VICTOR Abraham was an honest son-of-a-bitch and your best friend if you were in trouble. He was an odd-duck, a historian-for-hire with an athletic background and a penchant for both the supernatural and the spiritual.
When Kate Corrigan walked into his San Francisco office flashing a sexy smile, he paused, dropping into his broken office chair, smiled back, then looked out his dirty picture window at Alcatraz Island.
“Yes, Ms.—” he said, brushing his brown hair away from his dark eyes.
“Kate Corrigan. You come highly recommended,” she said, sitting down in front of his freshly stained oak desk, her brilliant blues eyes staring at him, her blonde hair reaching her shoulders, her skirt slightly raised.
“By whom?” he asked, turning to face her with a twinkle in his eyes.
“George Bacon.”
“A bastard. But a straight-shooter.”
Abraham stood up, his six-foot frame projecting muscular confidence.
He was thinking about his chess match in Golden Gate Park that would have to be cancelled. He loved chess, but he’d been without work for two months and couldn’t afford to pass on any new assignment. He was also thinking about a library presentation, Lost Monasteries of the East, which he was to give that night with a retired university historian, a former teacher and friend.
By giving these presentations, he pushed himself to stay current with his Ph.D. thesis, Mysticism: The Forgotten History. He’d been working on his manuscript for over ten years, receiving numerous extensions from his university adviser. He estimated that he would be forty-two by the time he actually received his advanced degree, maybe in two years.
“Can you help me find my father? I’m worried. He has disappeared.”
“From—”
“His Market Street office and his home.”
“I see.” Abraham touched his third eye with his middle finger, sensing her honesty. “His occupation?”
“Government geek, operating as an independent contractor.”
“Computers.” “Yes. Actually, he’s a cryptologist.”
“His personal interests?”
“Lifelong interest in collecting unusual objects, poetry, and some metaphysical inquiry.”
“Interesting. A code breaker and a Renaissance man.”
“And a private man. He didn’t always confide in me about his activities.”
“One hundred a day plus expenses and a dinner or two.”
“Fair enough. Do you like Italian?”
“My favorite. What’s your gig?”
“Rare book dealer,” Kate Corrigan said, standing, joining Victor in front of his dirty office window that overlooked a hotel swimming pool that was four stories down.
“Interesting. I love books. Rare books – they’re even more interesting. One thing. My methods are unorthodox. Second sight, remote sensing and radionic tracking. And waking dreams and sudden hunches.”
“Whatever works? You’re the civilian operative for hire.”
Abraham nodded. “True, but I want my clients to be aware that logic isn’t always the path to discovery. For starters, let’s go to your father’s office.”
“Wait … I want to be sure you’re on board.”
“Ms. Corrigan, if I start, I always cross the finish line.”
“One more thing. Keep me informed. Hold nothing back.”
“Clients have the right to know.” Most of the time, he thought.
Δ Δ
A short car ride took them to her father’s Market Street office, where Abraham parked his classic 67 British racing green Lotus Élan coupe in an alley, away from other cars, trying to preserve its pristine condition.
They took a slow-operating elevator to the second floor and walked down a poorly lit hallway.
Opening the office door, Kate grimaced. “I apologize for the mess. My father was never much for organization.”
“This isn’t all his mess. The place speaks to me. Some kind of encounter or dispute took place here.”
“Kidnapping?”
“Possibly. I don’t like the feel of this space. Often, in offices, thought-forms linger like bad weather.”
Abraham glanced around the cramped third floor office. From the back window he could see the Oakland hills.
“That framed picture of the coiled snake. Significance?”
“Not sure. He often used the image as his seal, stamping it on important notes or documents that he wrote.”
“Do you know what your father was working on?” He fixated on a strange photo on his desk, torn around the edges, which showed a blast of light but no actual images. He turned it over, noting it was blank.
He pocketed the photograph.
“Probably classified. He never uttered a word about his work, but he was insistent on one thing – this. He told me never to lose it.” She showed Abraham a charm-locket.
“Hmm. An Egyptian symbol of the Ka, the soul.” Abraham touched the charm. His fingers tingled. His inner eye flashed momentarily. Then his vision cleared. “Anything else?”
“Just yesterday, he did mention a boat called the Sarah Jean. I believe he’s leasing it.”
“Probably a contact point.”
“How could you know that?”
“People who like boats have pictures and models of boats. Your father liked Picasso and other artists. Obviously, he was an art history buff.” Abraham pointed to all the different reproductions and the two sculptures – Rodin copies. “Just a hunch, but what about that picture on the bookcase shelf?
“Former associates.”
“Alive?”
“Don’t know.”
“Names?”
Kate lifted the picture photo off the bookcase and turned it over, pointing. “Names: Johnny Ryes, Peter Simpkins, Todd Franklin, all close friends at one time.”
Abraham pulled a small wireless computer out of his coat pocket, linked to the Internet, and searched each name. He stared at the blinking gray screen. It eventually froze on Todd Franklin’s name – Killed in the Middle East. “One clue is all I need to begin this journey. This killing qualifies. There are troubled waters ahead. We need to find that boat.”
“I’m not sure where it’s docked. Its location constantly changes.”
“The Registry of Ships should tell us.”
“Are we on a journey?”
“All my cases are journeys. They’re all about discovery, insight, perhaps revelation.”
“A bit transcendental. Mr.—”
“Victor. We need to find that boat, Ms. Corrigan.”
“Kate.”
“Touché.” Abraham winked, touching Kate on her bare shoulder as they walked out of her father’s office.
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