Fragmented (16 page)

25

Wednesday –
6:55 p.m.

Jack took
a bite of the turkey and avocado sandwich he grabbed at Harry’s Grill, on Broadway off the
Coast Highway
. He hung a left toward the sand and walked down by the shore where he found an empty park bench. Cooper’s box under his arm, Jack found a quiet spot to concentrate, while the low sun on the horizon reflected brightly off the expansive ocean. Jack ate his sandwich, scanning the pages of Cooper’s notebooks. With everything going on, he’d forgotten how hungry he was, fueled only by coffee and a small bag of pretzels courtesy of United Express. Slipping a latex glove over his right hand, Jack flipped through the pages, his bare left handling sandwich and greasy chips duty. Slices of avocado and tomatoes spilled from the edges and onto the sandy ground under his legs. A man with a latex glove on one hand, eating a sloppy sandwich, reading a bunch of tattered notebooks on a beachfront table. If this were any place other than
Southern California
, Jack would have stuck out like a psych patient who had just wandered off the ward. But here no one seemed to care.

The first notebook didn’t reveal much. It started with Cooper’s returning from
Hungary
and learning his mother had passed. Jack found the passages about his mother’s death flat, unemotional. There was mention that he found a place to stay (the Russell home). More writings about his travels up the coast to
Portland
, down toward
San Diego
, even a stint in
Mexico
. In several of these passages, he made notes of unsuspecting families he watched, their children and how happy they seemed to be. These documentations piqued Jack’s interest, although they were mostly observations.

By book four, the writing became far more revealing. Even the handwriting had changed. On page three, Jack found Cooper detailing his
Seattle
trip, rambling about a possible job offer, working at the fresh water locks on
Lake
Union
. The tone was unremarkable, a young man’s optimistic view of a steady job. Then there was a shift in focus. Jack’s reading slowed, his eyes fixated on each word before coming to a stop on the last sentence of that day’s entry
.

And maybe I can start a family. I can’t ruin this chance to start over.

Jack looked up from the notebook, pausing to let the words soak in.

26

Wednesday –
7:54 p.m.

An hour
had passed and a cool ocean breeze blew off the water. Jack returned the notebooks to the box and started on the banded mail, letters Cooper sent to his mother when he was traveling across
Europe
. He must have collected them after she had died.

Seagulls filled the sky; their screeching made for constant background noise, coupled with the rhythmic crashing of waves now retreating from the shoreline. He noticed lights coming on from local restaurants and businesses, a sign that nightfall had arrived. It was late and Jack needed to get back to
Sacramento
.

Only three letters remained. He pulled the first from its envelope and began to read. Previously Cooper had appeared upbeat, if slightly concerned about being short of cash. It was a time when Communist Europe was redefining itself, trying to see what life was really like in the West. With communism collapsing, Eastern Europeans began fleeing across open borders as opportunities became available, the Wall that once contained loyal comrades turning porous as cheesecloth. Cooper had taken advantage of the turmoil, sneaking into
Hungary
while it was still a communist state.

The next letter was dated two weeks later, and talked about meeting a traveler from
Britain
by the name of Alexander McMa
rtin. The two met at a
Budapest
nightclub and struck up a close friendship. Both low on money, they found a room to rent from a local Hungarian on the Buda side of the
Danube
, intending to earn a little money and find their way home.

The last letter was the one Jack found most disturbing. Far from upbeat, with Cooper constantly mentioning being homesick (although curiously he never asked his mother to send him money), he talked of the Wall between the East and West falling and people in the streets celebrating even though the Secret Police were still out in force. The police had come to their building one late night and dragged out a neighbor, who they never saw again. The landlord, a man named Lazlo Mink, told Cooper this was common and that he should not expect to see the neighbor again. The rent for the deserted room wasn’t much. Cooper shaved off even more by helping Mink and his family with their “delivery business.”

He wrote:
The rent is cheap and by helping them deliver their packages around town, the stay is almost free. What we are delivering, I have no idea, but it helps us get by. Truth is, they could be running black market goods because they always seem to have things no one else in the city has. The place is a little seedy, but it’s all I can afford.

The letter ended. Jack flipped it over and studied the envelope, drumming the cover with his fingers. The return address was in care of Mr. Lazlo Mink. Running illegal goods in the communist black market in exchange for cheap housing. Wall or no wall, it wasn’t smart to write about these activities in a letter leaving a communist state. More than likely this information would’ve made Cooper a target, and placed the Mink family on the Hungarian Secret Police’s hot sheet. Jack peered inside the box for more letters. But there were none.

The wind picked up, darkness settling. Jack tossed his garbage into a wastebasket, tucked the box under his arm and headed for the car.

He drove back to the 405 South, the traffic heavy. He jumped over to the carpool lane hoping that a cop wouldn’t notice, and sped down the highway, making the airport just in time to catch the next flight to
Sacramento
. By the time he found his seat, fatigue had taken hold. His head fell against the headrest as he closed his eyes and let his body succumb to exhaustion. He managed to sleep through the bumpy flight, waking to the flight attendant’s voice crackling over the cabin speakers asking all passengers to store their tray tables and lock their seats in their original, upright positions. Jack rubbed the stiffness in his neck and peered out the plane’s window.

27

Wednesday –
8:03 p.m.

Homer Landley
pushed the bridge of his glasses. They slid down his nose from the combination of grease and perspiration, something that always happened when the room warmed. And it happened often. His air conditioner forever on the fritz, and Landley didn’t have the time, money—or energy—to fix the problem.

He leaned back, rocking in a kitchen table chair that doubled as his computer chair. The monitor blinked on and off, colors changing every time Landley swatted its side.

After two hours of filtering though various websites, Landley’s eyes ached. Besides surfing for kiddie porn, which was his real job (if you considered that a “real” job), Agent Marquez had him looking for JPetroski, a twenty-four carat scumball. She didn’t give Landley all the specifics but offered a big reward if he could find him.

He flooded his eyes with Visine, blinked out the sting and continued searching for any sign of the guy. No one in the chat room heard from JPetroski since Marquez’s conversation with him the previous day. Landley leaned against the table, the computer humming at full speed, digital pages materializing one after another, none of which yielded anything fruitful. He puffed his cheeks and blew out short breaths like a steam locomotive.

Landley rubbed his chin, elbow planted firmly on the table, and launched another site, one of his old favorites. A second passed and the screen refreshed. Landley whistled softly as he typed in a series of passwords, entering with the cyber equivalent of candy and a trench coat.

wuz up, dog?
a message flashed welcoming Landley home.

nothin tell me something gud

got sum new pics fuckin off the hook

grown ups or lolita?
he messaged back.

they look yung . . . u tell me

Landley’s computer chimed with an attachment from his friend. Landley perused the images, some color, many black and white, some even homegrown.

Landley muttered to himself as he cycled through. “Seen these before. Don’t waste my time.”

wat do u think,
the message came back.

Landley typed,
ho hum . . . been there done that

ya well I tride. at least u replied. unlike
ur
friend

wat friend?

family man . . . wat a weener!

Landley scooted his chair close to the table and tapped frantically at the keyboard.
do u mean jpetroski

that’s the 1 . . . he used a different moniker but i new it was him. fuckers a creep

when did u talk???

2day

when?

today i say

Landley shook his head, his frustration elevating.
wat TIME?

2 hors ago, guess

wat name

There was no immediate answer. Landley’s fingers drummed a nervous staccato on the top of his mouse.
hello?
he typed.
how about a response.

After a long wait, the computer chimed a message.
faust

Landley leaned forward, his face squishing into a contorted stare. “What the fuck is a Faust?” He typed out another message.
did he say if hes coming back?

don’t no . . . why

no reason. got 2 go

Landley jumped up and grabbed his jacket off the couch, rushing out the door. He patted his pocket, felt his cell phone and car keys, then made his way through the parking lot. He opened his car door, allowed the day’s heat trapped inside to escape, before sliding behind the wheel and turning over the engine. As he left the lot, Landley hit the speed dial button to Agent Marquez, glancing at his cheap Casio watch, hoping to catch the detective before her shift ended.

She picked up on the second ring.

“What’s up, Homer?”

Landley stuttered, finding it difficult to talk and drive at the same time. “I think I found him. The guy.”

“Slow down. What guy?”

“Your J Petcock . . . Petski, that dude you asked me to find. Him!”

Marquez’s tone smoothed and dropped a few decibels, words slowing to calm Landley. “Are you talking about J Petroski?”

“That’s right, that’s the one. Only now he’s calling himself Faust.”

“Faust, as in Dr. Johann ‘sell your soul to the devil’ Faustus?”

“Is that a TV show?”

“Yes, Homer. Right after Dr. Phil and before Jerry Springer.” Marquez waited for him to get the joke, but he didn’t. “Dr. Faustus was a 16
^th
Century literary character. He made a deal with the devil.”

“Fits his personality. Look, you want this guy, meet me at the undercover off-site. Time is money Lucy, let’s go!”

“All right, nice job.” Before Homer could say anything else, she added, “And Homer, don’t ever call me by my first name again.”

Landley’s smile evaporated as he sheepishly replied, “Yes, ma’am.”

Homer Landley’s apartment was empty, the only sign of life the hourglass tumbling on his computer. In his haste to hook up with Agent Marquez, Landley forgot to sign out, leaving his friend dangling on the other end. The low hum of his ancient refrigerator was interrupted by the chime of an incoming message.

Yo dog, faust was looking 4 u. said it was important. he promised me he wouldn’t tell but i gave him
ur
phone number. he’s going to call u. wants to see u right away

The empty apartment fell silent again before the sound of more chimes blinked up Landley’s screen.

u there dog?

hello?