Fish, short mystery fiction by S F Johnston in Web Mystery Magazine, Fall 2005

Fish

This one is so confidential that I really shouldn’t tell you. But I will.

I will, because it’s a diverting tale, and one that bears repeating. But for God’s sake, don’t repeat it, because then Mr. Raoul will come looking for me.

It all started when the old phone in my tiny apartment jangled, sending my cat Cairo up the kitchen curtains. Cairo is crazy, and my upstairs neighbor Mrs. Dobbs says it’s because he needs to get fixed. Somehow, I keep putting that off.

Anyway, he hung there, wild-eyed, as I stammered through a one-minute conversation with Ms. Carolyn Walsh. Yes, that Carolyn Walsh, who's at the top of her class at Harvard, drives a Porsche Carrera GT to Martha’s Vineyard every summer and whose father is Mr. Sutherland Walsh. She said she'd heard of me from somebody who knew somebody who knew my friend Rainbow. Really. Her parents named her Rainbow.

The conversation was short. Carolyn's father needed somebody in a hurry and had already sent a ride. Sure enough, I could see an idling silver Town Car outside my kitchen window. It took longer than usual to extract my psychotic pet's claws from the curtains so I didn’t have time to change, and had to make do with jeans and a happy face T-shirt. I poured some Kitty Kibble in Cairo's tray and five minutes later the driver and I were closing in on the Walsh mansion over on Creighton Street. You know, the one with all the turrets.

An ambulance was screaming down the long, curved drive as we arrived, and our obvious instructions to get to the Walsh's in a hurry could have made it a dangerously tricky situation. As luck would have it, however, the driver was extremely sure of himself. Instead of waiting until the emergency vehicle had safely passed, he slammed the accelerator to the floor and we barreled through the gated entrance at exactly the same time that the emergency vehicle was exiting. We avoided a head-on collision by a fraction of an inch. I don’t know why I became so excitable, because we got to the house many seconds before we would otherwise have arrived.

I got out of the car, took a quick look in the side mirror to make sure that my hair wasn't still standing on end, and walked up the steps. Carolyn herself met me at the door. I’ll tell you right now, she looks even better in person than she does in the magazines.

Everything was shining – her coal black hair was glinting in the sun, her perfect skin was glowing, her crystal blue eyes were alive with light. And then there was that 5 foot 8 inch body that some jealous columnists may say is a little too curvy for the model’s catwalk, but which I say should set the damn standard. She was wearing pleated black slacks and the whitest blouse I had ever seen. She was freakin’ gorgeous.

I gave quick consideration to my current state of dress, extrapolated that to my lifestyle in general, and compared it with the vision I saw before me. Ever wish you hadn’t been brought up following the Grateful Dead around on tour?

Carolyn introduced herself, like that was necessary, and brought me inside. The place was huge. As we made our way across an expansive foyer dotted with statues and vases, it dawned on me that this was her childhood home. It was a far cry from the Volkswagen camper that I grew up in, not to mention the station wagon Rainbow and her mother called home. It’s amazing how many different ways there are to live.

We walked up a wide, sweeping staircase, her slingbacks filling the space with echoes and my hightops squeaking on the marble, and then down a short, railed landing and into a hallway that took us into a massive library that extended left.

Mr. Sutherland Walsh was standing in the middle of the room glaring into a large pile of papers scattered across a long, wooden table. He didn't look up when we entered.

“One second!” he barked. It was a bark obviously accustomed to being adhered to, and both Carolyn and I adhered. I took a quick look around.

The book-lined walls were interspersed with a wide variety of artwork. Warhols and Hockneys were displayed side by side with pieces from the Renaissance (and earlier, if some of those flattened Medieval faces were any indication), and I think I even recognized a Picasso and a Gauguin. Now, I’m no art dealer, but even I could tell that I was looking at originals.

Down at the far end of the room was a collection of street scenes that had been hung on the wall above a recessed bar. These paintings showed people living very European lives, adding even more of what I supposed was deliberate old-world charm.

The dominant theme in the room, however, was the female torso, in all its curvaceous glory. It seemed a strange theme for a library, but I didn’t say anything. Who was I to judge the artistic inclinations of the rich and hiring?

Mr. Sutherland slammed his fist on the table. “Damn!” He walked towards us quickly, and Carolyn moved to his side.

“Mr. Riley,” she said. “I’d like to introduce my Daddy, Mr. Sutherland Walsh. Daddy, this is the man I was telling you about. Stock Riley.”

Carolyn’s perfect teeth gleamed in a sudden, generous smile that would have knocked most mortals out of their shoes. I remained in my shoes, however, and tried to keep calm.

‘Daddy’ was in his late fifties, and surprisingly short given his daughter's stature. He had dark red hair that was going to gray and a mustache to match, all overseen by thick, bushy eyebrows that lent his craggy face and steely eyes more authority than anybody had a right to possess. Even if they were one of the country’s richest financial muck-a-mucks. Which I believe is the correct business terminology.

His dark Armani suit and expensive cologne immediately made me feel even more under-dressed, not to mention under-scented. He looked me over silently for a moment, and I knew this was my one chance to make a good impression. I extended my hand.

“Mr. Walsh. You have an exquisite collec – .”

“Shut up,” he snapped. “You're too young, what are you, 18? And you dress like a slob. Get out.” Yikes.

“And what the hell kind of name is Stock?

Double yikes. I debated going into my standard spiel about how my parents had missed Woodstock by a generation and that being missed-the-boat hippies they were pretty bitter about it, and so had tried to make amends by naming me after the love-fest. Then I decided that Mr. Sutherland’s glare made him a highly suspect audience for that particular tale of woe. I went with the age and clothes angle.

“I'm older than I look,” I said. “I’m 27. And I’m sorry I’m not better dressed. But this was kind of last minute, and I have a crazy cat and –.”

I stopped as Mr. Sutherland's eyes widened, and I realized he wasn't used to being contradicted. “Sir,” I added, with what I hoped wasn't desperation.

“Daddy,” said Carolyn, coming to my rescue. “He comes very well recommended.” She flashed her eyes at me, and I might have felt my knees grow weak at that point. “He has a reputation fo r...”

“... thinking outside the box, yes, yes, so you told me.”

“You give me a box and I’ll think outside of it,” I said, feeling like I was interrupting.

Mr. Walsh ignored me, grunting in Carolyn’s direction and waving disgustedly in mine. “But ... but ... just look at him.”

They both looked at me. Oddly, I didn't know what to do with my hands.

“Well, I don't like it,” he said. Then he jabbed a stubby finger at me. “And I don't like you. But we don't have much time, so I guess this is what it is.”

He slipped a plain white envelope out of his suit jacket pocket and waved it in the air. “Ten thousand dollars. If you solve my problem, it’s yours. If you don’t, it’s not. And if it’s not enough, then we can forget the whole thing.” He put the envelope back into his jacket pocket. “Decide right now.”

Okay, now when somebody says they’re in a hurry to give me ten thousand clams, I usually don’t argue with them. But in this case, I had to get some ground rules straight. Besides, I tend to get all business-like when I’m flustered. It’s part of my charm.

“That’s very generous offer, Mr. Walsh, and I'm prepared to waive my usual retainer. But I have to know a few basic things before agreeing to any kind of contract.”

“Retainer?” he yelled, and began to choke. “Contract? For the love of – !” Carolyn put a hand on his arm. He sputtered, stopped, and then looked at his watch. “You have ten seconds,” he growled, giving me a mean, mean look.

Criminy Jicket.

“One,” I said quickly, “how long will you be needing my services?”

Yes, ten thousand dollars was a lot of money, but what if he wanted me to go halfway around the world on some creaky steamship? Which led me to number two.

“Two, will there be any travel or expenses involved?”

The last time I accepted a job without asking that question I got burned for the price of two New Zealand sheep shearers and a shipment of pink umbrellas. Don’t ask.

“Three,” I continued as Mr. Walsh looked at his watch again, “what exactly do you want me to do?”

I mean, I’ll detect and sleuth and stuff, but I have my moral standards to uphold. And as we all know, you have to keep an eye on your moral standards around the very rich.

“Four, are there perks? Like making sweet, sweet love to your beautiful daughter?”

Okay, I didn’t actually say that fourth question out loud which I figure saved me at least three seconds. And a severe beating.

Mr. Walsh looked at me as if I was a particularly stupid gnat, and then glanced at Carolyn. “You didn’t tell him?” he asked. “No, Daddy, I thought you were g –. ”

Mr. Walsh silenced her with a stern, I-don’t-have-time-for-this index finger and focused his iron eyes on me.

“One, you have to be out of here in 20 minutes. Two, we gave you a ride here, we’ll give you one back and you won’t have to spend a cent. Three, you have to follow a clue to some vitally important information. That’s what you people do, right? Follow clues? To vitally important information?”

“Absolutely,” I said.

“Was there a fourth question?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Good. There will be no contract, Mr. Riley. You will do what I say, when I say it, and you will be very, very sorry if you don't.”

“Sounds reasonable,” I said.

He squinted at me, then closed the library door. “I’ll make this quick. Somebody tried to –.”

The door crashed open again as his other daughter – yes, that daughter – burst into the library.

“Oh! Daddy! Carolyn! Whoever you are! I was just ...”

Maisy was a bundle of energy. She was taller than Carolyn, and almost as good looking, but her eyes were missing the refined intelligence of her sister, and the differences didn't stop there. Maisy didn’t attend Harvard. Maisy attended parties. And where Carolyn went for classic style, Maisy went for dubious fashion. Her black leather skirt barely covered the upper half of her thighs, and her low-cut stretch top was a shade of bright pastel pink that even the 80’s had passed over.

Now, I’ve never seen her scandalous Internet movie. No, really, I haven’t. But now I understood why it caused such a stir.

She glanced quickly across the room towards the bar and then back at us.

“Okay, I’ll come back! Who are you? Never mind, I’ll come back! Daddy, I have to use this room later! Carolyn, are you going to the Industrial Zone? Tonight I mean? It’s DJ Electric Joe! We’re all going tonight and –.”

Mr. Walsh held up his hand.

“My dearest Maisy.”

Maisy sniffed, looked at him with two wide eyes and started bouncing a little on the balls of her feet like she had to visit the ladies room.

“We are conducting business, my sweet. Please withdraw to whatever activity you were engaged in before you came charging in here like Tigger.”

Maisy swallowed, sniffed again, and seemed to be working something out in her still tilted head. Then, seemingly satisfied, she immediately tilted her head the other way.

“Okay! Bye-bye Daddy! Bye-bye Carolyn! Bye-bye whoever you are!”

She turned and flew out of the room. Mr. Walsh sighed and turned to Carolyn.

“Has she always been that wound up?” he asked. “Or am I just getting old?”

“Oh, Daddy,” said Carolyn.

Which doesn’t really mean anything, when you think about it. But when she said it, it seemed to mean something. You ever notice that about beautiful women?

Mr. Walsh wiped a hand over his face.

“Right. Now we really have to hurry. Stock, somebody tried to steal something from this house today, in an attempt to blackmail me. The attempt was foiled, but just barely. Our security people caught him inside the house.”

“I’m with you so far, sir,” I said. I occasionally interject statements like that to appear on the ball. It impresses the hell out of clients.

Mr. Walsh ignored me and flicked a switch on the wall beside the door. A panel in the ceiling slid back and six TV screens descended. Each screen was divided into four sections showing a different view of the house and its surroundings. At least half of the sections were showing static.

“Security system’s on the fritz,” he said. “We’re still trying to get to the bottom of it. My trusted friend and accountant was in this room and he saw the intruder on that screen.” He pointed to one of the working screens that showed the hallway right outside the door.

“The individual was known to us, Mr. Riley, and the sight of him caused our dear Mr. Pliny to have a heart attack.”

“Mr. Pliny?” I said, noting the unusual name.

“Like the philosopher,” said Carolyn.

“And he’s dead?” I asked.

“No,” said Mr. Walsh.

“Unlike the philosopher,” said Carolyn.

“Carolyn!” said Mr. Walsh, furrowing his impressive brow.

“Now, Mr. Pliny and I had an arrangement,” he continued, “and he was well aware of what this individual was after. We have a CD containing ... how shall I phrase it ... information of a somewhat ... delicate nature. Mr. Pliny had it on his person because we use the information often.” He paused. “Quite regularly, in fact.”

He cleared his throat, and I swear he looked embarrassed. “So if anything like this were to happen he knew that he was to secrete the CD in our vault, the location of which you need not know.”

This was getting curiouser and curiouser. What was on the CD?

“And he didn’t leave it in the vault?” I added helpfully.

“No,” said Mr. Walsh. “We believe he was staggering around the room at the time, and was in all likelihood clutching at his chest. You just missed the ambulance.”

He had no idea.

“Did he say anything at all before they took him away?” I asked.

“No. It seems he hit his head on the table when he fell.” He pointed to the long wooden table covered with papers. “He's unconscious, and we have no idea where the CD is.”

However,” he continued, reaching into his lapel pocket and pulling out a piece of plain white notepaper. “He did manage to write this before he fell.”

He handed it to me. The paper had been ripped unevenly from its pad, and had two words scrawled on it. LIBRARY. FISH.

“This note would appear to indicate that the CD is somewhere in this room” said Mr. Walsh. “But it also appears that Mr. Pliny believed that the intruder would gain entry. Gain entry and find the note. So he wrote it in a code. A code that the intruder wouldn’t understand. But we can’t understand the note. And we have to understand the note.”

Okay, I knew he was stressed about the time and all, but I wondered if he knew he was talking like a 1930’s movie actor. Then something occurred to me.

“Ten thousand dollars seems like a lot of m –.”

“It is. But I need this CD now,” said Mr. Walsh. “We are confident that this intruder has associates, and that they will not give up. In that regard, I have retained the services of one Mr. Raoul. He’ll be here in 20 minutes, and –.”

“Mr. Raoul?” said Carolyn.

“Yes, dear,” said Mr. Walsh impatiently. “Mr. Raoul.”

“Does he still have that awful beard?”

“Does he still –?”

Mr. Walsh bunched his fists up at his sides and tensed his shoulders. Then he screwed up his face and for one highly entertaining moment he looked just like Yosemite Sam. I thought that steam might actually start coming out of his ears, but he managed to regain control and his face relaxed into a mere scowl.

“Carolyn. Every second wasted –.”

“I don’t know who Mr. Raoul is,” I said to Mr. Sutherland. “But anything you can tell me that might be important to the case –.”

“Mr. Raoul is under the impression that his goatee makes him look distinguished,” he said. “It doesn’t. And while Mr. Raoul is very, very good at what he does, he can also be very, very dangerous if you get on his bad side. And he is not known for his sense of humor, so we don’t mention facial hair to Mr. Raoul, do we Carolyn?”

“No Daddy.”

Mr. Walsh hadn’t taken his eyes off me. “Stock, I need to have this CD for Mr. Raoul when he arrives.”

Wow. Now I really wanted to know what was on the CD.

“Is there anything else?” I asked.

“Just what Mr. Pliny was working on,” said Mr. Walsh. He pointed to the table, and I took in the bewildering mess of paperwork.

“FISH?” I said. He looked at me doubtfully.

“FISH. Twenty minutes. Carolyn will help you. I have to prepare some other material for Mr. Raoul.” He started walking to the door. “Carolyn,” he said without looking back, “I hope you’re right about this guy. Twenty minutes.” And then he was gone.

I turned to the table and surveyed the scene. I was looking at hundreds of legal documents, graphs and spreadsheets with rows of incomprehensible numbers. It was more material than I could go through in 20 days, much less 20 minutes.

A few brightly colored flyers stood out from the mess, with fancy logos and company acronyms. Many had addresses in places like the Cayman Islands, and were filled with photographs of boardrooms with deep yellows and rich browns. They exuded wealth and trust, but also had the occasional beach and palm tree thrown in.

Harvey, Erskine and Grant. The flyer contained an outline of their corporate legal services and showed a well-appointed boardroom. General Holdings Overseas Trust Incorporated. That one announced their annual report, and had a picture of a large, stately European building. Island Banking Associates. Lots of palm trees.

Then there was Appleby Cayman Estates. It was the flashiest, with a raised gloss font and a gigantic orange company acronym: ACE. A huge house with an aquamarine swimming pool and a beautiful woman in a tiny bathing suit. And when I say bathing suit I mean two pieces of red string.

But not a fish in sight, and the clock was ticking. I looked around the room again with a different eye.

We investigators have a different ways of looking at a room, you know. For instance, when I first entered the room, I was aware of the wealth and obvious power of the owner, as well as the general artistic leanings of the household. Now that I knew the details of the situation, I looked at the room completely differently. I was looking for clues. With professional detachment. And a razor’s edge intellect.

“A lot of these pictures have naked ladies in them,” I said.

“Paintings,” said Carolyn. “Not pictures. And they’re called nudes.”

I swallowed hard and forced my thoughts in a direction quite different from their natural inclination.

“But I don’t see any fish,” I said. I tried to imagine where I would conceal a CD if I needed to do it post-haste, as they say. Behind a painting, I deduced. Or in a book.

It takes a sharp, sharp mind to do what I do.

Since there were one gazillion books and only a few dozen paintings, I decided to start with the paintings.

“I’ve decided to start with the paintings,” I announced. “Are they protected by an alarm system?”

“Disabled,” said Carolyn, “We already took a quick look. Daddy thought you might want to start there.”

Mr. Walsh had anticipated my methodology with admirable forethought. I felt my overpowering presence in the room deflate slightly, but pressed on with determination. At least I was in charge from here on in.

“And he said that I should help you take them down if you wanted a closer look,” she continued.

“He left instructions?”

“Yes. And these.” She pulled two packages of surgeon’s gloves from the front pocket of her slacks and handed me a set. I slipped them onto my hands. Actually, I didn’t so much slip them on as struggle to maintain my dignity as I pulled and snapped and wriggled my appendages into the uncooperative latex. Carolyn had already put hers on, and was watching me intently, so of course I thought of another awkward latex product. My face might have gone red again, but it might just have been the time pressure.

“Wow,” she said. “You don't have much time. I guess, for you, this is like a quickie.” She held up one of her gloved hands. “Oh, and we can touch anything we like with these on.”

Okay, this caused my loins to actually stir. She was standing very close now, and I was thinking how excellent it all was until I realized to my horror that she smelled like Pears soap. Which would have been nice except that my great-aunt Eleanor smelled of Pears soap, so I started to freak out at the loins thing.

I gave my head a shake and tried to focus. I brought Carolyn back to the doorway and we each started down one side of the room looking for FISH. I refrained from pausing in front of the greater works, and did not at any time place a hand thoughtfully on my chin. We met up at the other end of the room by the bar. She had found a painting of Neptune holding a trident, awash in foam and looking very God-like, but without any fish. I had seen a lot of very small breasts on very large women, and one woman made completely out of triangles with her mouth where her belly button should have been. But no fish either.

You’d think with all the talk in art circles about symbolism and the unconscious that we would have at least found an eel or something.

I leaned on the bar and tried to look casual. But I must admit I was getting nervous about the time. It would have been nice if one of the paintings had leapt out at me with obvious import, because searching through all those books was going to be a nightm –.

“What about those?” said Carolyn, pointing above the bar.

The collection of European scenes. I had completely forgotten about those.

“I thought of those,” I said, scanning the paintings. “But they’re mostly street scenes. I don’t think--”

And then I saw it. It was nestled between a charcoal drawing of a Tapas bar in a very Gaudi-influenced Barcelona and a watercolor of a couple walking hand in hand across a bridge with the Eiffel Tower looming behind them.

“There,” I said. We were both pointing now, like witnesses on the grassy knoll. “We found it.”

It was a small oil painting of a wharf at sunset. The entire work was suffused with crimson brush strokes that provided an overall impression of deep auburn twilight.

A man in a 1950’s style suit with a calf-length brown coat open to the wind was standing in front of a seafood stand. He had thrown his head back, and was holding a long, thin fish above his open mouth. Its shiny skin reflected the sunset off the water and the vendor, a large middle-aged woman with rosy cheeks, was laughing.

It was an odd little scene, and I couldn’t help but think that trying to claw the tiny fish out of the painting would most likely drive Cairo right over the edge of whatever sanity he had left. As far as I was concerned, the Romans had a better deal going with grapes. But it was the only painting in the entire room with a fish in it.

“It’s called De Vishandelaar,” said Carolyn, turning to me. “It means The Fishmonger. It’s Dutch.”

She climbed up on one of the barstools and reached above her head to get the painting. This got me thinking about how I wouldn’t need to go out and look for a pedestal, and then she almost lost her balance, which snapped me out of it.

“You’ll have to help me,” she said. “Grab my waist.”

I grabbed, and she stretched herself out fully on her toes to reach the painting. I gulped air and tried to concentrate.

“You know,” I said, almost sure that my voice hadn’t just cracked like an adolescent schoolboy’s. “You’re pretty tall, and you’re still having a hard time reaching that painting.”

“It’s okay,” she said, as she lifted the painting off its hook.

“No, I mean even with my help, it’s –.”

“There,” she said, lowering herself back onto her heels. “I’ve got it.” I helped her down from the stool.

“Your father’s accountant, Mr. Pliny. Is he a tall man?” I asked.

She giggled. “No. He’s short and fat. Bald too.” She looked up at the blank spot on the wall high above the bar. “Oh. I see what you mean.”

We both looked down at the painting in her hands.

“But it's the only clue we've got,” she said.

“It is,” I confirmed. “Are you Dutch?”

“No.”

“Do you by any chance have a seafood stand in your house?”

“No.”

“Is he really about to drop that raw fish down his throat?”

Carolyn made a face and shuddered.

“Well, let’s look at the back then,” I said.

Carolyn turned the painting over and gently placed the frame down on the bar. A sheet of brown paper covered the back and sure enough, a small slit had been cut into one of the sides. I lifted the flap. There was something in there.

Jackpot.

I slipped two of my gloved fingers into the space, and pulled out a small makeshift envelope that had been fashioned out of a small square of magazine paper. I placed it down on the bar beside the painting as Carolyn leaned in close and slid her arm up against mine. It stayed there. We both looked down at the paper, and I guess she was thinking sleuthing thoughts. I was thinking that, Pears soap or not, I wanted to stay right there forever.

I gave myself a mental slap in the face, which stung in a theoretical sort of way, and turned my attention to the paper. I unfolded it carefully, revealing a small mound of white powder inside.

Carolyn laughed. I’d been around long enough to know what it was too. Cocaine. We had solved a mystery all right.

“This explains your sister’s ...” I didn’t want to use the wrong word. I didn’t want to appear undiplomatic.

“Enthusiasm?” said Carolyn. Damn. Good word. “She’s probably hidden little envelopes all over the house.” She smiled and shook her head.

“And I guess that explains who’s been mucking with the security cameras,” I said.

She refolded the paper and stuck it back inside the painting. I raised my eyebrows. She shrugged. “We’ll get her into rehab. Right now we have other fish to fry.” She climbed back onto the stool.

“Ha, ha,” she said.

I steadied her waist again, celebrated the view, and gave thanks.

“You know,” I said, ”this is what, in my line of work, they call happenstance. Parallel serendipity of utilitarian inconsequence.”

She replaced the painting and climbed back down. “You mean it’s not the clue we were lookingfor.”

“Well, sure.” I coughed quietly. “You could put it that way.”

“It’s a false trail,” she said. “A dead-end. We’re up the creek without a paddle.”

She looked up at the painting, and then turned to me with an enigmatic smile that would have done Da Vinci proud.

“I don’t know about the creek part,” I said, trying to retain my sense of logic in the face of her bewildering beauty. “Not really the same as the first two.”

I glanced at my watch. “Anyway, we still have four minutes.” I walked back to the table for another quick look. Numbers, flyers, and more numbers. Where was Rain Man when you needed him?

“I don't see anything,” I said.

“I don’t know much about Daddy’s work,” said Carolyn, also perusing the clutter. She shook her head slowly. “No. I’m sorry. I don’t see anything either.”

“How is this library organized?” I asked. “Is there a system?”

“Yes,” she said immediately. She started pointing to various bookcases and cabinets around the room and rattled off subjects from the classics to modern American and British literature, as well as a varied collection of history, art and other non-fiction interests. She was obviously familiar with all of it, and I was impressed.

“... and then this entire section here is all business. Reports, shareholder information, that kind of stuff. It’s all alphabetized.”

The business shelves were indeed labeled with lettered, bronze-colored plates, but the section took up about six city blocks. This was getting us nowhere. Mr. Walsh would be back any minute, and I wasn’t any closer to finding out what FISH meant than when I arrived.

I went over my options quickly, and settled on panic. I started pacing. My eyes raced over the books. I looked for anything to do with fish – cookbooks, angling, even card games for kids. Anything.

This was bad, because now I had that feeling. You know the one. Like when you’re dreaming and you can’t find the room for your final exam in high school, even though high school was a lifetime ago. You run down hallway after hallway and then you finally find the room and you have 5 minutes to write a three-hour exam and you don't know any of the answers. That feeling.

It was time to get out of the box.

I walked purposefully back to the table and stood beside Carolyn. I started clearing my mind of all distractions, and then sent Carolyn to the other end of the room and tried again. Better.

I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, re-opened them and looked down at the table, allowing everything to wash over me like images in a vision. If I found myself paying attention to details, I let my mind go blank and started again. Graphs and figures swam in front of me, merging with acronyms and company logos. Patterns formed, ebbing and flowing around my subconscious like running water. Indian mystics had used this ethereal meditation technique for millennia. I had learned it after a Dead show in Buffalo from a stoned friend of my parents called Crazy Pete.

When I knew I was ready, I walked over to a bookcase at random and let my gaze drift over the titles on the shelves. Nothing emerged as significant, so I turned to another bookcase, closed my eyes, re-opened them and tried again.

I went on to another. My mind was fully open and cosmically aware. I was filled with absolute certainty that the truth would show itself. I was serene. I was at one with –.

“Nap time, Mr. Riley?” said Mr. Walsh. He was standing inside the doorway to the library, his arms folded across his chest.

I looked over at him and tried to bring my eyes into focus.

“Well?” he said. “Your 20 minutes are up. Where’s the CD?”

Things weren’t looking too good.

“Come on, come on, where is it?” he said, walking towards me and extending his right hand. Now here was a man who was used to getting what he wanted. “Come on Stock, Mr. Raoul will be here any minute.”

Mr. Raoul. Something deep within the recesses of my mind shifted and then leapt forward into conscious thought. Everything else dropped away. Mr. Raoul. And Mr. Raoul’s goatee. I had it.

“GHOTI,” I said quietly.

I walked quickly over to the table. Sure enough, there it was. The annual report flyer with its classic colors and company acronym. General Holdings Overseas Trust Incorporated. GHOTI. It had been right there in front of me all along.

“Mr. Walsh,” I said, with a good measure of dramatic confidence that I keep in reserve for just such occasions, “I know exactly where Mr. Pliny hid the CD. Would you and Carolyn please join me at the table?”

I slipped off my latex gloves with what I hoped was panache, but which probably wasn’t due to the unfortunate fact that my right index finger got caught, causing the glove to snap back onto my wrist. ‘Ow!’ I almost yelled. Instead, I suppressed the pain with Spartan fortitude and summoned my strength. I was about to explain the mystery. This was excellent. This was just like TV.

I dropped my latex gloves on the table, glared at them, and then picked up the flyer. “GHOTI,” I said.

Then I looked at Carolyn, trying to extend my moment of glory. Her eyes were brimming with wonder. She was amazed. If I asked her out on a date right now, I thought, she would turn down the date and drag me right to the altar. My stunning intellect had won her adulation. She was mine.

“I know how he did it, Daddy,” she said, pushing me aside and grabbing the flyer.

“Ow!” I yelled out loud this time as my hip slammed into the edge of the table.

“I learned it at Harvard,” she continued, oblivious to my pain. “It’s a language trick the nerds know.” She looked back at me quickly and then continued.

“GHOTI”, she recited, like she was in a grade five spelling bee. “GH sometimes sounds like F. As in tough. O sometimes sounds like I. As in women. And TI sometimes sounds like SH. As in motion.

“GHOTI,” she said. “FISH.”

She took off her gloves easily, laid them gently down on the table and beamed at her father, who didn’t pat her on the head.

“That’s right, Carolyn,” I said, trying to salvage some dignity from the situation. I walked over to the alphabetized business shelves, and pointed at the section marked ‘G’. “Mr. Walsh, I think you’ll find that the CD has been hidden right here in the General Holdings Overseas Trust Incorporated annual report for –.”

“Actually, it will be right here,” said Mr. Walsh, walking briskly past me to a shelf marked ‘F’. “Under Finance. I’ll come over to your section when I want information on Government regulations or Green Party initiatives.”

He pulled out an inch-thick volume labeled GHOTI Annual Report, flipped it open and pulled out a silver CD. It flashed in the light, and I peered at it curiously, trying to see if it was labeled. It wasn’t. What was on that thing?

A chime sounded from deep inside the house.

“That will be Mr. Raoul,” said Mr. Walsh, striding over to me. He removed the white envelope from his jacket pocket and handed it to me.

“Mr. Stock Riley, it is my sincerest wish that you use this money to purchase yourself some decent clothing. Carolyn will see you to the back door, and our driver will take you home. You were never here.” He spun on his heels and strode out the door.

“Thank you, sir,” I said to his vanishing presence.

I pocketed the envelope. As Carolyn led me across the upper hallway to a back staircase, I heard Mr. Walsh’s booming voice greet Mr. Raoul at the front door.

The thought of Mr. Raoul receiving the CD that I had seen for all of 10 seconds finally became too much. I was dying of curiosity. I had to know.

“Carolyn,” I said at the top of the stairs. “As we say in the business, a certain amount of reciprocity would not be remiss as compensation for your subjugation of my authority during the expository phase of the investigation.”

She looked at me for a moment, smiled mischievously and then started down the staircase.

“You mean I stole your thunder in there. And I owe you.”

“Sure,” I said, following her. “You could put it that way.” We got to the bottom of the stairs, stopped in front of a closed door, and I gave her a little mischievous smile of my own.

“I just got ten thousand dollars for 20 minutes work and I’d sure like to know what was on that CD.”

She was silent for a few moments, and I knew she was deciding whether or not to tell me.

“Okay,” she said finally. “You did an amazing thing in there today. We never would have found it. But you pulled it off ...”

She opened the door and we started walking down a long hallway that ended in another door, presumably to the waiting car. A series of small, framed prints depicting various floral arrangements ran along the right wall. She stopped to straighten one of them, then turned and leaned into me conspiratorially.

“I’m not supposed to know,” she said. “But I do.” She paused, and looked around the hallway to make sure we were alone.

“The information on that CD was delicate alright, but it wasn’t financial.”

“Aha,” I said.

“Remember Daddy said that he and Mr. Pliny had an arrangement?”

I nodded.

“Well, they sure did.” She winked.

Did that wink mean what I thought it meant?

“And they made a movie.”

Oh dear God it did.

“Maisy caught them at it, on a security screen,” said Carolyn. “She said she saw it by accident.”

“But it must have happened when she was fooling with the system,” I added.

Was this for real? Talk about lifestyles of the rich and famous. I wondered if any of this was getting to Carolyn more than she let on.

“I’m pretty sure the movie was on the CD,” she said. “The man that tried to break in was trying to steal it. Like the one he stole of my sister and put on the Internet. In my sister’s case...well, people already know she’s wild, and all that did was get her on the cover of StarStruck.”

“But your father and Mr. Pliny ...”

“... have conservative customers. Skittish shareholders. It’s a whole other ball game.”

“And that’s why Mr. Pliny had a heart attack,” I said softly. “He would have been ruined too. So who is Mr. Raoul then?”

“Mr. Raoul fixes Daddy's problems. He makes things go away. If I’m right, he’ll be taking all of Daddy’s computers to some lab, and he’ll make sure nobody can retrieve anything ‘delicate’ from them. He’ll destroy the CD, and all the security tapes. He’ll have a word with our security people, and he’ll have a very special talk with our friend the intruder too, to find out how he knew about the CD.”

“A very special talk,” I repeated, my imagination going in a horrible direction. “But wait a minute. Why the hurry? Surely if Mr. Raoul works for your father, then we could all have looked for the CD togeth –.”

“Mr. Raoul doesn't work for Daddy,” said Carolyn matter-of-factly. “Mr. Raoul works for himself. He has many important clients and his time is very expensive. Mr. Raoul calls the shots. Not Daddy.”

Carolyn started walking down the hallway again, and I followed. But something about what she had told me didn't quite add up.

“It's the time factor,” I said. “I still don't understand the rush. It sounds like Mr. Raoul is going to be here for a while, 'fixing' everything. Surely we could have had a spent a little more time look--”

Carolyn stopped a few feet in front of the door at the end of the hall, turned, and put her hands on my shoulders. She brought her mouth close to my ear. “Daddy would have been very embarrassed if Mr. Raoul found out that the CD had gone missing,” she whispered. “Mr. Raoul is on it too.”

Yikes.

Carolyn turned away. She was going to open the door, send me on my way and I would probably never see her again. This was tragic.

“Carolyn?”

She turned back to me, but I didn't know what to say. Who was I to think that I could –.

The door banged open, and there was Maisy, silhouetted by the blazing sunlight outside.

“Carolyn! Whoever you are again! What are you doing here?”

“Maisy, this is Stock Riley,” said Carolyn. “He's a hero.”

“A hero!” said Maisy, throwing her arms wide and advancing. “I love heroes!”

She grabbed me and gave me a long, hard kiss that – well, let’s just say that I probably shouldn’t tell you what my loins were doing. Then, just as abruptly, she pushed me back and away against the wall.

“Bye-bye Carolyn! Bye-bye Mr. Stock Hero!” She half-walked, half ran down the hallway, grabbed the print that Carolyn had straightened and then raced up the stairs and onto the landing. We were alone again.

“But isn’t it funny,” said Carolyn, as if nothing had just happened.

“Yeah,” I said, still leaning against the wall and pretty much totally bereft of decorum. “Life is funny sometimes.”

“Life?” she said. “No, I mean the painting from Holland with the sunset and the fish. The one with my sister’s stash. Well, one of her stashes, anyway.” We both looked down the hall at the pale square where the floral print used to be. “It’s hilarious when you think about it.”

“Yeah,” I said, confused. “Cocaine is hilarious.” Which it patently isn’t.

“No,” she said, looking at me with exasperation. “The seafood stand in the painting? It said Haring on the front.”

Haring. Now that she mentioned it, it did sound very familiar.

“Does Haring mean ... in Dutch, I mean ... what I think it means?”

“Yes.” She smiled. “Get it? The fish the man was going to eat ...”

“... was a herring.”

“Yes. It was a herring.”

It was starting to dawn on me now. “I remember. The sunset reflecting off the water made the fish look...”

“... red.”

“So the herring was, in fact, red,” I said, dumbfounded.

“It was a red herring,” she said, and smiled.

I stared at her.

“Well, I thought it was funny,” she said. “You know. Considering it was a wrong clue and all.”

She was incredible. I was dying to ask her to enter into a mutually beneficial but achingly platonic detective partnership that would be fraught with sexual tension and highlighted by one stunning success after another. But I was having trouble formulating it so eruditely. In fact, I believe my thought process at the time was something along the lines of 'Gee, lady, you're smart and pretty and stuff.' And before I knew it she had ushered me out the back door past two burly security guards and into the waiting Town Car.

It was the same driver, as the two sprays of driveway gravel streaming out behind the car clearly indicated, but despite his best efforts I did in fact make it home to my tiny apartment.

And it is tiny. But it’s the first place in my life that I could ever call home. A permanent home that isn’t on wheels I mean, with a window that you can always count on to give you the same view each morning. Even if some mornings the view contains a car that whisks you away to a world you will never understand in a million years.

I stood there in my kitchen, and realized to my amazement that it had been less than an hour since Carolyn's phone call had sent Cairo screeching up onto the curtains. Only the envelope in my pocket told me that any of it had really happened. Ten thousand dollars to hide a secret.

Cairo sidled into the kitchen and skulked in the corner like he had a secret or two himself. Criminy, we all have secrets, I see it all the time. Look at Maisy. I wondered about Carolyn, and what secrets she might have, and then I wondered what it was about secrets that made us fight tooth and nail to protect them. The way I figured it, people hid secrets to hide who they really were. I bet that’s why you hide your secrets.

Which means we all have the same kind of secrets, in a way. I guess that's a kind of comfort, seeing as how my Dad is in jail, my sister lives on the streets in Canada, and Rainbow and I were once responsible for the death of –.

No. Those are other stories.

And I was serious earlier. Don’t tell anybody what I just told you about the Walsh’s. I’m pretty sure Mr. Raoul doesn’t even know I exist, and I’d like to keep it that way. I certainly wouldn’t want him to come poking around trying to ‘fix’ things.

Speaking of which, I really do have to make an appointment with that vet.