Alli (3 page)

“They probably keep the call handlers anonymous so stalkers like you can’t find them,” Carl said, kidding his old roommate at breakfast the next morning. “But I’ll put one of my people on it today, if it’s that important to you. They will do a complete nexus search using what few bits of information we have. I also know people who are well connected in Washington. I should warn you though, she’s going to be a 300 pound, trailer-dwelling cat owner, mark my words.”

Randy brushed off Carl’s comment and went through a mental checklist to make sure his friend knew everything he knew about Alli, which wasn’t much. She was probably from a Midwestern state, based on her accent. She was likely his age or slightly younger, based on the time she had spent working for the program. She was probably single, based on her comment about working all the time and being lonely. Not much to go on.

Carl offered to have him stay for a few days, but Randy decided to head back to Washington, to his own apartment. Even though Carl was the closest thing he had to family, and his place in Middleburg was beyond comfortable, he was more at ease at home, at his own place; likely due to spending the last ten years traveling the globe.

“Why don’t you come and work for me, you slacker,” Carl offered as Randy walked toward his vehicle. “I could use a guy with your credentials. Seriously pal, think about it. It could be good for both of us.”

“I just left one lousy, stressful job, man... But give me a while to think about it, alright? I appreciate it.” Randy took Carl’s ghetto grasp and gave him the old single chest-bump, pat on the back routine.

The trip back to Washington went quickly. Randy couldn’t get thoughts of Alli out of his head. He tried to imagine who she was. Was she tall or short? Thin or fat? Blonde or Brunette? Was she single, married, widowed or divorced? Did she have kids? And why couldn’t he have a normal conversation with her? Whenever a personal question about Alli was raised, the phone would suddenly go dead. Was it her hanging up, or was it someone who was listening breaking the connection? He decided against both of these. It didn’t make any sense for her to call him back if she didn’t want to talk, did it? And the government didn’t have a reason or the manpower to listen in on every single phone call going in and out of the Call Center. The unanswered questions and the haunting nature of Alli’s voice only raised Randy’s curiosity more. There was only one way out of this problem, and that was to find Alli and talk to her. A few hours spent doing internet searches might yield some information about who was behind the Call Center and how to contact them.               

Nearly a week went by before Randy heard from either Alli or Carl. On one of his early morning runs, his phone rang at precisely 8AM, and it was Alli.

“Hello, Randy?” she asked.

“This is Randy. Is this Alli? How are you doing today?”

“I’m fine, Randy. I’m always fine,” she said. “I have been thinking about you since we last spoke.”

“Oh, you have?” Randy had stopped running, but now he was floating. He restrained himself from bombarding her with his questions, and tried to keep it light. “Tell me about that.”

“Well, your full name is Randall Jefferson Fairchild, you are 34 years old, and you were born at William Beaumont Hospital in Lansing, Michigan on February 2
nd
. Your real parents’ names were Julia and Simon Ericson, and your adoptive parents are David and Felicia Fairchild. You went to Carter Elementary then to Montrose middle and Hill-McCloy High Schools, where you graduated in the top three of your class, with a 3.98 grade point average. You later…”

“Whoa! Whoa! Slow down there! I guess you really have been thinking about me, haven’t you.”

“Yes.., is that... Okay?”

“Sure, it’s more than okay. It’s terrific. But tell me a little bit about yourself.”

“Like what? There’s not much to tell, really.”

“Well, you have a last name, right?”

“Yes... Yes I... Yes I have a last name...

There was a long pause.

“Please, Alli, don’t hang up. I need to know your last name. What is your last name?”

Right then, when Randy thought he was finally going to get some facts on this mystery girl, the phone line made a series of high-pitched tones, two clicks, and then was dead.

“Damn!” Randy yelled, startling a couple of fellow runners near him. “What the hell is wrong with this damn phone?”

He put an immediate call in to Carl. Even though he dialed Carl’s cell phone, he got his answering service.
I guess you have to be really important to have a personal service answer your cell phone,
he thought. After leaving a message, he decided to go home, clean up, and poke around the Call Center again.

His first attempt to get some information didn’t get him past the receptionist. He would have to try another approach.

Randy stopped by the florist before returning to the Call Center. He noticed the same receptionist at the desk while he was clearing security.

“Hi, remember me?” he said in his most sincere voice. Randy was also trying to get a glimpse of her name on her employee badge, but it was hiding inside the edge of her sweater.
Damn,
he thought
. She noticed me looking. She probably thinks I was checking out her boobs.

“Sure, honey, I remember you. Your lunch date stood you up last week, didn’t she?”

“Yeah, she didn’t show, but I brought these back for you, and I was hoping you might help me find her.”

She did a quick survey of the flowers. “Boy, it’ll take you more than a trip to the flower shop for me to risk MY job; snoopin’ around for your girlfriend.”

Randy had anticipated this.

“There’s a little something else clipped to that note in the flowers, in case you change your mind, Jessica.” The hidden name badge had finally given up a name: Jessica Cooper.

“What was her name again?” Jessica reached in and retrieved Benjamin Franklin from the $29.95 FTD Spring Bouquet.

“Alli. That’s all I have. Just Alli. She’s worked here since the program started.”

Jessica pushed her notepad and pen in his direction. “Give me your number, honey, and I’ll see what I can do. I’ll have to call you back.”

He scribbled his name, address and number on the pad and slid it back across the counter. “You have no idea how much I appreciate your help, Jessica.”

“Well, honey, if we can’t find your Alli, you can always bring a little more of this around. You might even convince me to go out with you.”

Randy wasn’t sure if she was referring to the flowers or the hundred, but he mustered a nod and a friendly smile as he left the building.

*****

It was the following day before he heard back from Carl. His old friend was the consummate professional when it came to finding a missing person. He made it a personal challenge to successfully find and do the impossible.

“Damn it, Randy- this mystery girl of yours is tough to find, damn near impossible. I’ve had one of my best people on this, and he came up empty-handed. We ran every license plate on every car in the Call Center’s parking garage, and for good measure, we also ran all the surrounding street parked cars as well, over a three-day period. We came up with twelve outstanding parking tickets, two bench warrants for various infractions, and two cars actually licensed to people named Allison and Alice. My investigator waited and interviewed both of those people, but neither knew or remembered talking to a Randy Fairchild.”

“The reason I called you yesterday was because I heard from Alli again,” Randy said. “She called yesterday morning and said she had been thinking of me and rattled off the first few years of my life story like she had it memorized, before the phone line disconnected.”

“Disconnected?”

“Yeah, that’s how it sounded. And it was right when I was asking for her last name, too. Neither of the Allis you contacted can be the one we are looking for. The Alli I talked to on the phone knew where I was born, who my parents were, even my High School grade point average. She would definitely remember me if you were to find her and ask her.”

Carl seemed to be either lost in thought, or in another world entirely. “Well Fairbaby, you might want to give this one up. It seems like she doesn’t want to be found.”

Randy ignored Carl’s use of one of his least favorite college nicknames, and the fact that he was giving up so easily. He decided a challenge might keep Carl hot on the trail.

“I’m going to find her, with or without your help. If you find her before I do, we’ll see how good you really are, Fraz.”

Chapter Seven

Randy missed the blocked call that came in to his cell phone two days later. He was on the shooting range, running a couple of boxes of target shells through his Sig Sauer. When you are on a range and surrounded by a dozen other shooters, hearing your phone ring is impossible.

The caller had left a voice mail: “Mr. Fairchild, my name is Dr. William N. Johnson. You left a message on my machine. Please meet me at the Blue Duck Tavern on 24
th
street at 9PM tonight. We need to talk.”

Damn,
he thought. It was already 7PM by the time he received the message. Randy hurried back to his apartment, showered, dressed, and headed toward the restaurant, which was near the Capitol Building. The hostess had a reservation for Fairchild, but Randy said he would rather wait at the bar until his other guest arrived.

One hour and three Jack and Cokes later, Randy was still at the bar, waiting
. Something must have gone wrong,
he thought. He pulled out his phone and re-played the message. Nope, he had the right place and the right time. Randy dialed Carl’s number. The answering service picked up. After leaving a call-back message, Randy headed for the bar’s restroom.

As he approached the back of the restaurant, he heard what sounded like firecrackers going off outside the back door. Pop... Pop! Pop! Pulling his Sig from its holster, he cautiously approached the steel service door, twisted the knob, and holding it firmly, eased the door open far enough to be able to see out through the crack.

The alley outside the back of the restaurant was dimly lit, but there was enough light to see that the alley was empty. He pushed the door open farther and ducked his head out and in quickly to look down the other way. Nothing. The traffic noises on 23
rd
street were the only noises he could hear. Slipping silently through the door and holding his pistol down next to his leg, he initiated a search of the area. He saw nothing unusual between the empty food crates, an empty parked car and a dumpster, the dumpster providing the only recognizable odor in the alley. Upon further inspection, he discovered a dark shape of something or someone on the ground at the back corner of the dumpster, about 10 steps from the restaurant’s rear door.

It was a body. A seemingly dead one. A recently dead one at that; it was still warm.

There was a gurgling sound as he pulled the body over. Perhaps not dead, yet. It was an elderly gentleman, whose last wish seemed to be to tell Randy something important. The man clenched his surprisingly strong, boney fist around Randy’s collar and pulled him closer.

Make... death... a... welcome
...
visitor
...”

“Looks like you won’t be needing my help pal,” Randy said, as the man’s tight grasp loosened. Life, and a good amount of blood, had left the limp body in the alley.

Another cautious look around, and Randy holstered his gun and dialed 911. Before the operator was able to answer, a DC patrol car, with lights and siren, entered the opposite end of the alley. Randy waved his hand over his head to get their attention.

After showing his ID, answering the responding officers’ initial inquiries, and being relieved of his weapon, Randy was asked to follow them back to their local precinct to answer a few more questions from a homicide detective.

At the police station, he was directed to an interrogation room and left to wait, alone.
What a dump
, Randy thought as he surveyed the peeling paint on the concrete block walls.
I wouldn’t want to spend much time in here.
The inspection of his gun was welcome. Randy knew it would clear him of any suspicion in regards to the body in the alley.
Maybe they’ll clean it for me after they run their ballistics tests,
he thought.

Randy was mentally putting the evening’s events in order when a statuesque woman in a tightly tailored grey suit entered. She introduced herself as Detective Michelle Miller, the homicide officer on duty. She was tall, possibly close to six feet; attractive, and no nonsense. Her blonde hair was pulled up tight on her head, which made her look even taller. She looked like a hard ass who took her job seriously. Randy remained seated while Detective Miller paced around the room in her short heels and even shorter skirt.

Miller was thumbing through the responding officers’ report. She started her questioning without even a glance at Randy. “Mr. Fairchild, thank you for coming down to answer a couple of questions.”

“No problem,” He responded.

“You said you heard what sounded like firecrackers in the alley. Could they have been gun shots?”