The office door opened again, and I was too tired to even take a peek at who it was, and like most days-- okay every other day, I was hoping it was someone who had just enough of a grudge that they would end it for me.
"Rick, it looks like you have mail." Mose said as he closed and the locked the door behind him. I sat up and reached out without looking at him to hand me the mail. It was still raining outside. Grey and miserable.
There were three bills, two for utilities, and one for printing services. I had needed new business cards for such a long time, it never occurred to me to restock them. I could always use the cards I have left over from the force... But I knew that using those would give the image that I'm still on the force. Even then I still kept at least two of those official police cards in my wallet. Just in case. But In case for what?
The last four pieces were a large and annoying-looking coupon pamphlet, which had ads for stores I had never heard of; a post card, I think from a cousin or aunt, I can't remember nor care who went where; a general envelope from a friend in Columbus, it contained financial records of a case I've asked to just give a second opinion on; and an odd, but half an inch thick manila envelope with typed font.
The envelope's font didn't look like it was printed on from a printer, but rather it looked as if someone had taken the time to type on it with an old manual typewriter. The electric typewriters have a different kind of ribbon that's a little harder to find these days.
I tossed the rest of the bullshit mail on my desk. Mose picked up the ads pamphlet to skim through them as I opened the manila envelope. Inside was what looked to be a copy of a faxed document. The dates and times were blacked out in advance on the original, so that nothing showed up on the copy I was holding.
"Ingram, there is work for you. Do you still work at the cleaners?"
I don't do work like this anymore... I had a feeling this kind of work would come back.
"Terry Harbin, 33 years old. No physical defects. Athletic or body builder. Works in sales over at Phantom Point advertising. Lives at 232 Alton Drive, in The Forest. Single, no pets."
The Forest being an area of town where the up-and-ups lived. It was because they actually had an opportunity to have trees around them, whereas the rest of us poor bastards had to live in the city. The description continued on about his neighbors, a Korean couple with two small dogs - breed unknown - and another recluse like Harbin.
"...Harbin has a history of rough abuse towards women and escorts. Seven months ago two counts of rape, one count of aggravated murder, and three assault charges were dropped due to lack of evidence. The Nest suspects that number should be as high as thirteen counts of rape, two counts murder, and numerous assault charges.
There is belief that Harbin is a sadomasochistic, including acts of molestation, murder, mutilation, rape, and torturing victims. Included are photos of the only known murder."
I ignored the loose dossier on Harbin and looked at the 8 1/2" by 11" black and white photos. There was a sticky note blocking out the victim, with the text,
"Deceased: Celeste Vickers, 20 years old
Vocation: Student/Unemployed
Last seen: July 8th"
Of course I would have peeled away the sticky note to look at the girl in question, but I was not yet ready for that kind of commitment. It's bad to look at pictures of dead bodies if you can avoid it. I told myself. In this case, if I looked at the girl it very well would have already sealed my decision to do this kind of work again.
It seemed to be some kind small room for an apartment where the victim had died. The carpet in the picture was or seemed to be a very light color, except the surrounding area of sticky note. A black blob-ish looking ring blocking out the deceased.
Black, in a black and white photo, almost always was blood in my line of work. Always blood. Once it was red wine, but I wasn't able to determine that from the picture alone. I only found out later that the questionable black spot on a carpet was a cheap Cabernet. It was one of those rare chances when I actually had access to a crime scene. And that was another case...
In my current line of work, sometimes I've only been able to go back and pick up the broken pieces. The Nest however showed us where I could find the breaker, and with those broken pieces and shards of people's lives and families, I'd cut the fucker's throat out. In this case, Harbin. But I hadn't decided to do anything yet. Of course, I'm certain I'm not the only one The Nest uses, that I knew for a certainty.
"Anything interesting?" Mose said, without looking up from ads.
"It's from birds." I said cryptically.
Mose looked up from the pamphlet, and made a face as if he wanted to throw the ads away. I nodded and waved a
"go ahead" with my hand.
"What do they want?"
I guess he knows it's important.
"What do you think?"
Mose smiled looking down at the corner of my desk, "I don't know yet."
"You'd rather not know." I said staring at him.
"So what are you gonna do then?" I knew he meant,
"we".
"I'm thinking."
I don't do this kind of work anymore. But you know you can do it, I heard a little voice say.
"Is that the file?" Mose motioned towards the envelope, photo, and dossier I was still holding.
"..."
You don't want to look at this Mose. "If you look at this, you don't get to go back. This kind of stuff doesn't end. Even if you don't do it anymore, it follows you home. You can't justify it."
"I'm not a cop." Mose said smirking. I could tell his face had that
'And you're no longer one!' look to it.
"Fine." I said tossing the files onto the desk.
Mose picked up the file and then sat down again across from me. I could tell he was scanning more of the dossier than I did. His lips pursed for a second then he spoke, "What is The Nest?"
I had completely forgotten what or who they were. I remember one day two men approached me when I was scheduled as an assistant liaison officer for the then police commissioner when the then VP was in town.
Two men, well-dressed pulled me aside. They spoke gently, but firmly. Neither wore rings, nor had noticeable scars, corrective lenses, or any abnormal features. They honestly looked B-grade models working mid-level management, who did cardio and lifted weights two or three times a week.
The card they handed me had no address, nor phone number. Egg-shell white, with raised lettering. It had the name "C.S. Drenning", nothing else on the card, not even a title. The backside, said, "We'll contact you." And had the letters ZX-AE-Canary.
"We're interesting in having you work for our agency."
"What agency is that?"
"Well, that's irrelevant now, just know that we're travelling with the VP's caravan."
"What kind of work."
"We'll contact you."
"What if I'm not interested?"
"Then our profilers failed."
They profiled me? "I'm not going to do anything illegal. You know I'm a badge."
"Aren't we all?"
"I think we're done here."
"You'll be hearing from us."
I doubt that.
But I did hear from them, albeit about seven months later.
Sitting in a coffee shop three blocks from my precinct, I was approached by two men, who looked and acted the same.
"Mr. Ingram, hello."
"Can I help you?"
"Do you still have our card?"
"We'll contact you." the other man said.
Actually I do. I pulled it out, and while faded it was still there.
The other man took it, while the first one continued to smile at me. The other man looked carefully at the card, and fingered it with his thumb stratching at the surface of the lettering.
"Okay." He said towards the first man.
"Thank you for your time Mr. Ingram, will be visiting you later this evening."
"I have plans." I quipped
"They're cancelled."
What the--
"We'll see you tonight, good day."
Several times over the past seven years. I was given recovery assignments and cleaning assignments. Most of the things I wanted to do with the badge on, but couldn't. Among other issues, I was practically living a double life. Up-holding the law, and breaking it to maintain "a balance" as they called it. Any leads to identify Drenning failed. I found out nothing more about him except meeting his "partner" in France once while on vacation.
When I ran into Drenning's partner I knew they had to have operations not only in the states, with retainers in Ohio, L.A., and Quebec, but also in Sartrouville in France. It was when I was on vacation for two weeks touring castles and chateaus in Europe, when I was approached in a men's lavatory at a cafe in Sartrouville. The man who bumped into me was Drenning's partner.
"Hello-- Isn't it, Mr. Ingram!" He feigned surprise.
"Yes it is, how are you?" I asked.
"Yes. Enjoying France?" He said ignoring the question I asked.
"Yes the castles are nice. Are you here for something?"
"Oh? The coffee here is quite nice. Maybe if you are here longer we could arrange a time to meet over coffee? We'd love to have you."
"I'm busy." I lied. So far France had been a total bust and didn't interest me at all
"Would you like the number of the hotel I'm staying at?" I continued.
"I see. Oh thank you for your number. We'll contact you."
Drenning's partner walked out with a smile, his pressed navy blue pin-striped suit looked expensive. On his right wrist he wore a Breitling Navitimer Premier in 18K gold. That watch was at least double what I made in a month. Right wrist... A lefty.
I didn't know more than that about locations. But they gave me work, and they did contact me, of course that was after I got back state-side.
Eventually I had to stop cleaning, I wasn't sleeping well anymore. I was worried someone would come after me, but no one did. Occasionally I got mail, sometimes I answered and sometimes I didn't. It still came in, nothing that was traceable.
Of course, I was too scared to ask anyone else for help. Inspector Pennetta offered some advice, but never anything direct which was unusual of him. It wasn't like Pennetta and I didn't do hard-boiled things off the record, but any "agency" asking us to do it was a different issue all together. Some of the things they asked...
They'd come into to town once in a while, during major events, like the VP visiting or conferences. That's how I later learned a few were based in Ohio. From there, I found the few other offices, but nothing helped after that. I never got any clear answers with my leads, other than the cryptic and confusing, "We'll contact you." I heard this so often, that when I heard it out of context from some hooker in the red-light, I started to think even she worked for The Nest. It's how I knew these guys, whoever they were, played hard-ball.
I came back from those years and looked at Mose, "Did you drive here?" I said reaching for my grey suede shoes. They didn't match well with my brown my slacks in nice weather, but I didn't care anyhow nor did it matter since it was still raining.
With a toothy-grin Mose replied, "Right out-side."
