Racing the Light (Elvis Cole #19; Joe Pike #8)(4)

The envelope was heavy with cash, but she didn’t seem to be tiring.

“Have you asked his friends? His friends might know.”

She glanced at the manila envelope.

“I have. They don’t. But I’ve included a list of Joshua’s three dearest friends, so please follow up. Ryan has known Josh the longest, and even Ryan can’t reach him. I assume you’ll want to see Josh’s home? He rents a bungalow in Los Feliz.”

“Maybe.”

The big-time detective laid out his game plan: Maybe.

“Ryan is there now, waiting to help however he can.”

I wrote Ryan on the pad and drew a box around it.

“Have these people all tried to reach your son?”

“Yes, and he hasn’t responded. I’ve also left messages. I can’t know if the calls have been blocked or his phone was taken, but Josh would have responded. If he hasn’t, he can’t. Quod erat demonstrandum.”

“Q.E.D.?”

“Yes. It means the proof is—”

“I know what it means, Ms. Schumacher.”

She lowered the cash. Adele Schumacher seemed like a nice person. She was a delusional conspiracy theorist at worst or a gullible eccentric at best, but her fear was genuine. I chose my words carefully.

“Does Josh have a girlfriend or boyfriend?”

Her eyes grew vague and she didn’t respond. I hadn’t accepted her money. She was afraid I wouldn’t. I tried to sound reassuring.

“He’s twenty-six, Ms. Schumacher. He’s single and self-employed, which means he’s mobile. I go to the Sierras each year. There’s no cell service, my phone doesn’t work, and nobody can reach me. Josh probably left with a friend and didn’t think to tell you. It happens.”

“Josh hates the outdoors.”

“It was only an example.”

Her eyes focused, and she placed her palm on my desk.

“Josh and I meet for lunch every two weeks. If Josh can’t make it, he lets me know, and we meet the following day. Always. Joshua never misses our lunch.”

“But this week he did. Things like this happen.”

Ms. Schumacher leaned forward, and her mica eyes grew sharp.

“Mr. Cole, my son makes very little money. When he moved out to live on his own, we began meeting for lunch. At those lunches I give him cash. It’s what he lives on. So when I tell you Josh has never, not once, missed our lunch without calling, he hasn’t. But this past week, he did. He did not call, nor reschedule, and he has not responded. Therefore, he cannot.”

“Q.E.D.?”

“Q.E.D.”

We stared at each other.

“Is his father in the picture?”

“His father—my ex-husband—refuses to support him. They barely speak.”

She leaned so far forward she gripped my desk for support.

“Josh was working on an exposé. He had an inside source, he said, and proof, but he wouldn’t say more. Josh has done shows about classified programs before. I’m certain the two are connected.”

“An exposé about aliens.”

She sat back.

“Does it matter? My son is missing. I want you to find him.”

She counted out twenty one-hundred-dollar bills, hesitated, and counted another ten. She pushed the stack toward me.

“Three thousand dollars. If he’s with a friend as you say, finding him should be easy. Find him, and I’ll double this amount.”

I told myself it couldn’t hurt. I could swing by his bungalow and maybe have a line on her son by the end of the day. And even if I didn’t, Adele would feel better knowing I was looking.

I picked up the bills, kept ten, and pushed the rest back.

“Let’s start with this.”

“I’d like a receipt, please.”

“Of course.”

She tucked the receipt into her purse, stood, and offered her hand.

“Please find him.”

“Try not to worry. I’m sure he wasn’t abducted.”

She looked at me as if I were slow.

“Are you, Mr. Cole? I’m not. I’ve seen things you can’t imagine.”

Adele Schumacher went to the door and let herself out. Wendy stepped in a moment later, and came to my desk.

“You’ll do it?”

I nodded.

“This is me, twenty-four-seven.”

Wendy gave me a plain, cream-colored card bearing her name, phone number, and email. Gwendolyn Vann.

I raised my eyebrows.

“I went with a Sherlock Holmes motif, myself. The magnifying glass. The deerstalker cap. People seem to like it.”

Wendy tipped her head at the Mickey Mouse phone perched at the end of my desk.

“Sit tight. Mickey will ring in three minutes.”

“Who’s calling? Aliens?”

Wendy ignored me.

“When the mouse rings, answer.”

Wendy walked out and closed the door. I waited. Three minutes later, the phone rang.

I answered.





2





Elvis Cole Detective Agency. If we can’t find it, it can’t be found. To whom am I speaking?”

The man’s voice was cultured and reasonable. He did not introduce himself nor greet me. He began as if we were in the middle of a conversation.