If Mom had known how that stupid, cartoon, black-and-white, smiling thing would mock me, reminding me of every new day that passed with fewer and fewer clients and less hope for a better future, she would’ve never bought it for me.
But she’d had no idea how badly this would all go. Hell, I’d had no idea either.
And yet now here I was, once again staring at the ironic reminder of my failure. Another day gone, and I’d done nothing but lost some rounds of chess to a computer, reread Critical Mass for the fifth time, and prayed, hoped, longed for a client, for anything.
The sound of knocking on the door surprised me so much that I almost fell off my chair.
And yet, even as I rose, the three sharp knocks were repeated, one after another, perfectly in time. When I opened the door, the man had his pale, skeletal hand crumpled into another knock position, prepared for three more knocks, presumably.
“Are you Alex Combs?” his high-pitched voice asked.
I stared at him. My mind was so busy processing what it was seeing that it couldn’t come up with anything to say yet. White hair, yellow teeth, aquiline nose, hollowed-out face—this man looked more like a movie villain than anything. His hooded, gray, lifeless eyes weren’t helping either. He had no wrinkles to indicate his age however, except for a strangely prominent crease in the middle of his forehead.
“Are you?” His high, cold voice snapped me back to life.
I nodded dumbly.
“Yeah. I…that’s me.”
He eyeballed me dubiously, his liquid gaze rolling over my try-hard black and navy business suit, then my hopelessly blond hair.
“Come in,” I said before he could run away.
I opened the door, and, at the sight of my dismal little office, his doubtful expression became downright disappointed.
“You have worked in the industry…for a while?” he asked.
“Yes.” I flopped into my chair, making the thing almost fall over altogether.
I gestured to the mauve-cushioned wooden chair which he only stared at.
This was my first client in months; I couldn’t mess this up!
I jumped up, and the words flew out of my mouth. “Okay, here’s the deal. Those guys over there—Private Investigations—I can tell you right now, they can give you a better rate and more guys working on your case.”
The man squinted at me as if trying to see if I was joking.
I took another deep breath and plowed on. “But they don’t have what I do: six years of experience in the field, a passion that keeps me working on cases until the wee hours of the morning, and a doggedness that doesn’t stop until it gets results.”
He was still staring at me, his face unmoved.
“I know I don’t look like much,” I said, “but I can promise you this: I will work until your case is solved or you can have your money back. You have my word.”
At this, his eyebrows raised and stayed raised. Then he took a sweeping look around the room that ended on me. Abruptly, he slid into the chair.
“You have my attention,” he said.
I collapsed back onto my own chair, trying not to look as relieved as I felt.
“So, tell me a bit about yourself,” I said. “What is it you’d like looked into?”
“I’m Russell Snow. I’m trying to track down someone dangerous. Very dangerous. Really, an unhinged criminal.”
He searched my face for a reaction that I tried not to give. If he saw just what I was thinking, he might have left entirely. Why was this guy coming to me instead of the police for help with finding a so-called “unhinged criminal”?
“Okay,” I said.
He continued. “His name is Brock Anderson. I want evidence of his criminal activities so I can hand him over to the police.”
Each statement was a smooth sliding-out of syllables, after which his gaze scanned my face for their absorption. Finally, he finished up with, “So that’s your job. Follow him and get evidence.”
I nodded.
“Those ‘private investigators’ across the street were useless. What about you?”
He scanned my face, and I scanned his.
With that white hair and unsettling face, the name Russell Snow fit. It fit too well, I’d say. It was probably fake. There was something off about this request, this guy, all of it, and yet I was in no position to refuse any job.
“Okay,” I found myself saying. “I’ll do it. Just tell me what to look for and I’ll get to work. What evidence should I be on the lookout for?”