tell me, Mike Garrity … tell me why the mayor himself, a man I haven’t spoken to more than twice in my life, called me today and told me to assist anyone named Mike Garrity who might ask for help.”
“Gosh, Edward, I’m not sure. Did that really happen?” Good old Sally.
“Yes, indeed it did, Mike Garrity. Indeed it did. You are the Mike Garrity he referred to, are you not?”
“I am indeed.”
“Well then, let’s get this over with as quickly as possible,” O’Malley said and clasped his hands over his shiny tie. “What are your queries?”
“Do you know where I can find Jonathan Dennis?”
“I do not.”
“When did you last speak with him?”
O’Malley pointed at my chair. “When he walked into this office and sat in that very seat to unceremoniously resign without notice. The height of unprofessionalism.”
“When was this?”
O’Malley turned back to his computer and clicked something, typed something, then clicked something else. “Nineteen days ago, at two forty-five in the afternoon.”
“Do you have a photo of him? Maybe from an ID card?”
O’Malley pushed his brown caterpillar eyebrows together. “I don’t know.”
“Think you could print one for me?”
O’Malley wasn’t sure about this. I gave him my most disarming smile, which felt like a pained grimace to me.
“I think not,” he said. “I don’t have access. You would have to get that from Security. Or Human Resources.” He scratched his soul patch again. “Is there anything else?”
“Almost done. Where did you send Jonathan’s last check?”
“To the address on file.”
“Which is…?”
O’Malley paused. “That is confidential personnel information. I cannot divulge it.”
I pulled out a piece of paper. “Okay. Just tell me if it’s different from what I have.” I read Jonathan’s address and phone number. O’Malley consulted the computer again.
“We have the same data.”
“What about a cell phone? I’m sure you guys have each other’s cell numbers. Y’know, in case of a worm attack on a Saturday or something.”
“I do.”
“May I have it, please?” Another charming grimace. “I’ll be sure to tell the mayor how cooperative you’ve been.”
“I suppose … It’s not in the personnel records. But I have called it three times in the past two weeks and he never answers and never returns my calls.” O’Malley read me the cell number. “Why do you want this information?”
“A relative is looking for Jonathan. He just got an inheritance.”
“How wonderful for him,” O’Malley said flatly. He made a show of looking at his digital watch.
“One last question—”
“Is that a promise?”
I ignored the sarcasm. “Did Jonathan have any close friends that you knew of? Either here at work or maybe outside work that he talked about?”
O’Malley leaned back in his desk chair, the springs creaking loudly. He looked up at the acoustic tiles in the ceiling and pursed his lips in an affectation of thought.
“Friends … Only one that I can think of,” he said. “He sometimes ate lunch with a gentleman from the press office. Steven. Steven Schumacher, I believe.” O’Malley tilted forward again in his chair and gave me the dead eyes. A not-so-subtle signal that he was done.
“Is Steven Schumacher here now?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea. His office is two floors up.”
“Yeah. Okay. Well, thanks, Ed. Sorry—Edward. I appreciate the help.” I stood. “I’ll be sure to tell the mayor.”
O’Malley was already turning back to the computer screen. “Good-bye, Mike Garrity.”
“Hope you catch that worm.”
But Edward O’Malley said no more. His only reply was the rapid clicking of computer keys.
I wandered upstairs and poked my head into the public-affairs office. I asked a cute brunette behind the lobby desk where Steven Schumacher’s office was.
“Do you have an appointment?” she chirped.
“Nah. I was just in the neighborhood and thought I’d stop by.”
“So he’s not expecting you?”
“Not exactly. I’ll only be a minute.”
“Why don’t I call him.”
I had to restrain all my old cop impulses, which were urging me to barge past the brunette and start poking my head into offices. But I was a private citizen now. I had to play by different rules.
“That would be great,” I said and offered her the charming grimace.
“Your name and affiliation?”
“Affiliation?”
“Who are you with? Media? Advocacy group? Private industry?”
“Mike Garrity. Private industry.”
She punched a number on the phone, mumbled something, and hung up. She smiled and told me that Mr. Schumacher would be right with me. I plopped myself into a chair and thumbed through an old issue of Florida Trend magazine.
“Mr. Garrity?”
I looked up and saw a good-looking young guy, sandy-blond hair, clean-cut, wearing a blue shirt and yellow tie. Steven Schumacher extended a hand. I stood and shook it.
“So,” Schumacher said. “How can I help you?”
“Do you mind if we talk in private?”
“Of course. My cubicle isn’t exactly private, but the conference room is open.”
He walked me to a small but neat conference room and we took seats across from each other. I folded my hands and looked at him. He smiled and raised his eyebrows in interest.
“I’m looking for Jonathan Dennis,” I said.
Schumacher’s face didn’t change. The smile and expectant eyebrows remained frozen for a second. A beat too long to be natural. I could tell that he was trying to be nonchalant; but by trying, he wasn’t nonchalant at all.
After the prolonged moment, the eyebrows came down. “Who?” he asked.
“Your friend. Jonathan Dennis. I need to find him.”
“Who said we were friends?”
I made a bemused face. “Are you kidding? You guys have lunch all the time. Are you saying that you aren’t friends?”
“No.” Schumacher swallowed. “I was just curious.”
“So, can you tell me where to find him?”
“And who are you again?”
“Mike Garrity.” I shot him the charming grimace. “Private industry.”
Schumacher nodded, but he wasn’t really responding to what I had said. The wheels in his head were spinning. His eyes were looking at me but his mind was elsewhere. “I see … And this doesn’t have anything to do with the mayor’s office?”
“No. So, may I please have Jonathan Dennis’s phone number and address?”
“No. I mean, I don’t have it.”
“You don’t know where he lives?”
“No. He moved after he quit.” Schumacher scratched his chin. If I were a poker player, I’d called that a “tell.”
“What about his phone number?” I asked.
“It’s not in service.”
“How about a cell phone?”
“I don’t think I even have it.”
“You don’t think? You mean you might have it?”
“No. I don’t have it. We mostly talked on the office line during work. We actually IMed more than we talked.” I knew from my daughter that IM stood for “instant message.”
“When was the last time you saw him?” I asked.
“I don’t know. The week he quit.”
“And you haven’t spoken to him since?”
“No.”
I sighed. “Look, Steven. I don’t know why you’re lying, but I’m not here for any bad reason. I was just asked to find Jonathan by a family member who wants to talk to him. That’s it. I swear.”
“If it’s a family member, why doesn’t he have his number already?”
“They do. They did. But, as you said, Jonathan moved and his phone was disconnected. They can’t find him.” Schumacher didn’t say anything. I could tell that he was thinking again. The guy had no hope ever to move up the ranks and become the mayor’s press secretary. He couldn’t lie for shit. “Where is he, Steven?”
“I don’t know.”
“Steven …”
“I don’t know. Seriously.” Somehow, Schumacher’s “seriously” seemed less sincere than Jimmy’s “seriously.”
“Why did he quit his job?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why did he move so suddenly?”
“I don’t know.”
“What’s two plus two?”
“I’m trying to figure out what you do know. How about two plus two? You know that?” I thought it was pretty funny but Schumacher wasn’t laughing. No accounting for taste. “Okay. Look …” I wrote my name and number on a small piece of notepaper. “Please have Jonathan call me. I’m not here to hassle him about anything. I just want to talk. Okay?”
I slid the paper across the table. Schumacher looked at it as if it were covered with anthrax. Finally, he palmed it and slipped it into his pocket.
“If he calls me,” he said.
“Exactly. It’s important, though, Steven. Be sure to tell him that I don’t have a lot of time.”
“If he calls me,” Schumacher repeated.
“Of course.” We didn’t say much more after that. Schumacher quickly escorted me to the lobby and then disappeared back into the cubicle maze. I had no doubt that before I reached the elevator, he would already be on the phone with Jonathan.