If you’ve missed the earlier parts of Jared’s story, here’s a table of contents:
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4
Jared arrived early. He sat in his car outside the Klein Building. Prescott Investigation’s offices were on the third floor. The blinds were open. Vehicles occupied about half the spaces in the parking lot. Clouds had rolled in from the north since the morning. Sunlight filtered through, dulled and gray. Rain was coming. The wind blew in fitful gusts.
Ira pulled into the parking lot. He still drove the same Karmann Ghia he’d bought his last year in college back in 1971. It was still bright yellow, lovingly maintained. Ira pivoted on his rear before using the door to help him up to his feet. Slowly, deliberately, he pulled his briefcase from behind the driver’s seat. He shut the door, double-checked the lock. His shock of white hair, like a ragged halo, caught the wind. He wore khakis, a pull-over turtleneck, and a sweater vest. The sole of one shoe was noticeably thicker than the other. Ira walked slowly with a slight wobble.
“Good afternoon, Ira,” Jared said, catching up to the older man at the elevator.
Ira smiled, extended his hand, which Jared shook. “How does life treat you, Jared?”
The bell preceded the elevator doors opening. Jared pushed three. “I can’t complain,” he said. “How about you?”
Ira looked up at Jared with shining eyes. His glasses reflected the overhead lights. “Most days are okay. On the others, I survive.”
Third floor. The elevator doors opened. The hall, carpeted floor flanked by faux wood paneled walls, ran left and right before turning at both ends, forming a rectangle. Frosted glass windows. Heavy doors with neatly centered placards. Signs next to the doors with suite numbers. Jared walked slowly, keeping pace with Ira.
Jared pushed the button next to the door announcing “Prescott Investigation”. A faint buzz sounded through the door. Another buzz and a click let the two men know they could enter the brightly lit office. The room, square and professional, held a single desk behind which sat a tanned, dapperly dressed young man. Neatly trimmed hair, clean shaven, manicure. The nameplate on his desk informed clients that his name was Charles Benoit. Behind him on the wall hung a painting of Regency Era people, handsomely dressed, enjoying a picnic and games in a park. Opposite the desk stood three chairs. Two more chairs faced the entry. Two more doors, both closed, led out of the atrium. Centered about eye level on one door was a nameplate that read “Rebecca Prescott”. The other door was unmarked.
“Ms. Prescott will be with you shortly,” the man said. “Please have a seat. Would you like something to drink?”
Jared settled into one of the chairs while Ira set his briefcase on another. Ira asked for coffee, two sugars, one cream. Jared declined. Charles nodded, departed through the unmarked door.
“He’s new,” Ira said. “Does he know?”
Jared nodded. “He knows. He was read in after the usual vetting. Seems reliable and efficient.”
Charles returned, cup of coffee balanced efficiently on a saucer. Ira thanked him, sipped loudly. The door to the boss’s office opened inward, almost silently. A short, heavy set woman with a bob haircut advanced, smiling. As she said her hellos, she accepted a kiss on the cheek from Ira, shook Jared’s hand.
Rebecca Prescott stood aside, gestured for her guests to enter her office. She wore a dark gray blazer, calf-length red skirt, white blouse. Small diamond stud earrings, a thin gold chain, a wristwatch of gold and silver. Her shoes were flats, closed toe, and matched her skirt.
“Make yourselves comfortable, gentlemen,” she said as Jared and Ira entered her office. “Charles, please make sure we’re not disturbed.”
“Of course.”
The office door shushed closed. Rebecca’s office was nearly three times the size of the atrium. Her desk was small, modern, and facing the far corner. Two laptops sat on the glass desktop. Both were open. Screen savers active. Landscapes faded into resolution and lasted a few seconds before fading into different scenes. Adjacent to the desk was a bookcase holding law books, reference guides, and a jumbled collection of worn true crime paperbacks. Family photos hung on the walls. Rebecca with her three children and husband. School pictures, family outings. Ira was in several of the pictures. Two diplomas were displayed, one a Masters of Science in criminology, the other a Masters of Science in information technology.
Jared and Ira sat at the rectangular conference table. Ira was unpacking his briefcase, setting up two laptops. One he faced toward Jared, the other toward himself. Rebecca pulled a chair around to sit next to Ira. The computers were synced. Ira opened up the library of portraits on Jared’s computer before opening the facial reconstruction program on his own.
“Ready when you are,” Ira said, leaning back in his chair, right hand on the mouse, left hand resting on the table. Rebecca took his hand her hers. He squeezed her fingers and smiled at her.
Jared sighed, rolled his head to flex his neck, and pulled the Ziploc baggie with the toothbrush. He took the toothbrush from the baggie.
“Lilacs,” Ira whispered.
Jones stood in the far corner. Reflexively, he tried to cover his nakedness with his hands.
“They can’t see you,” Jared said. “Or hear you. Move over here so you can see this computer.”
“Why?” Jones asked as he did as he was told.
“We’re going to do some facial reconstruction,” Jared said. “Ira used to work for the Bureau. He pioneered the use of computers to create composite images from witness descriptions. You’re going to help us identify the man who filmed you with Sharon.”
Jones looked at the screen. Face after face, each one slightly different than the one before.
“The partial image from the video gives us a reasonably good starting point,” Ira said. “I’ve already narrowed the parameters. Ready when you are.”
For the next hour or so, Ira asked questions, and Jared repeated Jones’s answers. With each click or sweep of the mouse, the portrait took shape. The face narrowed. The cheek bones became sharper. The eyes, dull green and set wide across the bridge of a nose that looked to have been broken and poorly set. Head shaved bald. Cauliflowered ears, the left one pierced and sporting a diamond stud. Thick eyebrows. A neatly trimmed goatee, brown so dark as to be almost black, but flecked with gray.
“That’s him,” Jones said. “I mean, that really is him.”
Jared repeated Jones, and Ira looked in Jones’s direction.
“Good, good,” Ira said to the ghost. “Then, we’re done here.”
A few more clicks of the mouse set the printer to humming. Rebecca took the page from the output tray and held up the portrait for all to see. Then, she set the page on the table.
“I’ll get this picture to Management,” Rebecca said. “If he’s in the system, we should have his identity in two or so days. After that, Management will meet as usual to discuss the next step.”
Jared rolled his head, flexing his neck and shoulders, listening to the crackle of his bones. He sighed.
“I’m done with you for now,” he said, and Jones vanished. He looked at Ira, at Rebecca, and drummed his fingers on the tabletop, the staccato taps the only sound other than the faint hum of the air conditioner. “The next step has already been decided, Rebecca. With or without sanction, I’m taking it.”
Jared stood. Ira did also, using the table as leverage. Rebecca held Jared’s stare as her father stepped over to the much taller man. Ira reached up and laid a gentle hand on Jared’s shoulder. The old man’s fingers were slightly crooked with thick knuckles, the back of his hand covered with a web of dark veins.
“God bless you,” Ira said.
Jared looked down at Ira and grinned, but he didn’t say what he was thinking. Instead, Jared said, “Thank you, Ira. God bless you, too.”
Tags: fiction, Lilacs
