That’s all he had.
But with perseverance, it would be enough.
Chapter Six
The sun was setting by the time Drake landed at the San Jose airport, the afternoon flight from Seattle having been delayed for two hours. He exited into the parking lot and made his way to his car, anxious to spend some serious computer time running down the right Jack Brody, which he’d failed to do on his tablet, adding to the frustration of being stranded at the airport.
Pink and orange ribbons of high clouds marbled the twilight sky as he pulled out of the lot. When he rolled down his window to pay the attendant, the air felt heavy and moist with the approach of a springtime storm. The ride home was typically slow as the tail end of rush hour clogged the freeways, and he was seized by an unexpected bout of melancholy as he inched past endless anonymous strip malls and car dealerships, altars of commercialism in a land that worshipped consumption.
Two days of newspapers had collected on the stoop of his apartment when he eventually made it home. He kicked them aside and pushed the door open before stepping inside and glancing around. Drake paid too much rent every month for his one-bedroom unit in Menlo Park, where the local economy was driven by Silicon Valley economics that had spread like a metastasizing tumor, making the entire southern peninsula impossibly expensive for those not involved in software or the development of specialized electronics. He flipped on the light and moved into the laughably small section of the apartment allocated to dining.
Drake retrieved the three bundles of hundred-dollar bills from his pockets and set them on the table, pausing to consider how little space almost thirty thousand dollars occupied. Eyeing the princely sum, he was struck by how inconsequential the pile of currency appeared. It seemed like a cheat. It would have taken him six to eight months of skip-tracing and apprehending felons to make that much — the better part of a year risking his life, and that’s all it looked like.
He left the money and walked into the kitchen. After a quick scan of his bare cupboards, he pulled the refrigerator open and studied the contents with dismay: a loaf of moldy wheat bread, four high-caffeine sodas, a bag of leftovers from an Italian meal from four days ago, and seven bottles of Rolling Rock beer. He retrieved the white polystyrene container and eyed the half lasagna inside skeptically. After a few cautious sniffs he slid it into the microwave with a shrug and opened one of the beers.
The damned journal had put him in a morose mood he couldn’t seem to shake. Compared to his father’s life, his was as mundane as a fry cook’s. While Dad had been planning a journey into the Amazon jungle every night after work, what did Drake have to show for his efforts? A dead-end job chasing derelicts, a car on life support, and a nonexistent love life. A fine state of affairs for a promising student who’d graduated near the top of his class, ‘a gifted writer with a keen analytical mind,’ as one of his professors had enthused. All that had done him zero good in the real world. He couldn’t even get a job writing copy for one of the ad agencies in the Valley, and his freakish ability to spot patterns hadn’t translated into any career advantage, even if it had enabled him to coast through his math and science classes.
The ping of the microwave pulled him from his reverie, and the odor of questionable Sicilian surprise wafted through the space. He unceremoniously pushed the money on the dining room table aside and sat down with his feast, which he consumed with plastic utensils provided by the Lebanese couple who’d bafflingly chosen Italian cuisine as their specialty.
He chewed the tough layers of suspect pasta with mechanical determination, his mind elsewhere. As he swallowed the last bite, he checked his watch and considered his options for the evening. The choices were hitting one of the local watering holes and throwing some of his newfound wealth around in the hopes of attracting female company, or settling in for a long evening of plodding research as he attempted to triangulate his father’s friend. An image of himself standing in a darkened bar, hundred-dollar bills plastered all over his naked body, sprang to the forefront of his imagination. Perhaps he could construct an elaborate fan of hundreds, like a strutting peacock’s tail, announcing his mating availability to the willing hens…
The visual convinced him to opt for research, although he rewarded his diligence with another beer, the green bottle his companion for another tedious night of solitude in front of a flickering screen.
Lynch yawned as he finished with the pile of paperwork on his desk and stared at it like it was toxic waste — always a reliable indicator it was time to call it a day. He’d attended to all his pressing matters, having arranged for an automatic transfer to Drake and executed the remainder of the instructions in Patricia’s will.
He’d been less than forthcoming about his relationship with Patricia, true, but he saw no reason to complicate a simple transaction with irrelevant personal history. The truth was that he and Patricia had been an item two decades ago — a long time by any measure.
It had been forever since he’d seen her. He’d helped her change her name when she’d moved to a small town in Idaho after her brother had died. But maintaining their long-distance affair had grown increasingly difficult over the years, made more so by Patricia’s dawning awareness that Lynch was never going to leave his wife and children for her, and that any hope he would was as misguided as many of the other choices that had sculpted her life. He’d been surprised that she’d kept him on as executor of her will, but it made a certain sense, he supposed. He was good at his job, even if possessed of considerable moral elasticity in his personal affairs.
His secretary ducked her head in to say goodnight, and he admired the fit of her skirt as she left, as he found himself doing more often — always a dangerous sign, he knew from prior entanglements. No matter how tempted, he wouldn’t poach in his employee pool. It was one rule he made sure to never break, even if she did have the easy glide of a tigress with the smoldering looks to match.
Lynch shook off his mental meandering and rose. The work could wait. He was tired, and his longsuffering spouse would be waiting at home, a delicious meal prepared, a passable Bordeaux open on the table. He ran his fingers through his hair, thankful that unlike his father he still had most of it, and moved to the door, where his tailored suit jacket hung on a hook.
The offices were still as he walked through the suite. He was turning off the last of the lights when the front door opened and two men entered. Lynch regarded them, his briefcase in hand, taking in their cheap suits and rugged features.
“I’m sorry. We’re closed,” he said.
The taller of the two, around the same age as Lynch, perhaps a little younger judging by the amount of gray in his crew-cut hair, offered a smile as warm as a cadaver’s.
“Michael Lynch?” he asked, the two words thick with an accent — Russian, Lynch thought fleetingly before responding.
“Yes, that’s right. But I’m afraid you’ll have to come back during business hours.”
The shorter man moved surprisingly quickly, covering the distance between them in a blink, and Lynch barely had time to register the blow to his abdomen before a wave of nausea washed over him and the room spun.
When he regained consciousness, it was dark. It took him several moments to realize he was in the conference room. His stomach felt like he’d been hit by a car. He tried to move, intending to probe the tender area, but found himself immobilized. He heard a rustle to his left, and turned his head to where one of the intruders was sitting, staring at him. The man leaned forward and cleared his throat.