Sean Black - Lockdown

‘Could you? If I don’t keep on top of my calls I’ll be here till midnight.’

Lock opened the top drawer of the nearest filing cabinet and set to work. He motioned for Ty to start checking one of the numerous teetering piles.

A full hour later, Lock was wondering how people spent their whole lives in offices doing exactly what he was doing now. Not that he suffered from claustrophobia per se, but his mind and body were inherently restless; always moving, rarely still. Even in sleep, his dreams were vivid and kinetic.

The search did double duty: it gave them access to all of the agency’s records and allowed Lock time to weigh up Lauren. One thing had rapidly become clear: she wasn’t involved in any kidnapping. Kidnapping took a level of organization that was way beyond her. She’d probably end up sending the ransom note to the wrong address.

As they picked up and glanced at one piece of paper after another, Ty and Lock had soon discerned that invoices, applications, every piece of paperwork imaginable were simply thrown together with no rhyme or reason. There were applications from prospective nannies going back over ten years and details from parents of children who were probably in college now.

Ty lifted out one green hanging file whose tab read ‘telephone account’, so naturally it contained company credit card statements. Beneath it, on the bottom of the cabinet drawer, was a piece of paper. He lifted it out. It was a letter of reference. He went to place it with the others when he noticed the name. Natalya Verovsky.

Ty walked over to Lauren’s desk, waved it in front of her. She covered the phone with one hand.

‘Did the FBI see this?’ he asked.

‘What is it?’ She looked at the letter. ‘Shoot. It must have got separated from her application.’

Lock had joined Ty at the desk, and he took the single sheet of paper from Lauren and studied it. No letterhead. Handwritten. The writing was spidery longhand. Natalya’s name was written in block capitals about a third of the way down, then the actual reference was scrawled beneath. Just a few lines.

Natalya has worked for me for twelve months now. She has been a very good worker. She is very good with the customers and always on time. I am happy to recommend her services to you.

Then there was a gap of maybe an inch, and it was signed ‘Jerry Nash’. There was an address, but no phone number. No reference to what Natalya’s work had been either, and no mention of what the relationship between Natalya and Jerry had been. Boss? Coworker? Friend?

It took Lock and Ty another forty minutes to locate Natalya’s original application. When they found it, there was nothing on it that they didn’t already know. Crucially, it didn’t list her last place of employment. Or any other employers. So the reference remained significant, the only new lead Lock was aware of in an investigation rapidly going cold.

Unbelievably, there was no computer in the office, and no way of checking the address on the reference, or whether it even existed. With no phone number, Natalya could have concocted the whole thing herself.

Lauren was still on the phone. Lock waved the reference at her. She made a face at him. ‘What now?’

Lock took three steps, bent down, and yanked the phone jack from the socket. He held the reference directly in front of her face. ‘Did you even check the address on this?’

‘Of course. There’s a letter I wrote here somewhere. Don’t think I ever got a reply.’

‘You ever heard the phrase “not worth the paper it’s written on”?’ Ty asked her.

She looked at him slack-jawed. Lock felt like crumpling the damn thing up and making her eat it.

‘I’m doing my best here,’ she protested.

Lock folded up the reference, jammed it in his pocket, and walked out of the office. He called Carrie from the street. It took her less than ninety seconds to call him back — quicker than the FBI.

‘Well, it’s a real address. Real business too,’ Carrie said.

‘What kind?’

‘The world’s oldest.’

‘Now this is the kind of investigation I’m down with,’ said Ty, surveying the day-glo pink frontage of the the Kittycat Club from across the street.

Before they’d headed there, Lock had gone home to change. Dressed in black cords, a white shirt, sports coat, and wearing a pair of non-prescription clear glasses, he approached the club parallel to the entrance. There were two bouncers on the door, big guys who relied on their height and steroid-induced muscle to carry out their duties. To get in the front you had to go past them.

Over the years Lock had dealt with enough of these guys to know that the key to getting past them was to appear as non-threatening and compliant as possible. They were wired to see a slight where there was none. Direct eye contact was a definite nono. The glasses, he hoped, would help, as well as give him a geeky look. Amazing how schoolyard stereotypes became hard-wired into us as adults.

He marched along the sidewalk and took a sharp left turn into the entrance, keeping his eyes down and doing his best to appear nervous. Nervous tended not to come naturally to Lock, though, and one of the men stuck a hand across his chest.

‘What’s your hurry, buddy?’ the other guy asked him.

‘Let’s see some ID,’ the bouncer with his arm out added.

The last thing Lock wanted to do was show them something with his name on.

‘Don’t have my wallet, fellas.’

What had been the firm pressure of the man’s hand turned to a light push. ‘No ID, no entry.’

Lock allowed himself to stagger back a step before regaining his balance. He reached into his left pants pocket, pulled out a money clip and peeled off two twenties. ‘Here you go, fellas.’

They took the money, pocketed it, and the hand dropped away from his chest like a drawbridge being lowered.

‘What happened to your head?’ the bouncer asked as he put his hand back in his coat pocket.

‘The wife. Found someone else’s number on the back of a cocktail napkin from the Lizard Lounge in my wallet. Hit me with the side of the iron. I was in hospital for a week,’ Lock said. He delivered the story with his eyes on their feet. It explained the absence of the wallet, his nerves and, more importantly, the four-inch scar on the top of his skull.

The two bouncers snickered. They were both thinking exactly the same thing. What a loser.

‘OK, we just gotta give you a quick pat-down.’

Lock raised both his arms to shoulder level, the loose change in his sports coat pocket heavy enough to stop it riding up and giving them a good view of his Sig. This was Ty’s signal.

‘Yo!’ Ty appeared seemingly from nowhere.

Lock smiled as Ty pimp-rolled his way across the street in long, loping strides. He lowered his arms again as the two bouncers stepped from the curb to confront him.

‘How much is the door entry?’ Ty asked them as Lock stepped past them, gun undiscovered.

The bar ran the length of one wall. Behind it, the solitary bartender was female. And topless. It certainly complicated ordering a drink. She had a motel tan and limp blonde hair pulled back tight, giving her face a Projects facelift.

‘Beer, thanks,’ Lock said.

She noticed him avoiding looking at her breasts even though they were right there at eye level. ‘It’s OK to look at my tits if you like,’ she said jauntily.

All Lock could think to say to the offer was, ‘Thanks.’ Truth be told, he wasn’t much of a breast man. Not much of a leg man either. He liked eyes. And lips. Yeah, give him a great pair of eyes, ones that showed some sparkle. And expressive lips. Maybe throw in a nose that was in proportion to the rest of the face. Which must make him a face man, he guessed.