The Mark of Cain
                               by J.B. Christopher

1

Gregory Mann sat by himself in a large booth in a closed section of the restaurant.  From his seat, he could see who entered or left the cavernous dining room. He had paid the maitre’d a clean hundred to sit here and another hundred to be ignored and had been waiting for almost an hour alone. The lunch crowd still lingered: men and women in staid business suits, idly chatting, staving off the rest of the day with liquor and small talk.


Mann read the Post and drank from his water.  When he had asked the white-jacketed waiter what was good, the man replied in a heavy accent, the pommes frites were a house specialty.


He didn’t know if she would show up.  


Shaking his squat water glass, he watched the ice swirl and swirl.


The same waiter returned and led a tall dark haired woman to his table.   She had bright eyes and full red lips and exuded an air of status and wealth like many of the people he had met in this town. He sized her up as she strutted through the room: tight black skirt, high heels, a stylish fur lined shawl, chin angled high. He had seen that look before. Beneath that sophisticated beauty, a temptress lingered just below the surface.


They shook hands. He thought she was younger than him, but not as young as she would answer if asked.  


She slid into the oversized both opposite Mann. She placed a small leather handbag beside her, ordered a gin and tonic without ever glancing at the waiter. Her face tight with concern, her eyes fixed on Mann. She was someone used to getting her way and she did not like being toyed with.


“Ya’know, you look like him. From a distance, I thought you were him.” She had a rough sultry voice.


He folded the Post and said, “You’re not the first one to say that.”


She removed a slender silver cigarette case from her bag, placed a thin filterless cigarette in her mouth and lit it with a matching silver lighter. She moved the ashtray closer to her.


“You should be in movies.”


“I am.” She exhaled and watched the bluish smoke drift to the overhead rafters. Another drag from the cigarette and she said, “They’re just not the kind you take your mother to see.” Her eyes never left him when she spoke. She forced a smile and in a harder tone: “How did you find me?” Her eyes blazed through him.


“It’s what I do.”


“You heat?”


He shook his head no.


“How d’ya find me?”


He slid a black cell phone to the center of the table.


“Is that his?”


He nodded and tented his fingers with his elbows resting on the crisp white linen table cloth.


“Do you even know what it is I do?”


“I have an idea.”  He pulled out a thin leather-bound notepad and pen from his breast pocket and flipped to a marked page and reviewed his notes. He continued: “You had meetings with him. Every Thursday night. At 9:30.”


“Meetings?”


“Yes, according to his daily planner - I found it in his office. He was very diligent and organized. In fact, when I spoke to his peers at his office, he was described as fastidious.”


Meetings. She liked that and took another drag from her cigarette.


“Do you know what we did at these meetings?”


“I have an idea.”


“By 11pm on a Thursday night, we would have killed off his blow and had one of our meetings.”

She emphasized the last word, quoting it back to him. “By breakfast the next morning he would beg for my forgiveness. I would allow him to have sex. But not with me. Not to start at least. He was insatiable you see.  If he was a good boy, perhaps, I would finish him off. But it had to be earned.”


“Yes I know – he records everything.” She didn’t know that. He could tell. She raised an eyebrow, more than half interested. He had her attention. “He was a very clever man. Had mikes recessed in the ceiling. Hidden cameras behind the mirrors, in the bathrooms. I saw the videos.”
Expressionless, she didn’t respond. Stubbed out her cigarette and lit another. She said,  “Very well. This is how it’s going to happen. My rates are one thousand an hour. And I want half now. Before we start what it is you want to start.”


“I don’t even know your name.”


“You can call me Jennifer, if you like.”


“Jennifer? You don’t look like a Jennifer. You got a last name?”


“Call me whatever you want then.”


He cupped his chin and asked, “In his phone, you’re listed as mother.”


The waiter appeared and placed the gin and tonic on a white square napkin before her. She dismissed him with a wave of the back of her hand. Mann considered her offer. He conceded and reached into his billfold and counted out five hundred dollar bills and pushed them over to her. She took the bills without counting them, folded them in half and put them in her handbag.
She finished half of her drink in a single gulp.


“You must have watched the video with the sound off.  Is this how you get your kicks? You like to watch?”


“In my line of work, we’re all voyeurs.”


She sipped from her drink and said, “You like that. What do you want to know?”


“Why do you think I’m here?”


“Did you find him?”


“No.”


“You think I had something to do with his disappearance.”


“I didn’t say that.”


“But you’re thinking it. I can tell by the look on your face. I’m very good at reading people.”


He eyed her coldly. Finished his water. She lit another cigarette.


“You’re never going to find him.”


“Everybody leaves footprints.” He changed his tone and the subject sensing she was at ease, the gin taking hold perhaps. “What did he like? Why were you listed as mother?”


She finished her drink and laughed.


“He liked what all men liked. To be dominated.”


Mann laughed mirthlessly.


Jennifer smiled.  “That’s what he liked to call the girls I brought over that he fucked. Sometimes that’s what he called me.”


“Mother?”


She nodded. He wrote the details on a new piece of paper with the date.


Mann leaned forward on the table. “After interviewing several of his girlfriends – and he had many-“


“And why not. Much like yourself, he’s a good looking man. A bastard. But handsome.”


“As I was saying – he had many lovers, they all said the same thing. Like a broken record. He became abusive. Verbally at first, then physical. He sounds like a real sonofabitch. One of the girls, off the record, said he smacked her so hard he knocked out a tooth. He liked to drink a lot?”


She ground out her cigarette. “Is that a question? Sure, he liked to drink. But that’s the lesser of his vices.”


“Did he ever hit you?”


“Never. I wouldn’t let him. It was not allowed.”


Mann made a face, bewildered.


“He was my slave and dutiful disciple. I was his master, whom he referred to as mother. Lovingly I may add. He always wanted to please.” Staring into her drink, as if the answers existed there, she said, “When you pay for sex, there is no question about the fantasy. I don’t know what else to say. It’s his deepest desire.  It lingers, hidden in his subconscious. But with me, I help to bring it out. Maybe he hated the others because they could never live up to him. They were too weak. Maybe he hated living in the shadow of his name.”


“Domination. He doesn’t seem like the type.”


“What do you mean? He fits the profile to the letter.”


“Seems like you’ve given it some thought before. What I’m trying to do is find motive. I don’t think you were involved. But you might know someone who was. Do you know if any of these girls would have been humiliated enough to have him killed? Maybe he blurred the line between fantasy and reality.”


“I doubt it. Those girls, they were like pieces of popcorn to him. Meaningless and plentiful.” She shrugged her shoulders, made a face, as if to say sounds good.  


“Are you mad that he’s missing? I’m sure you’re missing out on some serious income.”


“Mother will let the punishment fit the crime.”


“How much does he pay you a month?”


“Must you be so predictable?”


“I’m just doing my job.”


“I was compensated properly.”


“What does that mean? Just give me a range here - help me out.”
“Depending on how many meetings, perhaps, in the twenty five to forty thousand range.”


“A month?”


“Don’t be so shocked and childish. To someone of his social strata, this is petty cash from the top drawer.”


“Have you ever been involved with blackmail?”


“I refuse to answer that question. And think about it – would I even volunteer that information?”


“Listen, unlike a cop, I don’t follow any rules because I have no rules. If you are involved in this, in some capacity, I will find out. So I thought I would just save us both some time and be up front about it.”


She didn’t like his tone. But before she could respond he asked, “Do you know anyone who would want to see him dead?”


“Did you talk to his family? I’m sure they would after what he’s put them through.”


“I’m working with Ethan –his older brother. He has been tight lipped but candid when asked directly.”


She laughed.  “He’s a client of mine.”


“Do you give a family discount?”


Frowning, she said, “Don’t be so crass.”


Mann reached into his pocket and removed a gray jewelry box. He handed it over to Jennifer and said, “Is this yours?”


She opened and looked inside. “What is this? An earring? It looks like a pendant. Not my style.”


“I found it on his desk.”


“Looks old.” The box closed with a pop and she gave it back. “What’s so important about it?”


“His daily planner had several appointments in the last month with several jewelers in Midtown. Three to be exact.”


She shrugged her shoulders and pursed her lips. “What are you doing here?”


“What do you mean?”


“Do I look like his assistant? I have no idea about that.”


He nodded, and scanned his notes.


“Are we done here?”


He sat back in the deep cushioned leather seat, his hands behind his head and said, “I’m not paying you the second half. You haven’t really given me anything I can use.”


She remained silent for a moment. She said, “Can I see the phone?”


He slid the phone over to her.


A few seconds later, she said, “Call him – Kirkwood.”


“I haven’t gotten through all the numbers. He literally has dozens of numbers in there.”


“Kirkwood is where you should start.”


Without inspecting it, she handed the phone back to him. “This is his personal phone. No work or family contacts on it. He only uses this for, for leisure. Might explain why he left it behind.”
“Kirkwood. Who is he?”


“Tell him you’re a friend in need. And go alone.”


Mann understood. He handed over the remaining fee and tore out a piece of notepad paper. He scribbled a note on it before passing it over. “Here ‘s where I’m staying. If you can think of anything else or you want to talk more about this case, you can reach me here.”


“The Plaza- nice. I thought you said you weren’t heat.”


“Old habits die hard.”


“One more thing,” she said, touching his hand. She drew close to him and spoke in a whisper at length about William Oldham, pampered heir to a financial empire, who lacked, apparently, discretion, decency, and had no shortage of enemies.


2

On the cab ride down to the Battery, Mann closed his eyes in the rush hour traffic. A light summer rain patterned the windshield and pattered against the car roof and lulled Mann to sleep.
He remembered the first meeting with Ethan Oldham. Mann had spoke to him briefly on the phone, hesitated and paused. The man on the other end offered a high five-figure retainer, half up front. He said he could not trust the problem with local security consultants. After the call, he was faxed a thirty-five page confidentiality agreement requiring his signature in three places. Mann had called a buddy from his detective days and filled him in on the offer. Earl Chase had said, “You already made up your mind before you even dialed my number. You just want me to set your mind at ease. It’s a lot of money. I’d do it.”


He faxed over the signed document and the next morning a first class ticket was in his mailbox.  


He had officially accepted the case.


He had flown out that night and met Ethan at the family estate in Westchester - a great stone manor built during the turn of the century complete with flagstone, ivy, stained glass and a columned portico. The estate, surrounded by towering pines planted in the thirties during the New Deal, seemed frozen in time. Servants dressed in white awaited his every wish. The Oldhams, he learned, started Oldham Private Securities that dated back to the earliest days of Wall Street. And the investment house, remained a family business.


The cab eased to a stop. The sky had darkened and the rain had increased. Mann cursed his luck for not bringing his umbrella. He told the cabbie to wait while he checked inside.


“What? I look like a fuckin car service to you?”


A week ago when he first arrived, he would have been put off by the attitude. But now, he took it in stride and brushed it off.  He told the guy there was a twenty in it for him if he waited five minutes.  


“Five minutes. Got it?”


Mann mumbled something under his breath and slammed the door.


At the building, a uniformed doorman smiled and opened the door for him.  
Inside the foyer, a concierge behind a high front desk greeted him, and asked him if he needed help.


“I’m here to see Kirkwood.”


The concierge, a blonde haired man with wire rimmed glasses in a green vest, said, “Just a moment.” A moment later he was on the phone, whispering into the handset. To Mann he said,


“Top floor. Down the hall. 12J.”


He stepped out of the elevator and peered down a narrow hallway with black and white tiled flooring. The air smelled old and stagnant. Mystified as he gazed down the hallway, a single door cracked open at the far end of the hall and yellow light poured from it. They were expecting him.


As he walked down the hall painfully aware that he possessed no firearm, he pictured William Oldham inside, stoned, sitting alongside this Kirkwood fellow.


He knocked on the door – 12J emblazoned in gold – and the door squeaked open a few more inches on its hinges.  


“Kirkwood?”


He took a step forward inside the apartment.


But something wasn’t right.  With both hands he pushed the door open hard and it slammed against something with a loud smack. A commotion behind the door. He pulled the door open again and jumped behind it and found a man sprawled on his back, cupping a broken nose. He had a shaved head and wore a tight white t-shirt with a pistol at his side. Mann kicked the pistol away.


“Kirkwood?”


He heard the metallic rack of a round chambered in a shotgun. Mann spun on his heels and stared at a man in the living room with an over-under leveled at Mann’s chest.


“Close the door,” urged the gunman who looked like Sonny Bono.


The man with the broken nose climbed to his feet – he was short and had the physique of a boxer. Blood splattered his shirt, flowed from both nostrils.


Mann closed the door, his eyes never left Kirkwood.


The man with the bloodied nose picked up his pistol – a 9mm Beretta – and looked at his shirt.


“Bastard. Who is he?” He aimed the pistol at Mann. Mann didn’t flinch. The man spoke with a heavy accent.


“Slow down. I want to find out how this asshole got my name. He looks like a pig. You a cop?”


“That’s the second time someone has asked me that today.”


“Well, you look like a cop. You got that look. Pat his ass down.”


The bald headed man checked Mann, patted down his legs and torso. Mann could tell he’d done it before. He knew what he was doing. If he was packing, there was no way of hiding it.


“What’dya want?”


Mann introduced himself and said, “I’m looking for William Oldham.”


“Did his dip shit brother send you?”


“I can’t tell you who hired me. I’m just looking for him. There is a sizable reward for any useful information.”


“Shit.” The man swung the shotgun over his shoulder. “How much we talking?”


The boxer interrupted and said, “You’re not gonna help this douche bag are you?”


“How much?”


“If you tell me where he is right now, ten thousand bucks. If you give me info that proves helps, five grand.”


“Sit down. I’m a businessman, and that sounds like a fair deal. The guy with the fucked nose is Francois. Why don’t you go in the bathroom and clean yourself up. You look like a mess.”  The man sat in a sofa chair, the shotgun across his lap, and motioned for Mann to sit in the couch opposite him.   “What do you want to know?”


“When was the last time you saw him?”


“About a week ago. I called him to tell him we just got some inventory. I always give him a call when it comes in. He’s like one of my best customers, so I like to give him first pick. Customer service I say is what can make or break you. Am I right? So I call him up and he says he’ll stop by, but he never does. Like most of my financial clients, he’s never late. When he said he was going to meet you, he was there.”


Mann began to pull out his notepad-


“Hey what the fuck?”


“It’s just a notepad.” Mann held up both his hands. Francois ran out of the bathroom, shirtless, with his pistol drawn. “I just want to get my notepad out.”


The man nodded and Francois returned to the bathroom swearing under his breath.


“According to my notes, you’re the last one to speak to him.”


“Like I said, it was about a week ago. But it could have been more or less.”


“Did he say anything else? How did he sound on the phone?”


“Thinking about it – he did sound strange. Distant. Usually when I spoke to him, he had an energy. A hunger. They all do when I talk to them on the phone. They just want it. They can’t hide their desperation or that hunger. But when I spoke to him, he sounded, well he sounded straight. He didn’t care about the new inventory is what I’m trying to say. And that aint like him. William – he liked to get high.  I remember being worried that I was losing my best customer.”


“How big was his habit?”


Uncaringly, Kirkwood shook his head. He tapped the side of the gun. “I don’t really ask. I’m not the Betty Fucking Ford clinic.”


“How much did he spend a month?”


Kirkwood scratched the side of his face, feeling a two day old beard. “I’m really not at liberty to share that with you. I have something like patient client privilege. Think of me like a doctor or psychiatrist.”


“What did he buy? What was he into?”


“A guy like him? What do you think. He loved blow. Loved it.  I usually threw in some bud for free. He said it helped calm him down.”


“Did he have many parties?”


“Sure. He has a sweet pad in the Hamptons. His summer parties are legendary.”


“You used to go?”


“He thought it would be good to network. Don’t let those rich pricks fool you. They love their drugs with their caviar.”


“How was he with the ladies?”


“What do you think? He could go into any bar, any nightclub, and have his pick. He’s that guy. He always knew the right things to say. Charming motherfucker. Could sweet talk his way into anything. Whether it was getting reservations or into somebody’s ass, it didn’t matter.”


Mann laughed. “Did he have a temper? You ever see him get mad?”


Kirkwood shook his head. “Nah man. I never really saw that. But it’s not like we were buddies. Got it?”


“You know anyone wanted to see him dead?”


“Got me. He always paid on time. He valued my discretion. Never tried to jew me on price or anything. He wanted the best and that’s what I gave him.” Kirkwood leaned back in his chair, his hands off the shotgun.


“You know an escort, a dominatrix he uses – says her name is Jennifer – have you ever met her?”


“Dark haired bitch, intense eyes? Her name’s Nadia. She’s a headcase. She’s fucks with his head. No pussy’s worth that.”


“What do you mean – fucks with his head? Can you explain?”


“After her sessions, William’s usually depressed for days afterwards. He travels a good bit for work. She’d get into his head before a trip. He’d have to jet off to Europe – the whole time he’s miserable – and as soon he gets back, he calls me and I have to fix him up. He’s cool for the next few days and then the whole thing starts over again.”


“Do you remember anything specific?”


“Not really – she just got into his head. She had an effect on him.”


Mann sighed.


“This going to be much longer?”


“Almost done.  You remember anything else about that last conversation call? Did he say he was going away? Did he mention anyone?”


“He did say he met someone. Someone new. I asked him where he’d been? And he said, he’d been spending a lot of time with her and thinking of her when he wasn’t with her.” Kirkwood let that sink in, and then he said, “D’ya know what I think? I think this miss goodie goodie started telling him to clean up his shit? You know what I’m saying?”


“You get a name?”


“Nah.”


He stood up and thanked him.


“Don’t worry about the reward money. You see this-“ Kirkwood reached into his pocket and pulled out a thick wad of cash secured with a rubber band-“this is twenty large. You can keep the reward money if any of this pans out. I just liked the guy.”


3

A procession of black town cars and limos swept by in the night rain, depositing their well healed cargo at the covered curb before returning to the parking lot of the Westchester Country Club.  Mann arrived early and waited in the lobby. He told the valet he was a guest of Ethan Oldham and the young dark haired valet offered to take his coat.  


Mann found his way to the club bar and ordered a whisky and soda.  The bartender asked with what surname are you a registered guest. He told him he was with the Oldhams – Ethan Oldham – and the bartender’s face tightened and he was directed towards a private booth in the rear of the bar.  The lounge was crowded with small groups at the bar and situated at tables. People, mostly men, talking loudly. But the tables near where he sat where empty, and marked reserved.  Mann noticed a few of the patrons glanced at him furtively.


He barely finished half his drink when he noticed Ethan Oldham enter the lounge. The bartender nodded to the booth and a waiter, dressed in black pants, white shirt and tie, led Ethan Oldham and a blond haired woman to the table.  Ethan cut an intimidating figure, and the crowd parted noiselessly as he moved forward. Many of the patrons nodded, and offered brief smiles at Ethan.  An icon of not just wealth, but of power – he was what the men at the club –one of New York’s finest, aspired to be which was no small feat in itself.  Behind his deep-set eyes, Ethan remained inscrutable. Mann could not read him.  Then, Mann had a scary thought – he pictured Lady Nadia attired in a sleek dominatrix outfit, rubber gripped riding crop in hand, while Ethan, stripped to his underwear, begged and pleaded for her forgiveness while she threatened to penetrate him.  He would thank William for such imagery when he found him.  He shook his head, as if it to empty the thought from memory.


Ethan told the waiter to bring two waters, with ice and a twist of lemon. The waiter nodded, and disappeared silently.  Ethan obsessed about what he consumed, unlike his younger brother. Consumption, in Ethan’s opinion, was a vulnerability and an intolerable weakness.


“I want to thank you for agreeing to meet with me on such short notice. I know that you must be busy with the investigation. I want to introduce my assistant – Charley Bradford.”


Ethan slid into his seat; Mann rose and shook her hand. She wore a gray business suit, appeared to be in her forties, blond hair cropped short, and spoke with a Geordie English accent. She had Scandinavian features set with piercing agate blue eyes that bore uncomfortably into Mann.  She had objected to Mann’s hiring.


“What do you think?”


“I’ve been at this for a week now, and I’ve made very little headway, quite honestly.”


Ethan touched his lips with his index finger. His brow wrinkled. He said, “It’s come to my attention that you’re not using the driver service we provided.”


“Sometimes it just easier to move around the city in a cab. I roll up in a town car, I’m not gonna get a straight answer.”


Charley spoke: “We understand. But since you are contractually under our employ, and as stipulated under our contract, we require that you use the provided car service.”


“Cut the shit. You just want to keep tabs on who I’m seeing and where I’m going.”
Charley began to pull out the contract document, “Mr. Mann, as you see, in accordance to the contract, section 8, page-“


“Sister, you don’t have to show me where I signed.” Mann held up his hand. “I read that doc. I know what you’re talking about. Look, I signed on to do a job. I want to find your brother William. It’s what I agreed to do. But I need to do it my way.”


“Before I was so rudely interrupted, allow me to finish,” she continued tautly. “If you are familiar with said contract bearing your signature and thus consent, then you must know, any violation of the terms of the contract may result in your dismissal and all forfeiture of payment, including the deposit. We hired you with the expressed understanding that you would follow our terms to the letter. The Oldham family has perhaps entrusted the wrong individual.”


Mann laughed. The accent really riding his nerves, while she sounded off like an English schoolmaster. “You’re not just a little lap dog are you?”


Ethan, a spectator in all of this, watched with a detached amusement.  He had a casual intensity reminiscent of an aristocrat.


“Is that what this is about?” Mann really wanted to let her have it. He wanted to spill what he saw on those tapes of William. He wanted to tell her the reason they hired a guy like him was because nobody in town would get near this case. But Mann elected not to and decided to play it business-wise and cool. “You’re canceling the contract?” Mann stared at both of them. Ethan wore the same calm expression when he first sat down. “Look, when you hired me, you knew how I operated.”


Ethan leaned forward in his seat, and said, “I told you we needed someone from out of town. A new face. Someone that would not generate further gossip during the investigation. I know why you lost your detective job of twenty years. I do know how you work and to a lesser degree, how you think. That’s why we hired you. We’re all professionals at this table, I am sure we can reach an agreement.”


The waiter returned with the drinks and placed them on the table and asked if they needed anything else.  Ethan smiled, and said no, everything was just fine.   Mann leaned back into his seat, folded his hands in front of him. Ethan took a sip from his water and said, “With whom did you meet yesterday?”


“I met with an interesting lady friend of your brothers – perhaps you know her? Nadia? She gave me a lead which I followed up with. A man named Kirkwood. A drug dealer. He was the last one to speak to William. It was over the phone.”


Ethan nodded.  “Do you think either of them are involved?”


“Nadia – she’s clean. Why bite the hand that feeds you? William is a game to her and she loves playing him. Now, perhaps he was motivated by some of her head games to perform some rash act - that will be difficult to prove in a court of law. This Kirkwood fellow- I’m not so sure about him. He sells drugs to a high-powered clientele. I’m sure he’s never had to shakedown a deadbeat customer. He had a heavy with him, a French guy. Both of those guys handled their guns like they’d never fired them before. Did they knock him off? Again, as with Nadia, why bite the hand that feeds you. William was paying out about forty to Nadia and maybe another ten to Kirkwood. That’s monthly.


“But Kirkwood did give me something tasty that I can use. He said that during the call, William mentioned a girlfriend. Apparently, he’d been seeing her a lot. Kirkwood also said that William sounded good on the phone. Focused. Clear headed.”


“What are you telling me? We find this girl, and we find him? Unbelievable.”


“More or less. She’s certainly a person of interest. She might know where he is or what happened to him.”


Ethan glowered at Mann.  “Sounds too easy. All we have to do is find her in a city of eight million?”


“This might help.” He dumped the gray jeweler’s box on the table.


“What’s this?”


“I found it in his desk. Along with dates on his day planner of a jeweler in midtown.”


Ethan made no motion to open the box, and dismissed it. Charley opened the box and glanced quickly at its contents before closing it and returning it to Mann.     


“How are they connected? We don’t have anything linking the two.”


“You’re right. I need a few things for my investigation that I was hoping to obtain with your assistance.”


“Of course. If it will aid in your search, by all means.”  


4

It had been two days since his last meeting with Ethan. Parading Mann through the lounge at the Westchester Country Club was all a show, an elaborate display to indicate in the clearest of terms – who was in charge. Ethan didn’t miss how the other members offered their respect. Everyone wanted to know what Ethan was thinking.  And Mann was reminded of his place -he was just a commodity like any other, subject to market demand.  He agreed to use the car service, and that was it.


Mann had spent the last two days holed up in his hotel room, eating room service three meals a day, pouring through video footage.  He obtained the last two weeks of security footage from William’s apartment tower with the help of Ethan’s office. Charley had proved to be an effective force – she made a single phone call and the tapes were delivered two hours later to his room.  And then there was always William’s private collection – thirty hours painstakingly organized and categorized.


The security footage was in VHS format and Mann paid four hundred bucks for all of it to be transferred to DVD including a rush fee so he could watch in his room on his laptop.


How do I continue this investigation for an individual for whom I have no sympathy for?  Mann pondered this question as he watched the footage and made his notes and observations.
When he wasn’t fast forwarding through the footage and scribbling down in his notes, he was making phone calls.  He called ex-girlfriends, and numbers from the cellphone. Most were terse some just hung up. He called his buddy again - Earl Chase – and asked him for a favor. He needed an east coast connection, someone who had the city wired. He didn’t trust Ethan or anyone else he spoke with for that matter. Earl, from Boston, said he would see what he could do. He called back an hour later with a name Frank Palazzo. Frank, retired NYPD, now working corporate security for a large multinational, agreed to chat over drinks at the bar this evening.  Earl said, “He’s a real fucking card that guy. He helped me on a case about fifteen years ago, we’d stayed friends ever since. Rare in this fucking business right? Now, he’s got himself a sweet gig overseeing corporate security for the top execs. He’s traveling on private jets, golfing. He’s got a five handicap. Can you believe that shit? Some kid who grew up in the Bronx with a  five handicap playing alongside CEOs.”


Yesterday, Mann hired a sketch artist to construct illustrations of the woman in the video.  The security tapes were all but useless, except for three fleeting seconds.


They had entered through the lobby- William in a camel hair topcoat linked arm in arm with a tall leggy raven haired woman.  A doorman had opened the door, and in the video Mann watched the doorman chatting with the couple. The doorman returned to his curbside post, the door closed, and frozen just long enough, she looked squarely into the camera.  Mann fully expected to see the back of her head, her thick dark hair piled high as she strutted across the floor – then surprisingly, she turned and looked straight into the camera, and Mann thought she was grinning when she did, as if to say catch me if you can. She gave Mann almost three seconds of footage.
He liked the way she wore a dark turtleneck, short skirt and a stylish black leather jacket. She looked Italian, maybe Spanish. She could fit right in at any high end night club or bar.  He had spent the day zooming in on her, memorizing the curve of her legs, the angles of her chin and nose. The way her lips parted, and opened just enough – and he found himself picturing her without her clothes.  In Mann’s mind, she had transgressed from a studied suspect to an obsession.


Strangely, there was no footage of her leaving the building. When Mann questioned the doorman, an elderly black man with busy gray sideburns, the man barely recalled the event -even when he presented the sketch work.


Before he marched into the jewelers in midtown, he wanted to be prepared. He had the amulet which he assumed they had seen. But under what pretense? How was it related to the woman in the security video? He had little faith that the amulet would provide any clues, at best, the midtown jeweler would confirm William paid the shop a visit.  Perhaps, William bought an engagement ring for the woman in the video and he’ll return to work, married, and very much alive.


He knew it wouldn’t be that simple. He suspected something much more sinister. The friends he kept, the vices he inured, had left him vulnerable to extortion.  The more he researched William Oldham, the more he loathed him. Mann knew he was not alone for his thinking. Maybe that was just jealousy rearing its ugly head – the woman in the video, was positively striking and Mann could not feel but attracted to the mystery of the woman.  After staring at her image for hours, he decided enough was enough. He phoned his driver and said he would be ready in five minutes.

5

“What is it you want – Mister?”


Both men were standing. Mann was led into the office of  Joshua Moshe – owner of Moshe Private Industries, LLC.  


Mann produced a business card, handed it over, and said, “We spoke on the phone. I’m Gregory Mann. I have an antique piece of jewelry that I was hoping you could look at. Perhaps, you can tell me if it’s worth anything. If it is, I’d like for you to sell it with a generous commission.”


“Ah, Mister Mann, we are primarily a diamond brokerage. We do not specialize with antiquities.
You have been mistaken. My apologizes.” Moshe, an overweight Hasidic Jew, in a simple black suit with a white shirt, wore frameless glasses, and had a friendly sympathetic smile. He maintained the customary side locks.


“I think you’ll want to see this. Please. Five minutes of your time.”


The jeweler mustered a wry smile and said, “If I had nickel for every time I heard that.”  Leaning on his knuckles, he took Mann in and said, “Let me see it.”


Mann handed over the nondescript ring case. Moshe sat in his seat, he set a loupe in his right eye and examined the contents of the box.  He did not remove the amulet, only maneuvered the box beneath the lens.


He pressed his lips tightly together. A moment later, he rose, and said, “Excuse me for a moment. I must consult my associate. One moment.” He closed the door behind him.  He appeared flustered.


Mann sat in his seat, thinking, that wasn’t supposed to happen. Instinctively, he felt tense.  William, purveyor of sin and deceit, plowed a trail of mayhem, obviously to this office. How did he involve a diamond brokerage he would soon find out.


The door burst open. Moshe entered the small office, followed by two younger associates; each wore wrinkled, angry faces, and stared at Mann. Mann could hear Moshe breathing heavily as he took his seat at his desk. The two men remained at the door.  Moshe placed the ring case in the center of the desk.


“Where did you get this?” Moshe tented his fingers, pushed his index fingers into his chin.


“You’ve seen it before haven’t you?” Mann sat in his seat, ignoring the men at the door. “I am investigating the disappearance of William Oldham. I found this –“ Mann pointed at the box- “in his desk. He met with three different jewelers. Your office – Moshe Industries was the last jeweler he met with. I want to know what you talked about.”


“Are you a police officer?”


“No, I am a security consultant hired to find out what happened to William and to bring him back safely.”


Moshe nodded.


“The contents of the box will be returned to the Oldham family, hopefully William.”


“It should be burned and destroyed.” Moshe looked at the two men, and nodded. The men exited the room.


“Forgive me. Sometimes, stolen items pass through here. We are a legitimate organization and have a zero tolerance policy for such indiscretions. When I realized what I was looking at, I naturally assumed a nefarious act brought you and the amulet here. I apologize for being a cynic. Our previous dealings with the amulet involved William Oldham.”


“No need. I would have assumed and done the same thing.”


“One draws false conclusions when we only have half the information.”


“Indeed.” Mann folded his arms and sat back in his chair and said, “How are you involved in all this? How did William and the amulet come to you?”


“Yes – I suppose we should start there.” Moshe leaned forward on his elbows and recounted how William had his secretary make an appointment with a diamond trader who he knew in Manhattan. The trader, a Mr. Beckenbauer, reviewed the item and said he could be of no assistance, but recommended a second individual – Jacob Schwarz. Moshe explained: “Schwarz, who also happens to be my brother in-law,  inspected the amulet with William in the office,  and knew it was special. He asked to keep the amulet for a week while he researched it. Jacob called William and we met here.”


“The three of you? Jacob Schwarz, William, and yourself?”


“And there were two more individuals. This amulet Mr. Mann, cannot be mentioned without raising suspicion, curiosity, and mystery.” Moshe thought Mann was going to interrupt and waited a moment before continuing. “Two other gentlemen joined us. Monsignor Dolan from Columbia University’s Religious Studies department and Rabbi Maximillian Rosenplatts, he’s a cultural anthropologist at NYU.”


“This is beginning to sound like a bad joke.”


Moshe grinned and nodded.


“Very well. Why did you all have to meet with him?”  Mann removed his notepad and said, “It’s just an amulet right?”


“We told him the same thing that I’m to tell you. You’re in grave danger. Pretend you never heard of this amulet, this woman, and go back from where you came.”


Mann hoped that Moshe could wrap up what he had to say with a swift conclusion. He had told the driver to stand by as he would not be long.  But it was not to be.   “It’s not that simple. The Oldham family have paid and paid well for my services and I intended to deliver. You mentioned a woman. What woman?”


“In a moment. What is it that you intend to tell them?”


“Hopefully I can tell them where William is. I plan on submitting a full summary report.”


“My advice to you – forget the case – go back to your where you’re from. Remember what it’s like to be in love. Remember what a sunset looks like.”


“You sound like a poet. Or a fool. Just tell me what you and your friends told William.”


“Tell me,” Moshe’s voice raised, but remained congenial, “Mr. Mann, are you a religious man?”


“No. I was raised Catholic, but stopped when I was in my early twenties.”


“Pity. Any reason?”


“I used to be a cop. There’s no way there’s a god out there with what I’ve seen.”


Moshe seemed unhappy with the answer.


“Mr. Mann, what I am about to tell you then will test your faith. It will be difficult for you to comprehend and you may choose to accept what I am about tell you or, discard it, as you have with your faith. The choice is up to you.”


“When William Oldham sat before you, I assume in this very seat, what did you think about him? What was your initial reaction to the gentleman who sat before you?”


“William Oldham – why his reputation preceded him. Mr. Mann, where are you from?”


“Not here. West coast.”


“William Oldham, for some time, was a favorite cover story for many of the tabloids. Accused of rape several years ago, he was acquitted. Then charges were brought up of jury tampering. A retrial resulted in a hung jury. He has been sued by countless women. He has been arrested for drunk driving, public drunkenness, possession of narcotics and trying to solicit an underage prostitute. Somehow, he always walks away free, a testament to the power of his family empire.  I am fully aware that the gentleman who sat before me was not an angel, but a despicable, even vile, human being.”


“You’ve done your research.”


“Yes. It was rather simple. And I must confess, my daughter is a fan of the tabloids. Perhaps, I may have read some of it myself at one time or another.” He flashed a sideways grin.


“Before we start, there is one more item. This is a long shot, but maybe after you tell me what it is you’re going to tell me, I can see where the amulet fits into my investigation.” Mann opened his brief case, and removed a thin vanilla file folder. He removed three artists’ sketches and handed them over to Moshe. “Before you mentioned a woman - I believe she knows the whereabouts of William Oldham. I have reason to believe she was the last person to see him before he disappeared. Was she with him at the meeting? Did he mention a woman?”
Moshe flipped through the papers, and then spread them out on his desk, side by side.


Speechless, he scratched the side of his head.  He took a long pause, thinking, and breathlessly said, “How did you get these?”


“From William’s security camera. They were blurry, so I hired an artist to produce those. She’s a court room artist, used to turning around sketches, so they’re rough, but the eyes, that’s how they look. I’d like to find to her if I can.”


Moshe turned in his seat and retrieved a large leather bound book, engraved with ancient gold writing.  He spent a few moments flipping through the pages and placed the giant text beside Mann’s drawings.  


“You’re lucky, I almost returned the texts to the library. We pulled these doing our research. Here is your amulet.” Mann popped open the case and compared the amulet in his hand to the drawing. It was an exact match.
Opening an oversize text book, Moshe said, “And here is your mystery woman.” He dropped the text on the desktop.  The woman in the drawing was a near match with the rendering in the book.
“How old are the books?”
“The Babylonian text you are holding with the amulet is a reproduction. The original is fifteen hundred years. The other one, that’s eight hundred.”
“How can that be? That doesn’t make any sense.”
“The amulet in your hand dates back to the Roman Empire.”
Mann did not respond, as he tried to assemble the details.
“This woman, she has many names. In Persian, she is Haddash, the eternal bride. She wears the mark of Cain and many believe she is of the Cain tradition. She is the offspring between fallen angles and evil men.” And Moshe spoke at length recounting the earlier meeting with William. Mann scribbled frantically in his notebook, trying desperately to keep pace with the details of his tome.   

6   

Frank left a harsh voice mail: “Not sure if it’s customary on the west coast to miss appointments, but I waited for over an hour and you never showed up. Bullshit. Call me.”
“This is what you want isn’t it? See what it feels to be William.” He almost didn’t recognize her in the dim light of the hotel lounge.  He had rushed back to his hotel after his meeting with Moshe, but he was nearly two hours late.  Frank was long gone by then. Mann’s cell phone had died during his meeting with Moshe, and trapped in cross-town traffic, he had no recourse. Mann, briefly out of breath from running in from the street, hoped to find Frank at the bar, but instead, his tired eyes found the predatorial stare of Nadia. Dressed in a vintage outfit, but tramped up a bit with heavy mascara lining her eyes. He almost didn’t recognize her. But when he looked closer, her face carried that same lustful glow. At once he was repulsed by her, but found himself attracted to her as well.


Mann guided her to his room and he held her firmly by the back of her upper arm. They put back a few glasses of wine, laughed, but her cunning never dulled. She didn’t provide much more information than he already got from her. He wondered how did an intelligent woman like this end up in her profession. The same way Mann wound up in his. Money.


When he was on top of her, she whispered to call her mother. Her nails dug in his back and she smacked him once, hard, across the face.  He didn’t like that so he went at her harder and harder.


She was pushing for an edge that he didn’t see but didn’t want to cross either.


“This is what you want isn’t it? To be William.” Her voice came in between panted breaths.
When she cleaned herself up, she asked if he liked her dress. She reapplied her makeup in the mirror, bent at the waist as she attended to her eye shadow. He admired the curve of her bottom.


“It looks old. Probably expensive.”


“Correct on both accounts. William lets me wear his mother’s clothes. He still kept them in his closet at his place. This one’s from Bergdorfs. I went home with this one. I think he forgot about
it. I feel like Elizabeth Taylor in it, don’t you think?”        


He didn’t say anything to make her feel pretty. He didn’t want her to stay longer than it took her to put on her shoes. He had to organize his notes and thoughts from the meeting with Moshe and he didn’t need Nadia traipsing around the room distracting him.


“How’s your search going?”


“Not good.”
“Is this why you came here? To ask me that?”


“No,” she laughed shrilly at him.  “I came here for work.”


Mann sighed heavily. Retrieved his wallet and moved to the door. He held open the door, and handed out a crumpled wad of cash. He didn’t even count it nor did she as she left the room.

    
7

He sat across from Ethan and Charley in the family study in the Oldham estate out in Scarsdale.  Mann had handed over two prepared documents, his summary report outlining the history of transpired events.  


Why do I do this?


It’s all I know. What else what would I do?


But, why do I do this?


I don’t care about William Oldham or the origins of his pain. I don’t care if he’s found alive or winds up dead in a crack den in the Bronx surrounded by Vietnamese shemales. The money.


That’s why I do it. The money.  


Thinking of it in those terms placated Mann, it sheathed him from becoming like those he investigated and detested.


Charley, dressed in an elegant pin stripped suit, looked down on the report through narrow framed reading glasses and spoke first: “Let me be frank, this report provides no hope or direction for locating William Oldham.”


“That is correct. I believe I made myself clear in those terms. You’ll never find him. Any consequent investigations will only result in a waste of your money and your time. Please heed my warning.”


Ethan, sitting behind a massive mahogany slab of a desk, said, “I appreciate your candor. The detail of the report is thorough and professional, but-“ the lines in his forehead stacked into a neat v-shape – “I find it hard to believe the events you describe.” He paused, squeezed the bridge of his nose before continuing. “Do you believe this myth that you outline here?”


“I believe the woman in the report –Haddash, is involved in William’s disappearance.”
Charley said, “Do you really believe that she’s a descendant of Cain?. The unholy union between fallen angels and evil men, cursed to walk the earth? Do you believe this?” Incredulous, she held the report as if it were a dirty diaper. “Is this a joke? Do you think we are so daft?”


“There is much in this world we do not understand.  How do you explain how William left absolutely no trace of his disappearance? The security footage from his apartment – there’s no evidence of him leaving the building. Same with the woman – Haddash. A woman like this, this stunning, and she moves through the city like a ghost. No one can recall seeing her.”


“These details are your problems. It’s why you were hired.” Charley said exaggerating the bent of her wrist, pointing at Mann with an open palm, “


Her tone surprised him.  “I understand that. And I have presented you with what I have found.”


“Here you say, William brought the amulet to Dr. Moshe – a noted religious scholar. In fact, you list several other professors, experts who you have referenced.  Would they all concur about the story you presented here?”


“In fact, much of the description was taken directly from their research.”
Ethan said, “And this amulet was a gift to Haddash, presented to her some 800 years ago, by a French nobleman.”


“Yes. It was a wedding gift. But the origin of the amulet dates back to ancient Rome. It was the most prized possession that this Frenchman had. And he gave it to Haddash.”


“You want to know what I think?” Charley said. “I think you found him alright. You and this tart Haddash are in on it together. And we’ll hear back from you or one of your associates asking for money to find him.”


Mann picked up the document and read aloud:


“After that first night, William recounted to Moshe, how he found himself consumed with thoughts of her. At night he believed she was in the same room with him. He heard her breathing in the dark and he resorted to sleeping with the lights on. When he bathed or shaved, sometimes he could see her image behind him. When he turned to face her, there was nothing there. On several occasions, he found himself chasing her through the crowded sidewalks. But never found her.


“He became obsessed with her, you see? Then in London, he finds her there. Moshe provided us his notes for this. I have attached his notes as an addendum to my report. You see, he called Moshe from London. The call records are attached.


“The truth is you hired me not to find him. Right? Let’s talk about the elephant in the room here. I was hired to verify that William was not complicit in some heinous crime that would further tarnish the Oldham name.  I have scoured his associates. Did some have motive to knock him off? Sure. Is there any evidence leading to foul play? None.  He has simply disappeared.”


“Impossible,” Charley said, annoyed. She bristled at the charge.


“You have access to his bank accounts – typically planned disappearances stash a large amount of cash – did you see any withdrawals? There have been no known withdrawals since his return from London. It was that Saturday that I have identified as the day he disappeared. It’s all outlined in the document. Activity on the account since that week has been nil.”


Ethan didn’t speak and weighed the consequences of not finding his brother but verifying that he committed no crime.


“I checked with the airports, LaGuardia, JFK, Newark and even Westchester. Nothing. Besides, his license and passport are still in his home office.”


“How are you qualified to perform a psychological assessment?” Charley asked. “Your report included an assessment.”


“Skills of the trade. In my career you learn to make observations about people-“


“Any formal schooling?”


“Just the school of hard knock. Twenty years.”


Charley smiled condescendingly.


“Look – you can’t refute the facts. William has a history of depression which he self medicates with drugs. He’s very good at it. He’s a functioning addict. His insecurity issues are addressed with Nadia – a dominatrix. She uses her power to toy and exploit William. She hasn’t performed any crime – other than prostitution – but I think she was getting ready.


“His insecurity stems from the pressures of his last name. The shadow of his father Horace who committed suicide when William was eight. And the relationship with his mother has tarnished every relationship he has with women.”


Charley glanced at Ethan but he remained unmoved, objective.


Ethan cleared his throat, and said, “Where do you think he is?”


“It’s not my place. I just recover the facts. But I think he’s out there. I think somehow Haddash is involved. I find myself questioning the way I think about god. If you would have sat with Moshe and heard him talk with such conviction, such resolute belief about the details of the myth, you would be questioning what was possible as well.”


Ethan did not offer a disparaging remark or gesture.


“Moshe said if he confessed his love to her, it’s all over. His soul is lost forever, lost until judgment day.”


“This seems like an elaborate tale of which I have no more time or patience. Mr. Mann, I think you’ve been taken. You’ve been conned.  Perhaps my brother is in on it  - he has conned all of us one way or another.  He has fathered one public debacle after another. It may be best that he remains in exile. You say you are a man of facts – yet you presented a tale worthy of fiction. A self proclaimed myth. We’ll conclude our contract with you, and pay in full. And you are correct – as of today, there has been no impact to the family firm. But keep in mind we will be continuing the investigation and if we find that you are involved in any of this-“


Mann checked his watch. He was booked on the first flight out to LA in the morning. He needed to get home and pack and the truth was, he didn’t want to spend a minute longer in the Oldham estate.

8

Back at his hotel room, he began to pack. It wasn’t even eight yet, and his plane didn’t leave until seven AM. He wanted to get drunk in the hotel lounge, but instead opted to gather his belongings. While he packed he reflected on the case and found himself imagining what Ethan and Charley must have been saying when he left.  He saw them laughing at him. He couldn’t believe his stupidity for presenting the events as he discovered them. The truth. He had said it with a straight face, as if he had said William was in Atlantic City doing speed with a couple of Jersey hookers.


As he stood there folding his clothes, he heard the bathroom squeak open. A short brief sound, but loud in the still air of the room.


He walked over to the bathroom and called out. Nothing.     


He flipped the lights off in the bathroom.


He returned to packing his bag. He packed all the security footage in a brown envelope, addressed to Ethan Oldham.  It then occurred to him that Nadia palmed his key card and had slipped into the room.


He went to the closet, and removed his suit jackets and replaced them in his suit bag.


Light seeped from beneath the bathroom door. He half expected to see Nadia standing in the bathroom.


He opened the door to the bathroom. Empty.


Again, he flipped the lights off and went back to his suitcase.


A moment later, he thought he felt someone watching him, and was shocked when he looked up and was right.


Standing in the unlit hallway, a silhouette of a woman sheathed in a wrap dress.


“Nadia. Dammint. Didn’t you take enough of my money? I’m too tired for your games.” He moved for his wallet on the nightstand. And the image stepped forward and revealed herself.
It was not Nadia, but the woman he had memorized from the security footage. Haddash.  He felt his throat dry and his heart race.  His palms grew slick with perspiration, but he found his eyes slowly tracing the curves of her body until he found himself staring in her flint colored eyes, as she stepped closer towards the bed. And there he found himself trapped, and unable to move or scream as he stared into perdition.
 




BIO
In addition to contributing to online articles for technology and
online marketing sites (alpha-multimedia.com, code-launch.com), Joseph
has published short stories at a Twist of Noir, Darkest Before the
Dawn, ShriekFreak Quarterly and SNM Horror Magazine. By day, he is the VP of Engineering for a technology startup in Portland, OR.  By night, he is an aspiring crime fiction writer. When he is not busy managing work and writing, he can be found playing with his two young daughters.  Please visit his website to learn more - www.jb-christopher.com.