Racing the Light (Elvis Cole #19; Joe Pike #8)(6)

“Why would Adele need bodyguards?”

“Is that what she called them?”

“She called them helpers.”

“So they are. They drive, run errands, whatever Adele wants.”

I didn’t respond, and after a while he sounded tired again.

“Mr. Cole. Adele and I were married a long time. We worked under strenuous conditions for almost as long, and these conditions took a toll. Especially on her. When our marriage ended, I didn’t stop caring for her.”

He paused, but only for a moment.

“Adele believes our son is being held by the government in Area 51. She actually believes this. She believes our phone calls are monitored by artificial intelligence, corporations manipulate our biometrics, and half a hundred other ludicrous notions. If Adele watches the news, she can’t sleep because murderers creep past her window. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“Wendy and Kurt keep the monsters away.”

“Yes. A last point, and I’ll let you get on with it. As I said, I’m pleased you agreed to help.”

His voice firmed up again.

“But I don’t know you. Don’t be tempted to run up the bill. I’m not Adele.”

Corbin Schumacher stopped. He was waiting for a response, so I let him wait before I answered.

“A gentleman came to see me about ten years ago. Nice man. A retired physician. He was frantic. His grandchildren—a boy and a girl—had been abducted by their mother—his daughter-in-law was a foreign national—and taken out of the country. Mom refused to bring them back to the U.S., and wouldn’t let their father or grandparents see them or speak to them. I agreed to find them and arrange for their return.”

“What does this have to do with Adele?”

“The doctor gave me a check for eight thousand dollars. The check cleared and the money was in my account that afternoon. Four days later, I returned the full amount.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“His daughter-in-law and grandchildren died in an auto accident the year before. The poor guy couldn’t accept the loss, I guess, so he found a way to explain their absence.”

I waited for Corbin Schumacher to say something, but he didn’t.

“It’s the same with every client, Mr. Schumacher. A stranger comes to me with a problem. I can’t know what’s real until I see for myself.”

“Of course.”

“Whatever Adele believes, no matter why she believes it, has nothing to do with her problem. She can’t reach her child, and wants to know he’s safe. I’ll find him, and report what I find.”

Corbin Schumacher was silent for several more seconds.

“Looks like Adele hired the right man.”

“One more thing, Mr. Schumacher.”

“Yes?”

“In the future, any conversation I have about this case or Joshua will be with Adele, until or unless Adele tells me otherwise. Not Wendy. Not you. Are we clear?”

Corbin Schumacher went silent again. I thought Wendy and Kurt might crash through the door and grab the thousand dollars, but they didn’t.

I asked him again.

“Are we clear?”

The line went dead. The call was over. We were clear.





3





I tucked two of the hundreds into my wallet, filled out a deposit slip for the remaining eight, and opened the manila envelope.

Adele had seemed disheveled with her flyaway hair and frumpy dress, but the information she left was presented with PowerPoint precision.

The first page showed four photographs of a heavy, unsmiling young man with a round, clean-shaven face, a double chin, and dark red hair.

Detective-2 Veronica Largo’s LAPD business card was clipped to the second page. The card identified Largo as a Missing Persons Unit detective. The case number and date of filing were written on the back of the card. I put Largo’s card aside and flipped to the third page.

The third page looked like a dossier.

Joshua Albert Schumacher’s name, current address, email, and cell number led off. His height (6'3"), weight (280 lb), hair and eye color (rd, bl), blood type (O-neg), and date of birth followed. His social security, driver’s license, and passport numbers came next, then a description of his car (a ten-year-old black-on-black MINI Cooper) and the Cooper’s license number. A highlighted note at the bottom of the page read: fingerprints and dna profile provided upon request. Including his blood type was odd, but the DNA profile stopped me. Who kept their son’s DNA profile lying around and why would they have it?

I studied Josh’s phone number, pulled Mickey close, and punched in his number. Corbin thought Josh was ignoring his mother, but maybe I’d get lucky.

A flat computer voice answered.

“The message box is full.”

So much for luck.

The last page was labeled friends. Adele had listed three names, notes about each, and their contact information. She’d already told me about Ryan Seborg, who she described as Josh’s oldest and closest friend. Traci Tanner and Josh had been friends since high school, where they were active in the school’s math, science, astronomy, and film clubs. Davis Kleimann and Josh had met during Josh’s one and only year at Caltech. According to the notes, Adele had spoken with all three, and all three denied having knowledge of Josh’s whereabouts. This made me wonder why Adele suggested I speak to them. Since all three claimed to know nothing, maybe she believed they were lying. Maybe she thought I would pistol-whip them into coming clean.