The Informationist: A Thriller (5 page)

Burbank was Munroe’s height, tanned, fit, and impeccably dressed in a tailored black suit with a pale pinstriped shirt and a pink tie. Silver around his temples framed eyes the gray-blue of a winter sky. He radiated tangible energy and genuine charm.

Munroe sat in one of the two chairs facing Burbank’s desk and immediately regretted having done so. The chair was plush and comfortable, and she sank into it several inches so that her eye level was closer to Burbank’s chest than to his face, forcing her to look up at him.

When the silence in the room became uncomfortably long, Burbank smiled at Munroe and finally said, “Thank you so much for coming. I really do appreciate your taking the time to hear me out and at least consider the job that I need done.”

Munroe stared out beyond him through the windows and, with a look of boredom and her voice monotone, said only, “I came for the money.”

Burbank laughed, and he placed his hands together. “I trust that the transfer went through smoothly and that everything is in order?” Breeden nodded, and Burbank continued. “Have you had a chance to look over the material I provided?”

“Yes, I have,” Munroe said.

“Good, good,” he said, nodding as he spoke, and then he paused as if cutting himself off in the middle of a thought. “You know, I’m not really sure what to call you—do you prefer Michael, Ms. Munroe, Vanessa, or is there perhaps another moniker you’ve taken?” The words
were almost sarcastic, but his tone was sincere. He had done his research and was letting her know.

“Most of my clients call me Michael,” she replied.

“Fine, Michael it is.” Burbank paused and looked out the window at the skyline, then rubbed a finger against his mouth. “Michael,” he said, “I know you don’t have children, but perhaps you can understand the pain of uncertainty and the lack of closure that come from simply not knowing what happened to a child.

“Emily is the brightest and most lovable daughter a parent could wish for, and I thank God every day for bringing her and her mother into my life.” He pulled a photo out of his wallet and handed it to Munroe.

“That’s Emily’s high-school graduation picture,” he said.

Munroe nodded. As in the file photos, Emily was a petite girl with straight, long blond hair and brown eyes made stunning by deep, dark lashes.

“When Emily decided to go to South Africa, I was against it. I didn’t feel it safe for her to travel alone. She insisted that she
wasn’t
alone, and she was right in a sense—the whole expedition traveled as a group. I think you know what I mean, though. But she was eighteen, old enough to start making her own decisions. I didn’t think it was a good one, but her mother felt that the overland adventure would give Emily a chance to come into her own, and I really did not have a lot of say in the matter.

“Emily is a tiny girl and soft-spoken, but she has a very determined personality. When she wanted something she found a way to get it, and this was no exception.

“As I’m sure you’ve read in the file, shortly before Emily was scheduled to travel to Europe, she disappeared. It’s been four years now, Michael.” Burbank’s voice cracked. He stopped and caught his breath, and after a long silence began again. “Between the private investigators and security experts, I have spent a small fortune. I have been through hell trying to deal with government agencies that know nothing.” He paused again, his breathing deep and measured. “Honestly,” he continued, “I have little hope of finding her alive after all this time. But I do want to understand what happened, to know if there is any way that I can make wrongs right, to right them on her behalf.” A sense of heaviness filled the room. “I need to find her, Michael.”

Munroe waited and then said, “I’m sorry that you’ve had to go through this.” She spoke slowly, mirroring Burbank’s pattern of speech and choosing words that would convey meaning without causing pain. “I do understand the agony of losing someone you love for reasons that make absolutely no sense. But what I don’t understand is why you want to hire me. I don’t do this. I don’t travel the world trying to find missing people and I don’t think I can help you.”

“No, you don’t find missing people.” Burbank sighed. “But you do have the skill set to survive and blend in with any culture that you come into contact with. Even more, you know how to ask the right questions of the right people to get the answers you need.” He pulled a folder from his desk and slid it to her.

It was nearly an inch thick, a thorough encapsulation of the past nine years of her life. With an air of indifference, Munroe leafed through the pages. After the documents came the photos: of her family, of her on each of the three Ducatis she had owned, of Logan’s shop, of Logan and his then boyfriend, and several from college that she wished had never been taken. Munroe stopped when she came to a high-resolution blowup—a still lifted from Internet footage of one of the many BASE jumps she’d made at Kjerag in Norway. The bastard had been meticulous. Medical records, school records, and her driving record with its long list of speeding tickets. The file included conversations and details recounted by people who knew her when she had just entered the country. But except for a few notations on her childhood, prior to her arrival in the United States, the file had nothing. The way it should be.

Munroe tossed the file on the desk. “You get a B-plus on your homework assignment,” she said with a yawn. “I hope you’re not expecting that to be some form of blackmail to convince me to take the case, because there’s nothing in there that bothers me.”

“Blackmail? Goodness no,” he said. “I have nothing to gain from forcing you into a job you don’t want to take—surely the results would be less than ideal. No, Michael, I had that file put together so I would have a thorough understanding of what you were capable of. I also wanted you to know that I had done my research before presenting the offer I am about to make.”

Munroe said nothing, and the room went silent. When it was apparent
that Burbank was waiting for a reaction or an indication of interest, she yawned again and slid deeper into the chair, resting her head on the back of it and stretching her legs out in front.

Burbank clasped his hands together and leaned forward on the desk. “I’m prepared to offer you a contract of two and a half million dollars as a final attempt to locate my daughter.”

She tilted her head to the side, raised an eyebrow, and continued to say nothing.

“Michael, I need closure. I cannot sit around day after day for the rest of my life just waiting and hoping that someday someone will bring me news. You are the best at what you do. You have never gone on an assignment and failed to deliver. I know that if you agree to this assignment, you will deliver. And maybe that’s partially what I’m afraid of. I’m afraid that you’ll choose not to do it because you don’t think you can deliver, and that’s why I’m willing to pay you two-point-five million for giving it your very best effort. I don’t know how long it would take before you ran up against a dead end. We’ve been at it for four years. If you give me a year, that’s all I ask, even if you don’t get any further than we have.”

“So you’re willing to take a two-and-a-half-million-dollar risk on the remote chance that I might get further than you have?”

“If you want to put it that way, then yes, although I don’t see it as a risk.” He swept his hand around the office. “Obviously, money is not my greatest concern. I have enough to last me several lifetimes. What I don’t have is closure. I can’t handle not knowing—and possibly not
ever
knowing—what happened to my daughter, and time is running out. Each day that passes without bringing new information further seals the outcome. I’ve read some of the reports you’ve put together. You snatch information out of what seems to be thin air. I believe with utmost certainty that if you say my daughter is dead, that she is dead, and if she is alive, that you are the one who can find her. And if you tell me that the trail has ended and there is no hope of going further, I will know that all that can be done has been done.”

Munroe pulled herself up in the chair and leaned forward across the desk so that her eyes were level with his. “That’s it? I promise to do my best and you hand over payment? What if I signed your contract, took a yearlong vacation in Africa, and simply said that I tried?”

Burbank smiled and held her gaze. He waited a few seconds before answering, as though choosing his words carefully. “If I’ve come to understand you correctly,” he said, “I don’t think you would even consider that as an option—you have your reputation at stake. However, I am also a businessman—I protect my investments. I would expect to receive progress updates from you on a frequent if not regular basis, and I retain the right to send one of my people to assist you if I deem it necessary.”

“You do realize,” Munroe remonstrated, “that I have never been babysat on a job before, and I have no desire to start now. I work alone, Mr. Burbank, and I very carefully select the people who help me. If I should choose to accept your assignment, what makes you think your ‘people’ are qualified? If they were, you wouldn’t need me.”

Burbank reached into his desk and withdrew a second folder. “This is Miles Bradford,” he said. “I trust him with my life. He has been with me through hell and back, and it was he who recommended you to me. Miles is no stranger to Africa, and although it wasn’t mentioned in the background documents, Miles was on the investigative team that traveled from Windhoek to Brazzaville, Congo. You are free to research him yourself. If you feel he’s unqualified, let me know and you can have your pick of the people within my organization whom I would trust with this.”

Munroe glanced briefly through the file and then took her own file off Burbank’s desk and handed them both to Breeden. “All right, Mr. Burbank,” she said. “I will think about your offer. After I’ve reread the information on your daughter’s case, then read the information on Miles Bradford and the dossier you have on me, I’ll get back to you. You should hear from me through Ms. Breeden within seventy-two hours.”

“Thank you, Michael,” Burbank said, his voice softer. “That’s all I ask.”

T
HERE WAS SILENCE
in the elevator on the way to the lobby. Breeden tapped on the thick files and said, “I’ll drop these off at your hotel as soon as I get back into town.”

“Don’t bother,” Munroe said. “I’m not planning to read them anytime soon. I just wanted to have copies handy. When’s your flight?”

Breeden glanced at her watch. “About three hours.”

“Let’s get some coffee.”

“Does that mean you’re considering Burbank’s offer?”

“Perhaps.”

Two blocks down the street, they found a coffee shop, cozy and quaint, and when the caffeine had for the most part been quaffed and all that remained of the scones and muffins were a few crumbs that had tumbled onto the table, Munroe shifted the conversation back to the offer Burbank had made. “I’m going to take the job,” she said. “If Burbank will agree to several concessions.”

Breeden put down her mug and pulled a handheld from her purse.

“I want the two-point-five million up front,” Munroe said, “plus expenses.” She paused for a moment and tapped her fingers on the table in a rhythmic pattern that resembled Morse code. “If I can deliver hard evidence on the facts surrounding his daughter’s disappearance,” she continued, “then I want an additional two-point-five upon delivery, and I want to work alone—no tagalongs. I may have a few more stipulations, but the tagalong is the only one he’s going to balk at. Wait at least seventy hours before you submit the terms—I want to buy time to change my mind.”

Breeden nodded and jotted notes.

“I also want the names and numbers of every person involved in any investigation that has ever been done into Emily’s disappearance. I have questions that weren’t answered by the information Burbank sent you.”

Breeden finished tapping on the handheld, tilted her head, and whispered, “I would really love to know what made you decide to take the assignment.”

“Because I think I can get further than they have.”

“And the money’s good.”

Munroe smiled. “A year of my life is a year I’ll never get back. But there was something in the file that needled me, something I couldn’t put my finger on until the ride down. Every time people have gone in search of Emily, they’ve always started where she disappeared. I think the answer lies in Europe.”

“With the guy—oh, what’s his name? The boy that’s in the institution?”

“Yes, with him. He was there. He should know what happened.”

“But people have tried talking with him. He makes no sense.”

Munroe nodded slowly. “I realize that.” She drew a long sip from a glass of water. “Perhaps they weren’t speaking his language.”

T
HE RETURN TO
Dallas brought Munroe to the hotel by midafternoon, and Noah’s business card, still on the desk where he’d left it, was the first thing she saw as she entered the room. She dropped the backpack and helmet on the bed and moved to the card, picked it up, and flicked it against her hand. His name and business address stared out at her. The clock by the bed read four-thirty—still time to see him before his flight.

In the silence of the room, the pressure in her chest began to build. The voices were there, low and quiet but still with her.

 … Why do the heathen rage …

She ran her fingers over the top of the card, the raised ink, braille through her fingertips, translated memories of his face.

 … The kings of the earth set themselves and the rulers take council …

She let the card fall into the garbage can.

Time to go.

She gathered her few belongings and tossed them into the backpack; she would drop them off with Logan on her way out of town. She’d contact Breeden before the self-imposed deadline expired, then ride until exhausted and find someplace to collapse for the night. On impulse she headed for Colorado Springs, cutting across the vast, cold emptiness of North Texas.

It was on the outskirts of Amarillo, shortly before midnight, that she stopped for fuel. The station was poorly lit, and only after getting off the bike and removing the helmet did she see the small group of young men in the shadows. They sat on the tailgate of an old Ford pickup. The smell of cigarettes wafted in her direction, and she could hear in their voices the bravado that comes when alcohol is mixed with youthful inexperience. She ignored them and unscrewed the cap on the fuel tank.