Ortiz Detective Agency

[The Exodus]

Santiago Ortiz

Santiago had a warped sense of what “emergency” meant. A little blood was nothing. A lot of blood was a little more than nothing. But it wasn’t until someone was gasping for their final breath, caked in red, and gurgling out last words was anything an “emergency”. Everything shy of that was a crisis in the making. Unless this guy had a corpse he needed to ditch, a dying child, or something of equal rate, Santiago thought “emergency” was a premature call. Because a crisis in the making could always be avoided.

Besides, it was nice to yank somebody’s chain. Santiago almost couldn’t help himself. Rachel knew him well enough to know that this kind of crap was Santiago at his most harmless.

"Yes,” she said. “Right this way Monsieur-"

"Armand Rousseau."

Santiago made note of the name. He took one of the notebooks Rachel had brought him and wrote the name down at the top of the paper next to the date. He listened as Rachel led Rousseau out of the office. He could hear murmured conversation just beyond the door. Santiago was curious, but not willing to go in there until he got that printer set up. He set back to work on it. No, it really did need ink. Christ. Santiago ripped off a sheet of paper and scribbled something onto it for Rachel.

Printer ink please.

And then the door between his office and Rachel’s banged open so hard the window in it rattled. Santiago looked back up. He smiled.

“Oh, Monsieur Rousseau. My eleven o’clock, right? Great.” Santiago gestured to the hard-looking guest chair across his desk. “Please, have a seat.”

“You think you’re funny,” Rousseau snapped. His eyes were red, as though he’d been crying. A drip of snot slid down the space between his nose and lip, as if to confirm that conclusion.

“No, senor,” Santiago said. He sat up straight and leaned forward. “I was hoping you’d calm down after talking to Rachel. Now that you aren’t shouting and trying to break my doors, we can talk.”

Rousseau eyed him suspiciously, but took the seat. Santiago smiled. His smile was not nearly as comforting as Rachel’s, but a grim thing that seldom saw the light of day. He’d work on that. Or maybe not. Being a good detective didn’t necessarily include smiling.

“Tell me about this emergency.”

“It’s my wife,” said Rousseau. “I just… I love her so much.”

Santiago wondered if the man thought this was therapy and not a detective agency. His brown eyes dulled and he lifted his brows, waiting for the man to elaborate.

“She is so beautiful,” Rosseau provided after a minute’s silence. “And I see the way other men look at her. They look at her like she’s a piece of meat. It’s disgusting. They think they can just reach out and take her.”

Santiago found himself having trouble believing that Senora Rousseau was beautiful. He imagined her to be forty-ish, like her husband. Maybe less paunchy, less balding, but with budding crow’s feet and a little extra thickening up her ankles and waist. That didn’t mean she wasn’t beautiful, but Santiago found Rosseau’s description lacking. His wife was beautiful, this was an emergency…

“You think she’s cheating on you?” Santiago hazarded. “Or that someone has done something to her?”

“The sl*t!” Rousseau pounded a fist on the table. “She swears there’s nobody. But when she goes out with her friends… I don’t know where she goes. She doesn’t say who she’s with.”

That was hardly enough evidence to conclude she was cheating. Santiago tented his fingers and listened.

“She doesn’t take my calls when she’s out. And I know she still talks to her ex online!”

Another reason Santiago hated the internet. If he wanted to talk to his ex, he’d rather have a private conversation than a browser full of cookies and bytes documenting every move he made. He suddenly felt sympathy for the unseen wife whose husband was checking her web history or hacking her email. Rousseau pulled out a picture from his wallet and pushed it towards Santiago. The woman in it had long hair and large, dark eyes. Her lush lips contoured to a smile beneath a pert nose. There wasn’t a single age line on her face. No blemishes. Nothing. Santiago flipped the picture over. “Eloise. Summer 2009.” Judging by the picture, if the woman was over 35 today, she’d had a lot of plastic surgery.

“I just love her so much,”[/b Rousseau sniffed. Santiago looked up. The man was crying again. “But every time I ask her about it, she says there’s nothing. Nobody. Just me. And I just… I don’t believe her.”

Santiago wondered how much Rousseau “loved” his wife if he called her a “sl*t” and couldn’t trust her. He sounded more like a stalker than a husband.

“How long have you been married?” Santiago asked.

“Seven years this fall,” Rousseau said. He wiped his eyes with a hammy fist. “Just, dig up the truth for me, okay? I need to know.”

Santiago looked down at the picture of Eloise Rousseau. His stomach felt a little queasy. But this was his first paying gig. He didn’t have the luxury to refuse the emotionally unstable man before him. Santiago exhaled slowly. He wanted a cigarette. Somehow, he’d thought “detective” would be more homicides, more missing persons. Less unfaithful spouses who might not be unfaithful.

“Fine,” Santiago said, handing the picture back. “I’ll need addresses, her daily schedule, whatever you can give me. And of course, payment… In return, I’ll report to you every three days. Sooner, if I find something. Do we have a deal?”

Santiago didn’t know what he was getting himself into when he took Armand Rousseau’s hand in a handshake, but outside, the thunder grumbled in protest.

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Kenneth Dahl

There was a gloom that followed Kenneth around, enshrouded him like a lead blanket and pressed on him, threatening to crush him under its weight. Kenneth could hear his bones now, crunching as he walked, the gloom hanging like a gaudy necklace around his neck, strangulating him. It all started after Kenneth left the Bois a few weeks ago. That man that talked to him, made him laugh, made him think had left a piece of himself with Kenneth, and now Kenneth saw him everywhere; in the street, at work, in the windows of bistros. Kenneth would have been happy to return that piece to him and never think of it again if it hadn’t latched on like a parasite. This parasite, this gloom seemed to have a form, but was ever morphing, the nuances of shades within it shifting constantly as if it wanted a taste of every hue in the colour wheel. It kept him up at night, kept him from working, kept him from eating.

Today it was merely a gloom, but some days it seemed to be an anxiety, or a fear, or a regret. But not today. Kenneth cornered it, stared it down until it succumbed to become the simple gloom it was now. Today, he could carry it around and discreetly hide it in his coat. And maybe he needed to hide it while he was in this appointment.

Kenneth pushed open the door to the Detective Agency, feeling the gloom squirm and swell into nervousness. Stepping quietly into the office, he knocked on the doorframe. “Excuse me? Santiago Ortiz? I’m Kenneth Dahl. I called you last week?”

[The Exodus]

Santiago Ortiz

The taste of tobacco filled Santiago’s mouth and nose the way the swells of Mozart filled the rest of the office. Santiago took a drag and thumbed through the notes he’d been taking on his most recent case—going over some documents for the law office across the street. From what Santiago could tell, it looked like an embezzlement case and if his clients were looking to persecute, they were golden. Santiago found white collar crime particularly foreign and distasteful. If you hated your business partner, you didn’t steal all his money. You killed him and gave him a set of cement shoes. Embezzlement took too long and if you weren’t particularly careful, someone would uncover your tracks. Murder was efficient. And Santiago could murder with particular efficiency and without leaving tracks. He smirked at the thought. He wasn’t supposed to think like that, but old habits died hard. And addictions never did die.

He twirled the cigarette between his fingers and watched tendrils of smoke squirm towards the ceiling. A knock on the door barely registered to him.

“Excuse me? Santiago Ortiz? I’m Kenneth Dahl. I called you last week?”

“Check in with my secretary,” Santiago called out. “I don’t see anyone who hasn’t checked with Rachel first.”

Since Rachel was out getting coffee, it would be at least another twenty minutes before Santiago bothered to see this client, which would give him time enough to finish typing up his report for the law office. He clenched his cigarette between his teeth and set to typing. In the background, a German soprano lifted her voice to meet the challenges of “The Queen of the Night” aria from Magic Flute.

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Kenneth Dahl

“Check in with my secretary. I don’t see anyone who hasn’t checked with Rachel first.”

Kenneth wasn’t sure if it was the menacing growl in the man’s throat, the sinister German music in the background, or a combination of the two, but Kenneth felt suddenly like he was in danger. His nerves turned the power knob to the right, to the highest power and he turned to leave. “Oh. Sorry to of bothered you, sir. I’ll just leave now.”

The dentist’s office sat with a stagnant energy as if Kenneth and his father were waiting inside of a still life painting. A Day at the Dentist it would be called. The receptionist stood and said with a smile. “I’m sorry. But we can’t see you today. Come back another time, please.”

Kenneth was happy to go. He stood and had already pulled on his coat when his father put a strong, steady hand on his shoulder, pressing him back in his seat. Josef Dahl was a smaller man, but had a surprising strength, convincing eighteen year old Kenneth that sitting back down was the best idea he had ever had.

“Miss,” he said politely, sternly, “our appointment was scheduled for 10 A.M. on the dot. We arrived here thirty minutes early to ensure we were seen. It is now 5 o’clock in the afternoon. You have kept us here all day and we’re tired. Please, if you could just squeeze us in, it would be much appreciated.”

That day, Kenneth got a dental check-up, a free cleaning, and an extra toothbrush. Maybe putting your foot down from time to time was a good idea.

“Actually, sir,” he said, turning back around. “I won’t. I have a scheduled meeting here with you today. I got here early to ensure I was seen. Your secretary isn’t here so I came straight to you. I consider it a time saver, sir. I don’t know if I can wait until your secretary, Rachel, gets back.”

It was a huge leap the Kenneth took; Kenneth, who never spoke out of turn, who never raised his voice, who never fought for what he wanted. That was Violet’s area if expertise. That was his father’s job. Not Kenneth’s. Kenneth was quiet, gentle, and maybe that was why his words were laden with respect for this man. He was just doing his job, after all, a job that could make Kenneth’s life better.

[The Exodus]

Santiago Ortiz

Santiago was not a people person. He liked his solitude and the solitary nature of his newfound career was sweet relief after years of creative meetings with management and choreographers and directors and conductors. Instead of meeting with a dozen people in a stuffy office, he could do his work in his office and dictate Rachel—who was what you could call a social butterfly—handle people. The young man on the other side of the door would read a magazine or something and Santiago wouldn’t have to deal with him until he was ready. He put his highlighter cap in his mouth as he marked something on the page.

“Oh. Sorry to of bothered you, sir. I’ll just leave now.”

He’d come back at a more convenient time for them both. Problem solved. Santiago put the highlighter down and turned up Mozart. He shut his eyes and leaned back in his chair.

“Actually, sir,” the young man’s British accent cut through the playfully ominous cadenza. Santiago sat up properly, groaning. “I won’t. I have a scheduled meeting here with you today. I got here early to ensure I was seen. Your secretary isn’t here so I came straight to you. I consider it a time saver, sir. I don’t know if I can wait until your secretary, Rachel, gets back.”

“I have other clients, chico,” Santiago said, getting up and opening the door. He held up the case file he’d been working on. “You’re just lucky this isn’t a homicide I’m working.”

He gestured with the papers for the boy to take a seat and he crossed the room to shut off “The Magic Flute”. He cut the Queen of the Night off mid-phrase. Santiago tossed his papers onto the desk and sat down in his chair, studying the young man before him. He was so young looking that Santiago suddenly felt like some sort of ancient relic. Flame colored hair—Gisele colored hair—curled about the boy’s slightly too-large ears and a smattering of freckles dusted the boy’s face. The accent was unmistakably British and the jeans—faded and well-loved—said student to Santiago. They weren’t worn from labor, that was for sure. The kid would have burned up in the sun and his thin, wiry frame wouldn’t have supported him in any blue-collar factory. Santiago opened the bottom drawer of his desk and pulled out the file titled “Kenneth Dahl”.

“Senor Dahl?” he asked, looking up. “I know you aren’t Armand Rousseau and I assume you aren’t Marie LeFavre. So. Tell me. Why are you in my office today?”

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Kenneth Dahl

For a moment, Kenneth was scared. He was going to get it, for sure. Ortiz, possibly a trained soldier of some kind, was going to flip his lid and that would be the end of Kenneth Dahl. End of his problem, too, Kenneth figured, so at least there was a bright side.

“I have other clients, chico. You’re just lucky this isn’t a homicide I’m working.” Ortiz said and Kenneth smiled. Maybe standing his ground had more benefits than it had dangers. Maybe the adult world was nothing like the world of grade school and playgrounds. Or maybe he just got lucky this time. Either way, he was getting help and decided not to dwell too much on it.

“Senor Dahl? I know you aren’t Armand Rousseau and I assume you aren’t Marie LeFavre. So. Tell me. Why are you in my office today?”

Kenneth took a seat and a deep breath. “There’s this guy, this man. Stalking me… or something. I know, I know, I sound paranoid, but… let me back up.” Kenneth took another deep breath, collecting his thoughts, trying to figure out how he could word his thoughts without sounding like a lunatic. “I was adopted when I was three, which I’m great with. I love my family, but when I was sixteen this woman called me, claiming to be my mum and I told her I didn’t want anything to do with her or my biological family. I was happy, they were neglectful. C’est la vie. I moved on.” Kenneth’s voice rose and climbed into a higher altitude, reaching a summit. “But now, I’m here in Paris studying for school and this guy meets me in the park and I think he might be my biological father…” Kenneth stopped himself before he got hysterical. He collected himself once more, and in a calm, smooth voice, continued, “I don’t want him to contact me, but I don’t want to go to the police and get him in trouble with the law or anything. So I came here to you. Maybe you can help me? Sir?”

[The Exodus]

Santiago Ortiz

He’d written down the facts of the case somewhere in the folder, but Santiago was having a hell of a time deciphering his own handwriting. It was funny—to him at least—that the longer he’d been away from the stage, the worse his handwriting had gotten. All of his notes previous had been tightly written in the cursive of a man for whom writing with his right hand was unnatural and too-well practiced. Now that he was a private detective, Santiago had returned to left-handed writing, which others had so often tried to stamp out of him. As such, his handwriting was unrecognizable. The letters were unruly, spread out, as if making a mad dash across the page. There was a name for handwriting like that in English: serial killer handwriting. It made Santiago want to laugh, because it the Prefecture du Police knew how true that epithet was, he’d be behind bars.

You aren’t a serial killer, Santiago reminded himself. You kill to survive. Not like some sick fantasist.

As if that made all the difference.

What he could read of Kenneth Dahl’s case was not particularly telling. He was a college student. As such, the sum the boy was paying was proportionally a fortune. If Kenneth Dahl had been a wealthy man, he would have been giving Santiago a Mercedes-Benz and a few breeding studs for the derby with pedigrees dating back to ancient Arabia. But Kenneth Dahl was not rich. If Santiago ran the ratios in his head, he could satisfy himself with the meager paycheck. He could always do worse. The rest of the information was too poorly written to read. Santiago reached for a pen and gripped it between his left fore- and middle-fingers to set to work again. He was determined to “fix” his writing.

“There’s this guy, this man stalking me… or something,” Dahl said.

Santiago looked up with a single, raised eyebrow.

“I know, I know, I sound paranoid, but… let me back up,” the boy said. Santiago looked back at his paper. “I was adopted when I was three, which I’m great with. I love my family, but when I was sixteen this woman called me, claiming to be my mum and I told her I didn’t want anything to do with her or my biological family. I was happy, they were neglectful. C’est la vie. I moved on. But now, I’m here in Paris studying for school and this guy meets me in the park and I think he might be my biological father…”

Santiago put his pen and paper down. The boy’s voice was climbing towards hysteria and Santiago couldn’t help himself. He was fascinated. Morbidly so. He was already working a similar case-- one that hit far too close to home. His mind touched on Rachel for a moment and he was suddenly thankful she was out. Her father was looking for her, too, with clear and cruel intentions. Alan Day would see Rachel dead if Santiago didn’t protect her. He didn’t think Dahl’s father would be so sinister, but to ignore parallels was to be a blind man. What sort of father followed his son around without properly approaching him? It sounded suspect to Santiago. But more importantly, what kind of fool made his presence known to his intended victim? Clearly, Dahl’s father was an amateur at tailing people.

“I don’t want him to contact me, but I don’t want to go to the police and get him in trouble with the law or anything. So I came here to you. Maybe you can help me? Sir?”

“What do you want from me, chico?” Santiago asked, leaning forward. “Do you want me to scare him off? Or do you want a body guard every waking minute of every waking day? Because if that’s what you want…”

He trailed off expressively. Like he said, he had other clients.

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Kenneth Dahl

“What do you want from me,chico? Do you want me to scare him off? Or do you want a body guard every waking minute of every waking day? Because if that’s what you want…”

Kenneth hesitated. He didn’t know what he wanted, exactly. He was scared, to be completely honest, and he didn’t know where else to turn. His parents, bless them, would pull him out of Paris. The police would cuff the strange man. And if Kenneth took no action, the man would find him. What else was he to do.

“I understand.” Kenneth said, hanging his head. “I need a way to hide, and I don’t know what to do, where to go…” Apparently, Ortiz couldn’t help him, which was unfortunate. Kenneth would have to look elsewhere for help. Maybe the secretary was back, and he could ask for a refund.

Kenneth stood, crossing to the door with a taciturn gait. “I’m very sorry if I wasted your time, sir. If you can’t help me, I’ll have to…” Kenneth stopped, sighed, and put his hand on the doorknob. “I understand. I’ll get out of your hair now, let you get back to your… other clients.”

[The Exodus]

Santiago Ortiz

Santiago wondered if maybe he should have gone into security. He wasn’t terrible at playing body guard for defenseless young people, avoiding their fathers. Even still, he was a detective and not a personal entourage.

“I understand,” Dahl said, hanging his head. If he really was being stalked, he would probably not live for very long. “I need a way to hide, and I don’t know what to do, where to go…”

At that, Dahl rose and crossed to the door sullenly.

“I’m very sorry if I wasted your time, sir. If you can’t help me, I’ll have to…” Kenneth stopped, sighed, and put his hand on the doorknob. “I understand. I’ll get out of your hair now, let you get back to your… other clients.”

“Wait.”

Santiago had failed to protect Catalina. He refused to fail Rachel. And as part of his bizarre, self-imposed penance, Santiago refused to turn away someone in such desperate need. He shut his eyes and wondered when he became a better man and how he had let that happen.

“You only waste my time if you walk out that door,” he said, standing up. “Here’s what I’ll do. I’ll tail this guy for you, okay? Get him off your back. And I’ll give you a new route to avoid him. Break up your routine, figure out the time tables, so he can’t track you easily. Do we have a deal?”

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Kenneth Dahl

Kenneth could feel his fingers curl around the cool metal of the door handle, feel the pressure he applied as he began to turn it.

“Wait.”

Immediately, Kenneth released the door knob and turned to face Mr. Ortiz.

“You only waste my time if you walk out that door,” he said, standing up. “Here’s what I’ll do. I’ll tail this guy for you, okay? Get him off your back. And I’ll give you a new route to avoid him. Break up your routine, figure out the time tables, so he can’t track you easily. Do we have a deal?”

Kenneth couldn’t help the smile that broke across his face, sending his freckles dancing. He used the hand that had just be clasping the door handle to get away and shook the man’s hand excitedly. “Thank you, sir. I can’t tell you how grateful I am.” For a moment, the hand shake chased away all of Kenneth’s fears of this redheaded man. It was firm and warm like the future Kenneth looked forward to when this ordeal was over and done with. And for a moment, his entire salary from the library seemed like meager repayment for this man’s good deed. Someday, Kenneth vowed, he would return what, to the man, must have been a typical day at work, in dollars, in royalties, in first born children, in blood. In something of value.

“Yes, sir. Deal. Definitely.”

[Deleted]

00C: Rachel and Tom! BIC:


Rachel Day

She should have put 'get puppy treats for Rachel' on his list of things to do this morning. Rachel stared down the front office door to the detective agency with a stink face that only came out so often. She rocked back in her chair with her hands in her lap, almost seeing perfectly when he had walked out once again, leaving her at her desk once again, and suggesting that she stay put, yes, once again. Rachel felt like his dog rather than an assistant; taking orders from him, doing as he says, never getting to go out with him and 'assist' him, like her job title says. Rachel Day was not a desk person. She had more to offer than just answering phones, scheduling appointments, grabbing coffee, and filing. So why wasn't he seeing that? It felt personal almost. Rachel knew that initially Santiago had just been trying to help, protecting her, and giving her something to do. Was shooting down her pride every day in his agenda too? There were ways to go about things and ways to let Rachel in more and make her feel important. Instead, she felt like a puppy that would get shocked every time she left her office.

It didn’t help that Rachel still had feelings for him either. That thought, sent her cringing in disgust, shooting up from her seat and smoothing out her dress. She did not know how her mind had felt comfortable enough to linger over to that world but it had probably come out of boredom. Plucking up the files from her desk of possible clients she had sorted through, Rachel huffed out a sigh, coming from out of her desk and taking out her key from her cleavage to unlock his office door. She didn’t know if it was all out of him being the only one that she actually spent time with nowadays or it was old feelings that had never truly gone away from New York City, but Rachel knew she had to get rid of them fast. Not only was it inappropriate but it was not reciprocated and rightfully so.

Opening the door, Rachel went for his desk and all of the sudden she got angry. Her cheeks began heating up when she looked at his name plate and she could feel her eyes grow wet. Slamming the files down onto his desk, Rachel leaned against the desk with her hands, leaning backwards and looking up at the ceiling. She just felt so trapped. She couldn’t be her own person anymore. She wouldn’t cry though, at least not right now. No, Rachel Day had the entire office to herself now. It was silent and in early in the morning, who would be coming in? Usually around this time people just called in to ask what time they were opened or where they were located. So, what was the use of spending this alone time to feel sorry for herself?

Rachel Day’s face lit up because it was show time!

There was something awfully therapeutic about hopping up onto Santiago’s desk in her heels and standing tall and proud. Rachel barked out a laugh, beginning to spin around, her dress flipping up. She began belting out a classic, “Mamma Mia! Here I go again!” She sang out, beginning to shake out her rump, holding a fake microphone and striking a diva pose. “My, my, how can I resist ya’?” Rachel Day continued to sing the next couple verses, really letting it all out and pouring it out to the invisible crowd of people that she had once performed for every night. “Why did I ever let you go!”

Out of breath, Rachel jumped off the desk landing behind it. She felt better, and leaned against the desk with her back facing the door. So there was it was. The secret that would make her laugh every time Santiago went into his office. She had once sang a ballad on top of his
desk without him knowing.

So there.

[The Exodus]

Tom Flannery

It was Toni’s fault Tom was here and dressed up so nicely. She’d arranged an appointment for him with Ortiz Detective Agency when she found out he’d been following Kenneth around town on his own most days. She called him “a bit pathetic” and made him dress sharp and kicked him out, telling him not to come back until he’d been seen. Ex-girlfriends, Tom decided, made for the worst best friends on the planet. He didn’t have a key any more—he’d lost his and Bill now had the spare-spare key—so there was nothing he could do now besides wander aimlessly or go to the detective agency. So after a healthy dose of delaying, Tom made his way to the ivy covered door.

He felt like he should be writing a memoir about this misadventure. The prodigal father, off in search of his illegitimate son. It really was fascinating. He hadn’t even known he had a son until Christmastime and now here he was, a country away, going to some place straight out of a noir novel. His inner writer—the one who complained of a lost muse to Kenneth during their one and only conversation—was howling at the array of interesting scenarios in Tom’s real life. Why hadn’t he penned a memoir yet? When could he start?

Maybe he could go to a café and write down some ideas before going to the detective agency.

It wasn’t that Tom didn’t want to find his son, after all. He just didn’t see why he needed to rope some guy in a trench coat and fedora into it. He imagined a Sam Spade type, smoking Marlboro’s and peering out at him through a thick of smoke and sepia coloring. He imagined a Sherlock Holmes type, also smoking but this time a pipe. His deerskin cap had a jaunty air that said in Queen’s English, “Why no, my good fellow. I’m not smarter than you, I merely tap into my powers of perception better than most of mankind. It’s elementary.” And then Watson would waddle in—the way Tom imagined him, a soldier gone to seed, and not that ridiculous Jude Law action hero that was so popular these days—and say that the crown jewels had gone missing and Tom’s case would be swept under the rug.

He sighed. Fantasies aside, in the building would be a man with police training or something who would help him get in touch with his son. All he wanted was to be a proper da’, whatever that meant. He had always thought that by his thirties, he’d be married, successful, and a family to boot. He was none of those things and the chance to be something of importance to someone made his whole heart ache. Really, he didn’t understand why Kenneth was avoiding him. They’d gotten on so nicely in the park. All Tom wanted was to hold his son for the first time, something most da’s got to do the day the kid was born.

Tom went inside and climbed a set of stairs, which led him to the agency. When he walked in, he was sorely disappointed to see that the main room looked rather like a waiting room, complete with an unattended secretary’s desk and outdated football magazines. Tom considered flipping through one of them and waiting his turn like a patient, sane man. But from behind the second, frosted-glass door, he could hear music.

Or, well, singing. Tom froze and listened as a woman crooned out ABBA tunes. He chuckled and pushed open the door. The woman in question was a petite brunette, with shapely legs, who was sitting on the desk. She less Sherlock than she was Irene Adler and less Sam Spade than she was Effie Perrine. Well, this was awkward.

“Oh, so you’re a lady detective,” Tom said. “Not that that’s a bad thing. I jus’… I wasn’t expectin’… Hi. I’m Tom. I have an appointment, yeah?”

[Deleted]

Rachel Day


“Oh, so you’re a lady detective."

Rachel Day shot up from her slouching position on the chair, almost gasping out loud at the sudden intrusion she had obviously not heard until the low voice broke her thoughts. At first, she had panicked, thinking when she heard the first word that it was Santiago who had come back for something he had forgotten. That was certainly not the case because he did not sport an Irish accent and he certainly would have not referred to her as a 'detective'. Finding her in his office belting out a tune, he would refer to as something less flattering.

Relief that it was not Santiago set in only for a split second until Rachel looked up at the doorway to see an attractively well-dressed man with an eye color that it took a second to make her look away from. He was looking at her and seeming a little bit surprised at her presence as much as she was surprised at his. Her hands spread apart on the desk, her body upright and tense; Rachel looked at him with blank wide eyes. How long had he been here? Wait, he just called her 'detective'. Getting caught in this act was really mortifying. Rachel Day wanted to be a professional and be that put together body when a client walked through the doors. As much as she complained about the job, she still wanted to do it to her fullest ability if she were going to keep at it. Ew, this entire situation was awkward and she wanted out of it! Wait a minute, why was it so shocking she was lady? Rachel Day, although having no place to be, raised an eyebrow at that.

“Not that that’s a bad thing. I jus’… I wasn’t expectin’…" Rachel continued to stare at him. It was terrible that she was getting amusement from watching him struggle with his words, when really, she had no place to judge since she was the one out of place here. She had to use her best acting chops to try and not smirk at how mighty she felt making a man stutter in front of her- Santiago’s- desk.

“Hi. I’m Tom. I have an appointment, yeah?”

Rachel Day’s shoulders slumped over, wiggling her lips to the corner of her mouth as she tried to trace back her memory. “Tom.” She repeated out loud. Why hadn’t she seen him on the schedule? There was no possible way she could have messed things up. Goodness, Rachel hated making mistakes. She felt her nerves working up and suddenly getting a little frantic. Not knowing quite what her plan was, she shot up from the seat flattening out her dress, not making eye contact for a moment. First of all, she thought she was the detective here and that was not true. She simply was the assistant that had apparently screwed up the entire day!

With a deep breath, Rachel made her way around the desk looking at Tom. She held out her hand to begin her apology and explanation, “Tom, I’m sorry-“Her mouth remained opened but the sentence that she was planning would not come out. No matter how hard her diaphragm pushed, the words weren’t working their way out of her lips. Rachel Day looked into his eyes but was not really looking at him more using them as a hold for her eyes as she thought. She was not correcting him, apologizing, or explaining because Rachel did not want to. She did not want to have to revert to her assisting ways, taking the blame for everything, and returning to her desk to schedule him another appointment. She did not want to have to deal with Santiago and she surely did not want another person talking to her like an assistant when she had what it took to be spoken and viewed as someone who could help them. Rachel Day was exhausted emotionally from being used as a friendly face to take care of the public and not being able to help in the outcome, which was the adventure and fulfilling part of what the agency was. Rachel was bored and needed something, anything, to take her away from her dull and lonely lull of a world. She blinked, her lips opened slightly and she gazed into Tom’s eyes. Tom. He could help her and she could help him. Surely, she would be fibbing, but a fire burned inside of her that told Rachel Day to be bold and take the risk. She deserved it. She deserved respect and to show what she was really made of.

“Sorry,” She repeated, finishing off her sentence with a different ending then she had first intended, clearing her throat and taking on a more firm voice and coming back into reality. “that you had to wait.” Rachel blinked, “Yes, had to wait.” She said again, still shaking his head, more repeating herself to herself. “Because my secretary is out.”

Rachel Day spun on her heels, blinking back how good that felt to say. Her eyes nearly came out of their sockets as she saw the name plate that read Santiago’s name. Doing a little skip, she spun it around and then spun back to face Tom, leaning against the front of her desk. Whew, that was a close one.

“I’m Detective Rachel Day.” Rachel’s smile broadened for her own selfish reasons, and she gestured to the seat. “Let’s have a seat and chat, shall we?”

[The Exodus]

Tom Flannery

The woman seemed to think for a minute and suddenly, Tom wondered if Toni had even made an appointment or if she ripped the agency out of the yellow pages and sent Tom on a fool’s errand.

“Tom,” the lady detective echoed. “Tom, I’m sorry-“

The lady detective paused and for a minute, Tom thought she was turning him away. He wasn’t taking “no” for an answer. If he had to camp out at the detective agency for a week, he would, so long as they reunited him (or perhaps united him for the first time) with his son. He hadn’t wanted anything more in his life than to be a part of Kenneth’s world. He wasn’t giving up just because some detective lady told him “no”. He was willing to pay good money, too.

“Sorry,” she repeated. “That you had to wait. Yes, had to wait. Because my secretary is out.”

That explained the empty waiting room. It was kind of a relief, since it looked uninviting as it was. No one to say “hello” and nothing but football magazines and a formica plant for company. Maybe the secretary ought to leave a note when he or she left. The detective messed with some stuff on the desk and then turned to face Tom with a smile.


“I’m Detective Rachel Day.” Detective Day gestured to an empty chair. “Let’s have a seat and chat, shall we?”

“Let’s,” Tom said, grinning and sliding into the seat comfortably. “Thanks for seeing me, Miss Day. I don’t know how t’ tell you what it means that you’re taking my case.”

[Deleted]

Rachel Day

"Let's."

This was an acting gig, only it was real life! Rachel Day could feel a theatrical rush throughout her body. She had missed being a character. She had missed putting on a show. Except this was far different from anything. Rachel was dealing with someone else's life here. It wouldn't be some show, she couldn't flub up a line, and she had to keep her focus on what was important. If Rachel wanted to prove herself worth of something, she needed to execute this with the best of her ability! She pushed back the voice that warned just how much Santiago was going to kill her, and she took a seat at her desk.

“Thanks for seeing me, Miss Day. I don’t know how t’ tell you what it means that you’re taking my case.” He told her, and Rachel Day couldn't help but flash a smile over at him for many reasons. For once, she was being thanked. Didn't people realize that Rachel was out there, filing through them, passing them through to Santiago? She was the initial person that they all went through to get their cases taken! Rachel blinked away those thoughts, and headed into the bottom drawer where Santiago kept all the files, knowing that his must be in there, and she told herself that she needed to stop dwelling on how much her job stunk if she were going to take on this new job. Rachel's chest fluttered as she thumbed through the files, continuing to smile. This is what really helping people felt like. It felt super fantastic!

"You are very welcome." Rachel said, putting his file on top of the desk and opening it. She vaguely remembered this case, but a few sentences and she would be reminded. Glancing down, a light bulb flickered on. Tom Flannery wanted to find his son. She could remember receiving the case, having gotten a call from his friend, Toni. That was all the information given, since Tom would need to discuss the details himself in person, but it was enough to send Rachel Day into almost tears. If she had a parent taking deep measures to look for her, she would hope that she would be able to find them. Well, she did, but she meant a parent that wouldn't put a bullet in her head but give her a hug.

Rachel Day grabbed a pen and leaned into the desk, "Okay, Tom," She began, beginning to take notes and taking on a very serious face. This was it. "I'm just going to need you to give me a detailed back story on all of this in your own words, and try not to leave anything out. Every detail will help me."