1:54 p.m.
Staten Island, New York
St. George Neighborhood
Non-descript office building
The elevator doors parted. A second later, Jacob pushed away from the handrail and entered the SCIF—sensitive compartmented information facility. He walked a short distance down a runway between two rows of computer stations, keyboards at desk height, forty-inch LED monitors on a higher platform, a locked door at the far end. Overhead banks of fluorescent bulbs cast plenty of 5000 Kelvin lighting for computer work.
He veered left and strolled into a conference room. A man in his early fifties with salt and pepper hair, and gold, wire-rimmed circular spectacles, Alfred Higginbottom—‘Higs’ to Jacob—sat at the end of a conference table, pecking away at a laptop.
“Good afternoon, Mr. St. Christopher.” The man thumped the touchpad a few times. “I trust your drive in was without incident?”
Glimpsing the elder man’s black, double-breasted pinstripe three-piece suit, pressed white shirt and blue tie, Jacob claimed his unofficial seat, to the man’s right. Don’t you ever wear anything a little less formal, Higs? He gave himself the once-over; black suit, gray, banded-collar shirt—buttoned to the top—black slip-ons. He chuckled inwardly and, I guess I shouldn’t be so quick to judge, set his travel mug of hot chocolate on the table. “Yes, it was…” he lifted a corner of his mouth at the prim and proper man, “without incident.”
“Very good.” Higs lifted a finger, but never missed a keystroke with the other hand. “Please bear with me for one moment.”
Jacob scrolled through the calendar app on his mobile, stopping when he spotted Deanna’s name in the six o’clock slot for the 27th—tomorrow. He thought of the next assignment Higs had for him. I wonder if this means dinner’s off now. He looked up, his mind taking him back to their earlier rendezvous. Or forever for that matter.
“All right,” Higs smacked a key and stood, “please follow me.” He exited the conference room, sat in a small swivel chair and activated three monitors, each one showing a map with red dots. “Last week, a young woman, a barista at a small coffee shop in Watford City, North Dakota, went missing after her shift. Local police have been investigating, but no progress has been made on the case.”
Jacob crossed his arms over his chest, his head pivoting from one LED screen to the next. “Okay, but what’s with all the dots?”
“Full disclosure of that information will be forthcoming.”
Jacob smiled. In other words, ‘I’m getting to that.’
“For the past week, the mother of the young woman has been contacting the authorities every day, sometimes placing two and three calls a day. Each one was logged into the department’s database; therefore, I was able to extricate the files.”
Jacob nodded. “She sounds persistent.”
Higs spun and glanced over his shoulder. “Indeed. Her tenacity prompted me to take a closer look at this case. I queried our computers for any and all information regarding the incident.”
“And?”
“Oddly enough, there was very little attention paid to the potential crime. Police reports were scant. An online newspaper ran a short article, but there was no follow-up.”
Jacob slipped hands into front pants pockets. “You can’t expect much media coverage from a small town in a state that has less than a million people.”
Higs faced Jacob, folded his arms and half grinned. “You’re getting ahead of me again, Mr. St. Christopher; however, in this regard,” Higs pointed at the taller man, “you are quite correct.” He twirled back around and gestured at the screen on the left. “This is data on missing persons in North Dakota for the last five years.”
Jacob pursed his lips and studied the image. Several red dots were evenly spread across the state.
Higs pointed at the middle LED. “Here, I narrowed the search to only include females, age sixteen to twenty-nine. The barista is twenty-four.”
Jacob noted a higher concentration of dots in the western half.
“Finally,” Higs’s finger swung right, toward the third screen, “sixteen to twenty-nine-year-old females reported missing in the last three years.”
“Whoa. I’ll take that shot grouping any day.” Jacob took a step forward and stuck out a straight finger. “What’s at the center of that cluster?”
Higs looked up at Jacob. “Watford City, Mr. St. Christopher. The very same place—”
“That’s where you said the barista went missing.” Jacob went back and forth, eyeing the screens. “And have your computers told you what’s happening there?”
Higs stood. “My computers only collect information. A skilled analyst—me—must then assess and evaluate said data.” He motioned at the equipment. “This isn’t some…machine…that spits out a name or a number for us to follow. Human critical thinking skills are required to make sense of the information. Once that is accomplished, someone has to follow leads, talk to witnesses, interview—”
“Okay, okay, I get it. I’m that person, and machines haven’t replaced people yet. Thanks for the technology lesson.” He waved a finger at the right monitor. “So speculate for me. Why are so many young women disappearing around Watford City?”
Higs retrieved a piece of paper from his breast pocket and held up the item. “That’s your next assignment.”
Jacob snatched the scrap. “What’s this?”
“That is the tail number of a private jet waiting to take you from Newark to Minot International Airport. The pilot is expecting you. I’ve sent the case information to your mobile device. Your flight is nearly three hours long. Do put that time to good use and familiarize yourself with the victim, and her family.”
“All right,” Jacob tucked the paper into his jacket pocket, “I’ll head home for a change of clothes and get some—”
“No need…” Higs forfeited a tan manila folder, “there is plenty of cash in here for operating expenses as well as a credit card with unlimited funds.” He put a hand on Jacob’s back and escorted him to the elevator. “I’d prefer you arrive before nightfall, so you can begin your investigation right away.”
The twosome stopped at the silver doors, and Jacob faced the shorter man. “So tell me. Where does the money come from for an operation like this?” He hefted the envelope, “Cash, credit cards, private jets…”
Hands shoved into pockets, rocking on his heels, Higs stared at the floor for a few seconds. “Let me ask you a question. What would you say makes the world go around?”
After a moment of consideration, Jacob slowly shrugged. “I’m guessing money and power, but something tells me that’s not what you’re going to say, is it?”
“This world operates at its best when people help people. Sure, currency exchanges hands. President’s and politicians make laws; however, I’m referring to the simple goodness of one person doing something for another with no presumed recompense.”
Jacob frowned. “You’re saying,” he looked at the ceiling and twirled a finger in the air, “all this was given to you?”
Higs smiled. “Not exactly. During my fifty-plus years on this planet, I’ve come to the aid of many good people.” He bobbed his head. “In turn, those individuals have done the same for me.”
Jacob nodded. “People helping people.”
“Precisely. And right now there’s a young woman out there, who—God willing she’s still alive—needs our help.” Higs looked away and gazed at nothing in particular. “There’s something stinky about all of this, Mr. St. Christopher. The ratio of reports of missing people, compared to the total population for this portion of North Dakota, is nearly triple that of any large, metropolitan city.” He faced Jacob, who quickly wiped a grin from his face. “Something wrong?”
Jacob shook his head. “Everything’s fine. I just didn’t expect to hear…stinky…roll off your tongue.”
Higs recoiled slightly. “Have I used the word incorrectly?”
“No, no. You hit the nail on the head; however, I pictured you coming up with something like…pungent or odoriferous.”
Higs huffed. “Perhaps you are having a greater influence on me than I’m aware.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment. Next thing you know, we’ll be having a beer and watching the game together.” A beat. “You didn’t tell me. What’s the name of our Innocent?”
“Felicity McNeil.”
∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞
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