A.I.D.A. - 1: Limited Revealings (WIP)

Limited Revealings


MONDAY, THE 1ST, 4:11 AM

All detectives of the Australian Independent Detective Agency must be clocked in by six-thirty am, Monday to Saturday, not that they are restricted from arriving earlier. However, for reasons that I am unwilling to disclose, there is never one to arrive at the AIDA Perth branch on any given working day before yours truly, Head Chief Detective Lars Rankin, at four am-ish, and such has been the way for the last twenty years, my entire career. When also factoring how seldom anyone retires at a later hour than I, and the certainty of last night not being unusual in that regard, I reckon, given the circumstances, it does not take a member of a highly prestigious investigation agency to conclude as to my suspicions – especially considering that the person who was apparently here earlier this morning is no longer so.
The nine AIDA branches located around Australia are not unlike exclusive lodges. Our detectives travel the country as their cases beckon, and the local branch will provide any support they require, short of a temporary bed; backup muscle or brains, political ingratiation or string-pulling, AIDA’s connections run high and deep, and nowadays a thing can be so easy to (further) corrupt as a phone-call. That is to say, the majority of AIDA investigators conduct their work abroad, though there does exist in select branches a Chief Detective, all of whom do not.
A CD is permanently allocated a single branch and does not operate outside of its state - in my own case, Western Australia. As the title would suggest, I am in a position of some authority, second-in-charge, in fact, under the Branch Head; and this Perth BH is none other than Art Rotterdam, founder of AIDA, and thus our branch is the Head Branch and I in charge of the five other CDs – though not the some fifty other detectives: I would far sooner retire than be so responsible. Needless to say, with so much time spent at one location, a CD develops quite an intimate understanding of his branch and its detectives. Consider how systematic life and everything about it has become since the revolution, and an agent would need paramount wile to come and go here unnoticed: AIDA’s daily routine tends to move along unbothered – along with most others – and a pen or document merely nudged will stand out like a sore thumb.
And so I wonder to myself as I stand in the open doorway at the top of the stairs, looking out onto a dimly lit scene rather confusing, if whoever was here was aware of the futility of trying to hide his presence, for no effort has been made to do so. Still, I cannot help but think this as the work of a fool, for the efficiency of our security immediately suggests an inside job: either direct involvement by a member of AIDA or, at the very least, their collaboration in giving our access codes.
I flick on the light and take another look around. From the perspective of someone who has never before seen the inside of this office, it may not currently look so out of the ordinary – the mess is by no means ruinous – but from my own it does in a way most unsettling. A few drawers remain open in screaming protest to the usual order; papers spilled onto the floor here and there indicate a search. A smashed coffee mug knocked from Langdon’s ridiculously large cornerpiece desk tells me time was scarce for the intruder, or that he was expecting someone to show up at any moment; and also that Langdon’s cheerfully annoying manner may today be subdued by the loss of his cherished ‘Supercop K.L.!’ mug. (The relief provided to me by this notion, even in light of this troublesome start to the day, would be better understood and accepted when familiarised with Kip Langdon.)
After a brief but thorough search – and clean-up – of my own, I conclude that, if there was indeed something to be found, it has either been found or was not here. Various possibilities already swimming around my mind, I seat myself in my nice, closed office, a perk available only to CDs and BHs. It’s not your typical law-enforcer’s glass-office but an entirely separate room; we enjoy our secrecy here at AIDA and we aren’t technically law-enforcers either, and most happy for it. Another odd thing: my computer is already on. I can’t recall any others being powered, and their little LEDs are quite obvious. I make the monitor light up and see, not to my complete surprise, someone has logged into my account; I don’t think it unusual: access to it is reasonably open to my branch’s other detectives – if anything, it further confirms my speculations. A notice posted on the branch intranet’s home page, under my ID, has been left onscreen:

URGENT
CD LARS RANKIN posts:
AL HERE! HEED UPMOST EARNEST: MOLE IN PB! ID UNKNOWN. FEAR THEY ARE CLOSE TO ME; MY DISAPPEARANCE. Posted at 2:00A.M.

This is not good. A cold wave of anxiety washes over me.
This is not good.
After sitting for ten minutes and previous speculations to the mess in the office canned, I phone Rotterdam. Today is the first day of his week-long family vacation. I don’t know what time their plane was scheduled to leave; for my convenience, I hope it hasn’t passed.
There is a ruffled delay before any speech. ‘Hello?’ The low, gravelly voice is unmistakable.
‘Art, it’s Lars. I––I didn’t wake you, did I?’
‘No, no, old chap! We’re getting ready for the plane. Doubtless you are calling about young Alexander.’
‘Oh. Then you know.’
‘Indeed. What kind of investigation agency head would I be if I was not presently aware of such a development, no less to a detective of my own branch?’
‘Has something happened to Starr?’
‘Ah! then I know more than you, even. It would appear that way, yes.’
‘And the boss would care to apprise me?’
‘Well, it would appear that Detective Starr has gotten himself mixed up in something of a gang war. And before you ask, you can forget that nonsense about a mole in the Perth branch; I know what you are thinking, and you can sleep easy – although I must admit I almost worried over it myself. He was most adamant in his belief of some kind of internal sabotage.’
‘A gang war?’ I laugh, relieved at a far less dangerous concept but confused nonetheless. ‘I’m not following. Why is Starr under the impression there’s a mole in PB? I mean... he wouldn’t have just pulled it out his arse.’
‘There may be someone in AIDA supplying explosives from our inventory to both sides of this quarrel, but nothing as fantastical as an agent working to deconstruct us from within. Alexander is just a bit... imaginative.’
‘And you’re certain about this?’
‘I have done some investigating of my own.’
‘But it could still be a PB detective?’
‘It could be.’
‘Hmmm.’ I ponder for a bit. ‘So what exactly has become of Starr?’
‘Something, that much is certain – you will find out the precise nature, I’m sure.’
‘Naturally,’ I mutter: CDs always handle any internal affairs. After a short silence, I let out a long-drawn sigh. ‘So what gangs are we talking about?’
‘Well there’s the UPB, and then that nameless gang who’ve setup at the string of abandoned factories near the Causeway.’
I snarl audibly. ‘Anyone but them – who hang out near the Causeway, I mean; the UPB are in our pocket. How far along was Starr in his investigation?’
‘I’ve already emailed through to you all his unofficial case files and notes; they will tell you everything I know.’
‘Fine.’ I sigh again. ‘Starr contacted you personally?’
‘Alexander had the sense to inform me of his little investigation. He contacted me yesterday and told me everything. And then again, not two hours ago, to tell me his disappearance was imminent, though he wouldn’t tell me his location, and asked for my silence in the matter – but I suppose it is okay now.’
‘I see. Contacted you by phone? And when you say “disappearance...”’
‘A call first and text second. I assume kidnapped, the way he sounded, but he didn’t elaborate. And how were you apprised?’
‘It seems he actually came to the branch sometime last night. Left an urgent notice on the intranet. But something’s not sitting right; there was some commotion out in the office.
I don––’
‘No! I haven’t in the least the time for all that. You will figure it, Lars. Assign the case I had prepared for Detective Starr to Detective de Witte, to be seen to after he has completed his own.’
‘Fine.’ Better be sure: ‘One more thing: you weren’t here any time after about eleven last night?’
‘No. Goodbye, Lars.’
‘Sir.’
‘O, and, Lars?’
‘Sir?’
‘Don’t call me again.’ Click.
I hang up the receiver, unsatisfied. Something fishy is working – and close to home. There are numerous methods Starr could have used to properly identify himself, none of which he exercised, and the likelihood of his trashing the office is low. Had he contacted Rotterdam in person, I would be more convinced. A phone-call is better than a text, but convincing voice-changers are not overly hard to come by, and Rotterdam isn’t exactly intimate with his subordinates. I open up an administrative panel on the intranet and remove the notice: there is some personal stake in this, and the last thing I want is every goddamn detective in this branch questioning into my investigation. Evidently the intruder, whoever it was, has at least not used my email, which hopefully means there are no further notifications. As Rotterdam said, his message waits for me in my inbox. I open it and all the attachments.


MONDAY, THE 1ST, 6:33AM

Irritating, unforseen events have required me to hold a briefing on Starr’s situation, and the two detectives seated at the drawing room table before me, hungry for information pertaining to my business, strike me as mutts. The young and annoyingly enthusiastic Langdon had to be informed of the commotion in the office this morning after inquiring to the whereabouts of his mug. Somewhat convincing evidence further pointing to Starr as the ‘intruder’ has also emerged, brought to my attention by the stoic, though I guessed displeased, Detective de Witte, half an hour ago.
Minutes after he clocked in, I started violently at his quiet voice, close enough to feel his breath. ‘Lars,’ he said with a thick Dutch accent. He has a habit of materialising directly behind you. ‘You were of course planning to brief us on this morning’s events.’
I turned around and met his deep gaze, the one that assures me he holds no approval for my authority. He was displaying a printout of an email sent from the address of Detective Alexander Starr. ‘Apparently plans change,’ I said exasperatedly.
‘Well, we are all accounted for. Only the three of us today – now, sadly.’
I took the sheet from him and scanned over it; my gaze fell upon my name and I traced back to the start of the sentence and started reading: Also, I fancied Lars would erase the notice and so I took this extra measure–– At that my brow furrowed indignantly. I growled and thrust the sheet back into de Witte’s outstretched hand. ‘Just be ready, Detective,’ I said, turning away and making once again for my office.
That little prick! I slammed the door shut and balled my fists. Second-guessing me like I was his fucking guinea pig! Why does the bastard have to be so insistent on publicising himself?
And for a long moment, I took some solace in Starr’s current state of affairs.

I find myself in a repetition of that action as I am jerked from my reverie by Langdon’s corny voice. ‘Chief? What’s the matter?’
‘Okay, listen up. I’ve spoken with Rotterdam and he’s assigned everything to do with Starr’s disappearance to me. I will tell you that gangs are involved, and I will thank you to not stick your damn noses into my business.’
‘You can’t be serious!’ Langdon cries. ‘You gotta tell us more than that, Chief. Al reckons there is a mole in PB!’
‘Rotterdam insists otherwise.’
‘How would he know?’
‘Starr told him about all this well before any of us.’
‘At least tell us what the notice you deleted said,’ de Witte says. ‘Just write it – on the board.’
I comply, lest they persist.
‘Well, clearly he was in a rush,’ de Witte says after perusing my replication of Starr’s urgent post. ‘Perhaps he caused the mess in the office looking for dirt on his mole, out of his wits. But here’s what I don’t understand – the time, are you sure that’s accurate?’
I nod.
‘Starr’s email was sent to me at about quarter to three. Too long to spend around in a rush.’
‘Hunh.’
‘Come on, Chief, don’t play coy with us,’ Langdon says. ‘Something stinks here. Outta place. Like, like––’ he fumbles through his pocket ‘––take this for example!’ he says, producing a folded piece of paper and waving it at me. ‘Al sent me an email too, and it’s written coherently, carefully. But this notice – this is exactly how it was written?’
‘Word for word.’
‘Strange, right? What made him suddenly collect himself? And I’m sure I don’t need to point out the lack of any proper identification. Perhaps... perhaps whoever was here this morning was not Al Starr – but in fact an imposter!’
I don’t care to remark that I have reached similar conclusions.
‘Have you checked the cameras?’ Langdon asks.
I scoff. ‘I hardly think there’s a need.’
‘You didn’t even bother to check?’
‘There won’t be anything to find.’
He exits the room in the direction of his terminal, leaving de Witte and me to ourselves. Promptly, I can hear him quickly type a few commands into his keyboard and then shout out, ‘He’s right.’ Presently, he returns to the drawing room, saying as he enters, ‘No footage since midnight. The cameras still aren’t recording, either.’ He does not take his seat.
‘Midnight?’ I burst out.
‘Midnight exactly.’
Silence strikes us for a minute or two.
‘Detectives,’ I say finally. ‘You are well aware that, as Chief, all internal affairs fall under my jurisdiction. There is nothing different about this particular case.’
De Witte simply looks at me with reproach; Langdon says, ‘It might be that way to you, but not to me. Hell, you didn’t even check the damn cameras. Evidently, you aren’t in pieces over his disappearance. But Al is a good friend of mine. And I reckon he’s freed us all from more than one tight spot.’
‘Don’t get ahead of yourself, Detective, we aren’t even sure he’s missing yet,’ I lie – though somehow I reckon Langdon is not fooled; and de Witte probably presumes truth in the opposite of most things I say.
‘Say what you want,’ Langdon says, ‘but none of it will stop me from looking into this.’
‘Just don’t forget your duties, Detective. Rotterdam has prepared new cases for all of us – Detective de Witte, Rotterdam has asked that you take on Starr’s once you’ve finished up with your own assignment.’
They both exit the drawing room without a word, followed shortly after by myself. Apparently Langdon immediately left the branch; I sorely hope not to investigate into Starr’s location. De Witte is at his desk, running elegant fingers through his unkempt, silver hair as he peruses through a case-file with something of a perplexed expression; though I notice he has already taken Starr’s sealed envelope from the rack and cannot deduce which he is currently reading. I move over to the espresso machine and prepare a to-go coffee, weighing up which gang I should first pay a visit as I watch the two thin, flowing streams of black liquid, settling on UPB as the last few drops fall into the cup. I stir in some sugar, fasten a disposable lid, and make for the door to the stairwell. I don’t bother taking my coat: the weather is at least fair. Through the windows I can see Perth bathed in brilliant sunlight – weather for leisure: for a shallower case that merely benefits some corporate hick, devoid of the emotional hindrance of victims or fellow workers; a typical case, in other words – certainly not the kind I am tormented by as I descend the stairs.
The Disappearance of fellow detective, Alexander Starr.
That’s what I am stuck with – a deep and intimate case, indeed – the exact kind I hate.