Private Rogue

Chapter 4

Recent events in Moscow had a huge impact on Private. The organization I’d founded had been labeled a Russian front, and I’d been branded a traitor, but we’d come through it to universal acclaim — it had been a swift and life-changing turnaround. Since then, business had boomed, but Moscow hadn’t only changed things for me professionally. Justine and I had started seeing each other again. I knew there were risks in having a relationship with a colleague, but we were good together. My experiences in Moscow had reminded me of the fragility of life, and the need to value the things that are truly important.

Justine and I weren’t living together, but we were spending a few nights a week at each other’s homes. I wasn’t sure she was ready for a serious commitment. We’d hurt each other before and were taking our time so we could avoid making the same mistakes.

Justine had gone to see some friends last night, so I’d spent the evening alone, reviewing case reports from around the world. With numerous offices on five continents, I had to rely on the heads of those branches to manage their own caseloads, but I still liked to be kept well-informed. I ran Private like an intelligence agency, and each office had a great deal of autonomy. Success had temporarily taken me away from frontline detective work in order to focus more on overarching strategy. At least I thought it was success... maybe it was fear? Perhaps Moscow had left me with more than superficial physical scars? I dismissed the thought. The Moscow investigation had led to a degree of infamy that would fade with time. That and the growth of the business were the real reasons I hadn’t been doing any genuine detective work recently.

I’d been spending more time in Los Angeles than I had for a long while, and I was enjoying it. Private Los Angeles was where everything had started, and for that reason it would always be special to me. I would always think of it as home.

I slowed my Mercedes SLS, an extravagant gift from a grateful client, and turned into the entrance to the parking garage beneath our building on Wilshire Boulevard. I stopped at the bottom of the ramp to give the sensor time to recognize my license plate, and the shutter rose to allow me inside.

A brief minute later, after sliding the Mercedes into my parking space, I took the elevator up to Private’s offices on the fifth floor and emerged into the lobby where Michelle and Dewayne, Private’s two receptionists, sat at their shared desk. Both were on the phone, but they smiled and waved when they saw me. Michelle, a bright young woman in her twenties, signaled something behind me, and I turned to see a tall, muscular man in his early fifties rising from one of the seats in our waiting area. He wore a navy blue suit and had salt-and-pepper hair and a matching beard. He was deeply tanned, his wrinkled skin covered in blemishes and liver spots — the marks of prolonged sun exposure.

“Mr. Morgan?” he said. “I’m sorry to intrude on your day, but I need your help.”

His accent was Southern: Georgia or Louisiana.

“I tried to tell him to make an appointment,” Michelle said, shielding the receiver.

“This can’t wait,” the man said.

He drew closer and offered his hand.

“My name is Donald Singer and I need your help finding my daughter. She and my grandchildren disappeared yesterday.”

“I don’t...” I began.

Singer cut me off. “I know who you are, Mr. Morgan, and I know what you’re capable of. I’ll pay whatever it costs. I need you to bring my daughter home.”