Page 3 of Sam to the Rescue
The dark-haired lawyer sports a full gray beard. He leans in toward the camera, making his nose unnaturally huge. “It’s Gil and Marta. We emailed you about a lost person’s case.”
After buzzing them in, I stand in the old dentist’s waiting area as high heels click up the narrow staircase. When they reach the top, I reach out to shake hands.
“Hi, I’m Samantha Sutcliffe. This way, please.”
Before I can lead them into my office and offer them a seat, Mr. Kaplan begins. “As I mentioned in my correspondence, we’ve been worried about my wife’s father.”
He unbuttons his Italian suit jacket, blinding me with the white of his starched shirt. His dark eyes, skin, and hair hint at a Middle eastern heritage and his diamond studded watch says he can well afford our fees.
His spouse, a stylish woman in her late thirties, purses Botox lips which match the red piping on her black blazer. “Dad hasn’t been home for over a week.”
Confidence is key when snagging a client. Equally important is an excellent beverage.
“Coffee?” I spin a selection of pods in a custom-made pine dispenser. Gil picks a Vermont brew, his wife chooses decaf, and while placing mugs on the table, I start the most difficult part of a missing persons conversation.
“Have you considered sometimes people don’t want to be found?”
The attorney glares and raises his brows so I quickly move on. “Did you contact the police?”
“We did and they brushed us off.” Gil sips his black liquid in our logo mug, his posture impeccable, his face masked.
“Do you know why?” My dad taught me a lot about interrogations. That’s why I ignore his cool demeanor and fire off questions without hesitation. Too bad my former boss at the FBI never appreciated my skills.
Before my thoughts travel too far down that rabbit hole, Marta clears her throat. “Well, he’s done this before and-”
“Her dad’s pretty vocal about us interfering in his life.” Turning his wrist, he checks the time. Clearly, he has places he’d rather be.
Over in the corner, my silent son swings, eyes wide. Like his bodyguard father, he doesn’t miss a thing. Marta smiles at him, adds a tiny drop of cream from the carton, then moves her mug in order to dig in her huge purse.
“This is him.” She slides her phone across the table, screen up.
Yikes.In Gil’s original email, he attached an image of an octogenarian. He was dressed in a reindeer sweater sitting on a couch in front of a Christmas tree. In this one, David Kessler stands with ten other men in camouflage gear. With Kevlar, automatic weapons, and large backpacks, they’re ready for battle.
Swallowing down the wrong hole, I cough, then regain my highly professional composure. “Can you send me this picture, as well?”
“Sure.” While her long red nails click on her phone screen, I turn to her husband.
“Who’s the militia outfit?”
The man scratches his beard and sighs. “They’re nut jobs, that’s who. They claim the Russians have a new frequency called 6Z, transmitted with a laser from a space station. It targets little kids and when they grow old enough, it will call them into action and they’ll take over the world. There’s more to it, but you get the gist.”
Sounds like a fifties horror flick but I keep that thought to myself.
Dabbing at damp eyes with a balled-up tissue, Mrs. Kaplan sniffs. “So, can you help us?”
Her husband snorts, retrieves a gold, engraved money clip from his pocket, and tosses a credit card on the table. “Once you locate him, I’ll take it from there.”
“Understood.” I slide aSuds and Samcontract across the table, take his payment, and say my goodbyes. Once they’re gone, I thread my son’s legs into the stroller and walk him home. Then, careful to avoid his teeth, I nurse him and wince. I’m convinced, somewhere in his dad’s ancestry, there are vampires.
Done, I burp my little angel, put him in his high chair and continue my research. Marta’s father, David Kessler is a decorated vet who volunteers at his local church and homeless shelter. For years, he worked as a postman and is now a registered member of the COGs, a strange assortment of conspiracy theorists.
Caught up in my reading, I jump a mile when my cousin enters via the kitchen window. “Yo, Sammy. Whazzup?”
“Jeesh. Knock much?” Note to self, remember to keep the fire escape steps raised.
Ignoring my sarcasm, my newest employee walks over to my child and tosses him in the air. The baby giggles hysterically but I, as a mom, have supernatural powers. Knowing all about projectile vomiting, I slide back my chair in the nick of time.
“Eww.” Face full of sour, cheesy puke, Joey hands his nephew off to me and runs to the washroom. “Holy shit. What you feedin’ him?”