Private Rogue

Chapter 5

My work means I’ve made a lot of enemies over the years. I’ve taken on the Mob, former Soviet spies, assassins, and a great many more dangerous individuals and organizations besides. I knew better than to take walk-ins, so, after listening to the basics, I left Donald Singer in reception and retreated to my office, where I did some background research on the guy. I was coming to the end when Justine knocked and entered. Always elegant, even when casually dressed as she was now, in jeans and a thick submariner’s pullover, her eyes shone with intelligence and as ever her smile brightened my day. As Private’s resident psychologist and profiler, she supported a wide range of investigations, but always started and ended every day in my office.

I got up and crossed the room to kiss her. I ran my fingers through her jasmine-scented wavy brown hair.

“Jack,” she whispered. “This is definitely blurring the line.”

We’d made a deal to try to maintain professional boundaries in the office.

“So step away,” I suggested.

Instead, she pulled me close and kissed me.

“Now who’s blurring the line?” I asked.

She pushed me away playfully.

“How was last night?”

“Fun. Sarah had too much to drink and I had to drive her home,” Justine replied. “Did you survive without me?”

“Just about.”

“Michelle said the guy in the lobby is waiting for you.”

She missed nothing.

“His name’s Donald Singer. I was just running background. He’s the founder and CEO of Singer Investments, an East Coast property fund. Wife died twenty years ago, leaving him to raise their only child, Elizabeth Singer. She lives in upstate New York with her two children, Daniel and Marianne. They went missing yesterday and he wants me to find them.”

“Why you?” Justine asked.

I feigned offence. “He wants the best, of course.”

“Well, he can’t have you. You’re mine.”

There was a slight edge to her teasing tone. Things had been great between us while I’d been in LA these past months. Justine wanted to keep it that way, and so did I.

“We do have a New York office,” she said.

Justine was right, of course. Our New York office was one of our largest, and the team there were more than capable of handling this case.

“OK,” I said. “But if I have to let him down, you’re sticking around to help me do it.”

I returned to my desk, called Michelle and asked her to bring in Donald Singer. Minutes later, she showed him into my office.

“Mr. Singer, this is Justine Smith, our chief psychological profiler,” I introduced them.

They exchanged greetings and we made ourselves comfortable in the seating area by the windows. Los Angeles spread toward the green hills north of the city. White buildings shone and cars gleamed in the morning sunshine.

“Well?” Singer asked.

“We’ll be happy to take your case, Mr. Singer,” I said. “I’m afraid I won’t be able to handle the investigation myself, but we have a fantastic team in our New York office who I’ll assign this to.”

Singer nodded slowly and reached into his jacket pocket. He produced a photograph, which he showed us. It was a picture of himself with a young woman and two children.

“Mr. Morgan, I don’t want a team. I don’t want the second best. I want the best.” He handed Justine the photograph. “That’s my daughter, Ms. Smith. Her name is Elizabeth. Those are my grandkids, Danny and Maria. I think they’re in trouble and I believe Mr. Morgan can find them and bring them back to me.”

I glanced at Justine and saw her resolve wavering. It was one thing to have abstract conversations about which cases to take, but when a father pleaded desperation in the face of loss, it was hard to refuse.

“I’m prepared to pay any price.” Singer thought for a moment. “Two hundred and fifty thousand, with a half-million-dollar bonus when you find them. How’s that sound?”

“That’s a very generous offer, Mr. Singer,” I replied. “But I can’t do it. I have obligations here. And, as I said, we have a highly skilled and experienced team in New York who I trust implicitly. They have the time and the resources to give your case the attention it deserves.”

“I understand,” Singer replied sadly.

Justine handed him back the photograph. He looked at it fondly before returning it to his breast pocket. There was moment of awkward silence.

“Well, thank you for your time,” Singer said, getting to his feet. He looked like a broken man.

Justine shot me a look that communicated exasperation and defeat. I smiled.

“Mr. Singer,” she said, “I think I might be able to cover Jack’s duties here.”

He turned to face me, his expression hopeful.

“You mean...”

I nodded. “I’ll take the investigation and do my best to find your daughter and grandchildren.”

“Thank you, Mr. Morgan,” Singer responded gratefully, and for a moment I thought he might cry with relief. “You’re a good man. Thank you.”