‘I’m just trying to figure out what happened,’ Lock said, lowering his voice and leaning forward. ‘Tell me about Natalya.’
‘There’s not much to tell, really. Same story as most of the girls who contact me looking for work. Her English wasn’t great, but a lot better than some. She seemed pleasant enough.’
‘How long had she been in the country?’
‘Not long, from what I could tell.’
‘Years? Months? Weeks?’
‘Months, probably.’
‘Did she say anything else about her circumstances?’
‘She’d been doing bar work, travelling into the city every day from Brighton Beach or somewhere. She thought a live-in position would suit her, give her a chance to save some money.’
‘Where was she bartending?’
‘I deal with dozens of applications every week. I’m lucky if I can remember any of the names.’
‘What about her visa? She had one, right?’
There was a pause.
‘I’m not the FBI, or the INS, or Homeland Security. I understand that you probably cut some corners,’ Lock prompted.
‘The clients sign a contract that says they, as employers, have final responsibility for checking that kind of stuff. Look, it’s not like I’m smuggling people into the country here.’
‘So what’s the difference between using you and putting an ad in the paper or posting on craigslist?’
Ty answered for Lauren. ‘About four thousand bucks a pop, right?’
‘I’m kind of going off you,’ she said to Ty.
‘Right back at ya, babe,’ said Ty.
Lauren sighed.
‘If these girls were legal, most of them could go get a job that paid them more than seven bucks fifteen an hour, know what I mean? Everyone bitches about illegals, until it comes time to put their hand in their pocket.’
Lock sensed this was a favourite gripe Lauren rolled out when challenged about the ethics of her business. But it wasn’t helping him with working out what part Natalya had played in Josh Hulme’s disappearance.
‘Did you get any references from Natalya’s previous employer?’
‘I gave all that stuff to the FBI already. They took copies.’
‘May we take a look?’
The phone rolled to voicemail again. Lauren sighed, and with what seemed to be a huge effort got up from behind her desk and crossed to the filing cabinet. ‘I didn’t want to give them the originals in case this whole thing comes to court.’ She stopped in the middle of the room. ‘Now, I know I put it all somewhere safe.’
Lock guessed that ‘safe’ in the context of Lauren Palowsky’s chaotic filing system meant somewhere it would probably never be found again.
The phone rang for a third time.
‘Would you mind if I. .?’ she asked.
‘Listen, do you want me to take a look?’
‘Could you? If I don’t keep on top of my calls I’ll be here till midnight.’
Lock opened the top drawer of the nearest filing cabinet and set to work. He motioned for Ty to start checking one of the numerous teetering piles.
A full hour later, Lock was wondering how people spent their whole lives in offices doing exactly what he was doing now. Not that he suffered from claustrophobia per se, but his mind and body were inherently restless; always moving, rarely still. Even in sleep, his dreams were vivid and kinetic.
The search did double duty: it gave them access to all of the agency’s records and allowed Lock time to weigh up Lauren. One thing had rapidly become clear: she wasn’t involved in any kidnapping. Kidnapping took a level of organization that was way beyond her. She’d probably end up sending the ransom note to the wrong address.
As they picked up and glanced at one piece of paper after another, Ty and Lock had soon discerned that invoices, applications, every piece of paperwork imaginable were simply thrown together with no rhyme or reason. There were applications from prospective nannies going back over ten years and details from parents of children who were probably in college now.
Ty lifted out one green hanging file whose tab read ‘telephone account’, so naturally it contained company credit card statements. Beneath it, on the bottom of the cabinet drawer, was a piece of paper. He lifted it out. It was a letter of reference. He went to place it with the others when he noticed the name. Natalya Verovsky.
Ty walked over to Lauren’s desk, waved it in front of her. She covered the phone with one hand.
‘Did the FBI see this?’ he asked.
‘What is it?’ She looked at the letter. ‘Shoot. It must have got separated from her application.’
Lock had joined Ty at the desk, and he took the single sheet of paper from Lauren and studied it. No letterhead. Handwritten. The writing was spidery longhand. Natalya’s name was written in block capitals about a third of the way down, then the actual reference was scrawled beneath. Just a few lines.
Natalya has worked for me for twelve months now. She has been a very good worker. She is very good with the customers and always on time. I am happy to recommend her services to you.
Then there was a gap of maybe an inch, and it was signed ‘Jerry Nash’. There was an address, but no phone number. No reference to what Natalya’s work had been either, and no mention of what the relationship between Natalya and Jerry had been. Boss? Coworker? Friend?
It took Lock and Ty another forty minutes to locate Natalya’s original application. When they found it, there was nothing on it that they didn’t already know. Crucially, it didn’t list her last place of employment. Or any other employers. So the reference remained significant, the only new lead Lock was aware of in an investigation rapidly going cold.
Unbelievably, there was no computer in the office, and no way of checking the address on the reference, or whether it even existed. With no phone number, Natalya could have concocted the whole thing herself.
Lauren was still on the phone. Lock waved the reference at her. She made a face at him. ‘What now?’
Lock took three steps, bent down, and yanked the phone jack from the socket. He held the reference directly in front of her face. ‘Did you even check the address on this?’
‘Of course. There’s a letter I wrote here somewhere. Don’t think I ever got a reply.’
‘You ever heard the phrase “not worth the paper it’s written on”?’ Ty asked her.
She looked at him slack-jawed. Lock felt like crumpling the damn thing up and making her eat it.
‘I’m doing my best here,’ she protested.
Lock folded up the reference, jammed it in his pocket, and walked out of the office. He called Carrie from the street. It took her less than ninety seconds to call him back — quicker than the FBI.
‘Well, it’s a real address. Real business too,’ Carrie said.
‘What kind?’
‘The world’s oldest.’
Thirty-four
‘Now this is the kind of investigation I’m down with,’ said Ty, surveying the day-glo pink frontage of the the Kittycat Club from across the street.
Before they’d headed there, Lock had gone home to change. Dressed in black cords, a white shirt, sports coat, and wearing a pair of non-prescription clear glasses, he approached the club parallel to the entrance. There were two bouncers on the door, big guys who relied on their height and steroid-induced muscle to carry out their duties. To get in the front you had to go past them.
Over the years Lock had dealt with enough of these guys to know that the key to getting past them was to appear as non-threatening and compliant as possible. They were wired to see a slight where there was none. Direct eye contact was a definite nono. The glasses, he hoped, would help, as well as give him a geeky look. Amazing how schoolyard stereotypes became hard-wired into us as adults.