Private Rogue

Chapter 8

I’d spent the day learning everything I could about Elizabeth Singer. Public records and Internet research told me very little, other than that she was the daughter of Donald and Mary Singer. Donald had filled in the rest for me. Mary had died ten years ago, and he’d dealt with his grief by devoting himself to his property empire. Elizabeth, or Beth as Singer told me she preferred to be called, lived outside Garrison, New York, and had two young children, who attended the local elementary school. I couldn’t find anything about their father, and Singer had said that he wasn’t in the picture. Beth didn’t have any social media presence, and her finances were unremarkable, except for one thing; as far as I could tell, she had no sources of income. Singer said he didn’t support her. He offered to regularly, but she always turned him down.

It was a little after six when I wandered down to Maureen Roth’s computer lab on the fourth floor. I’d recognized the importance of computer crime early on, and had ensured Private had the very best people and technology at its disposal. Maureen Roth, known to everyone at Private as Mo-bot, was a computer geek extraordinaire. Fifty-something, she was a salutary lesson in the unexpected. Her tattoos and spiky hair suggested a cold, hard rebel, but she had the warmest heart and was thought of by many at Private as their second mom, someone they could go to with any problems. The only thing that hinted at a softer side, and spoke to her age, were the bifocals she wore, which I always said looked as though she’d lifted them from a Boca Raton grandmother. She managed a team of six tech specialists in the LA office, and oversaw dozens of others in Private’s international units.

When I stepped into the super-cooled lab, I found her with Private’s chief criminalist, Seymour Kloppenberg, nicknamed Dr. Science — or Sci for short. He ran a team of twelve forensic scientists who worked out of a lab in the basement of the building. He was an international expert on criminology, and when time allowed, would consult for law enforcement agencies all over the world, ensuring Private stayed current with the very latest scientific thinking. A slight, bookish man, Sci dressed like a Hells Angel, which was where I think his heart lay because he was always restoring old muscle bikes.

These two had been with me since the early days of Private, and were often the first people in the office and the last to leave. Diligent and brilliant, I’d known them long enough to consider them good friends.

“Better stand up straight. The boss is here,” Mo-bot joked. She nudged Sci, who was leaning against her desk.

I smiled as I walked deeper into her lair. Computer servers, routers and black boxes whose purpose I didn’t know filled the racks that lined the walls. I could not help but imagine them as her minions, watching me. Judging me.

“I hear someone got you out of retirement,” Sci said.

“Time you stopped moping around like an old geezer,” Mo-bot added.

“That hurt,” I replied. “It’s true that I’m working a case, though, and I need your team to run a full background, but since they’ve clocked off for the day, you’ll have to do it.”

Sci laughed and Mo-bot pursed her lips. She was about to reply when my phone rang.

“Elizabeth Singer. These are her details.” I handed her a piece of paper, and answered my phone.

“Where are you?”

It was Justine calling me.

“In the reprobate’s lair,” I replied, and earned myself a withering look from Mo-bot.

“Which one — Sci or Mo?” Justine asked.

“The digital enchantress,” I said.

“You still want that ride to the airport?”

“Sure,” I replied. “I’ll meet you downstairs in ten.”

“How are you both?” I asked Mo-bot and Sci as I hung up.

“Hurt and offended,” Mo-bot replied. “Reprobate?”

“Pretty good,” Sci chimed in.

“Staff satisfaction at fifty percent,” I responded. “I’ll take it.”

“I don’t know why I put up with you,” Mo-bot said.

“Because you love me. Give me a call if you find anything on Beth Singer,” I replied.

“Will do,” Mo-bot said. “Have a safe flight.”

I headed back upstairs to my office to grab my ready bag, an emergency holdall I kept for just such unexpected trips, and then down to the basement parking garage. Justine was in her black Mercedes S65, and the engine was running. I was greeted by a blast of warm air when I opened the passenger door and slid my bag onto the tiny back seat. I got in and kissed her.

“You sure you want to do this?” she asked as she put the car in drive and we started our journey.

“This isn’t just about Donald Singer,” I confessed. “I need to get back out there.” We hadn’t discussed it much, but she knew recent events in Moscow had taken their toll on me. “And this feels like a good case to ease me back in.”

Justine nodded. “I just don’t want to lose what we’ve built over the past few months.”

I squeezed her leg reassuringly. “Nor do I, believe me. I’ll find this woman and her kids and be back before you know it. You probably won’t even notice I’m gone.”

“Now that’s impossible,” she replied as she pulled onto Wilshire Boulevard and joined the rush-hour traffic heading west.