Deep Black

19

I went through the underground shopping arcade at the Crystal City Metro and came out the other side. Dead ahead were the five tall grey concrete apartment blocks that I still called home. They were so drab they wouldn’t have looked out of place in a Sarajevo suburb, which probably explained why the concierge of my block was Bosnian.

Jerry’s offer had stirred up all kinds of stuff, and my head was like a washing-machine with a full load on. You usually regret more the things you don’t do than those you do. Maybe this was one of those times. But then again, it could be a total gang fuck. I knew the best thing to do. Go shopping for the bike, pack and fuck off south. At least there’d be some sun.

I got into the lift. But it would be great to do some work again, wouldn’t it? After all, I’d just be holding a photographer’s hand as we drove to this ayatollah’s hotel.

Back in the apartment, I put some bread in the toaster, cut up a bit of Cracker Barrel, and made myself a big mug of tea. There’d be no harm in running a few basic checks on Jerry in case I met up with him again. I only knew what he’d told me, and words have always been cheap. I checked Baby-G – 15:14: nearly time for the afternoon talk shows but, just for a change, I was beginning to feel I had something better to do.

I got online as I shoved the first slice of toasted cheese into my mouth, and kicked off with a Google search on ‘Jeral al-Hadi’. There were 418 results. Adding a photograph to the search brought it down to 202. The first few seemed to back up what he’d told me about his life since we last met. I’d go back to them if all else failed, but for now it was enough to know that Jerry’s career curve had taken an impressively vertical trajectory since Bosnia days. His work had appeared in Time and Newsweek, and he’d just missed the Pulitzer short list in 2001 for his photo reports from Ground Zero.

I took a swig of my brew. It was a pity I couldn’t be doing this officially, using Hot Black’s facilities. I could have logged straight on to Intelink and got a shedload of background much more quickly. All the same, it’s scary what anyone can come up with after just an hour or three on the net.

I did a new Google search, this time for ‘people finder + USA’. What I wanted was a company that ran checks on social-security numbers, past addresses, even the names and telephone numbers of neighbours, in any of the fifty states. The first link I clicked looked perfect. On their home page, I entered Jerry’s name and state, and immediately got a list of addresses, probably everywhere he’d lived over the last ten years. It even gave his age, thirty-three. I clicked the link against the most recent address, in Buffalo, and it gave a phone number. I wasn’t surprised not to find the DC address at the top: they’d only just moved, and the database hadn’t caught up.

So far so good, but there was a lot more I could find out. So why not? Various services were on offer, from basic background at $39.95, to due diligence with criminal search at $295. The more comprehensive the search, the longer it took. I checked the delivery times and signed up for the best I could get: the $59.95 advanced background search sounded good to me. It promised everything from aliases and bankruptcy proceedings, to boat ownership and criminal records. Everything, in fact, apart from his shoe size.

I keyed in my credit-card number and details, chose a user name and password, and was told to check my email box in two hours. I then forked out an extra $19.95 for the marital-records service, suggesting they started with Buffalo.

I then ran a name check for Renee al-Hadi but drew a blank. Some states had direct online marriage databases. They all got the al-Hadi question as I waited for the paid information to come through, including Nevada. But they hadn’t run away to Las Vegas and got married by a Sikh Elvis impersonator at a drive-thru house of love. Shame, it sounded like fun. I’d just have to wait for the New York state records to come through, and take it from there.

I logged on to anybirthday.com and entered Chloë al-Hadi. There was only one, and it gave her date of birth as 9 May 2003.

If I could, I wanted to find something linking Jerry to the DC address. Telephone databases were most likely to be up to date; I went to any-who.com and keyed in the number on his card. Sure enough, the reverse number lookup gave me the new apartment.

Next Google search was for ‘dating + background check’. I got another search company, this time one that helped run checks on prospective dates, maybe people you’d met through the internet. It looked like it was just as healthy to be paranoid in the dating game as it was in my ex-line of work. I wanted to cover all the angles, and if the results didn’t correlate, I’d need to know the reason why.

I now had nothing to do but wait while they did their stuff and got back to me. I went into the kitchen and got more tea and toasted cheese under way. This was basic stuff I was doing, at the very bottom of the intelligence food chain, but it felt good to be doing something familiar at last. It beat going the best of three falls with my psyche in Ezra’s office, or watching others do the same thing on Gerald Rivera, that was for sure.

It was only when I smelled the cheese burning that I started to wonder what the fuck I was doing. It wasn’t as if I was going with him, was it? Was I just checking him out because I simply didn’t trust anyone any more?