“So, what’s the move then?”My throat goes dry as I ask.
4
Pandora Box
Laird
Ivisit a small office tucked inside one of the rows of office buildings on the edge of Brooklyn.The building’s only three floors, each chopped up into smaller offices, and I climb the stairs of the old place to the top.
One office has a rusted door and dirty glass covered with yellowed blinds, a white nameplate with blue letters reading “Private Investigator Matthew Logan.”I knock once and step right in, no hello, no pleasantries.A guy with black hair lowers the newspaper he’s been reading and looks up from behind the desk.
“Laird, look who it is.”
“Hey, Matt.”I drop down onto one of the shabby sofas with the cracked leather peeling at the edges.
“Right on time.Just finished checking the lottery numbers in the paper.”
“Hit the jackpot yet?”
“Not yet.Gimme time.I’m still mapping out which counter’s got the best odds.”He sighs and slides down on the matching worn-out sofa across from me.
“That better not mean you need more time with my request.”
Matt’s eyes widen like I just offended him, then he laughs.“C’mon.Please.I got it.”He pulls a brown envelope from the drawer under the coffee table and waves it.“Feast your eyes.A goddamn miracle, courtesy of my genius.”
He puffs his chest, tilts his chin up, beams at me like he’s handing over the crown jewels.I reach for it, but he yanks it back against his chest.
“Cash first.”
I snort, dig out my wallet, and peel off three hundreds.“Don’t tell me this is going straight into scratch-offs.”
“That and maybe a couple other things.”He slips the bills into his shirt pocket.
“You do realize the lottery’s a scam, right?”
“Sure, but cracking it feels way better than winning by dumb luck.Think of it as an investment.”
“You’re kidding yourself calling that an investment.It’s just gambling dressed up.”
This time, he finally hands me the envelope.“Trust me, this is worth way more.”
I’ve known Matt since Harvard Law, back in criminal law class.He always swore his brain could crack anything—even the lottery—so working nine-to-five as a prosecutor would’ve been a waste.I call it a gambling addiction.But when it comes to digging dirt, he’s sharp as hell, the kind of guy who can tail someone for days and charm information out of them without blinking.
I flip open the envelope and pull out photos of Alan, some official letters, and a stack of court documents.
“This what I think it is?”
“Yup.The guy you’re after’s been living under a new identity for six years.Last name ties him to the Schmidt hotel group, but funny enough, you won’t find him on their shareholder list.”
“So either it’s fake papers or he…” I frown, letting the thought hang.
“Changed his name.Way more likely.No fake ID gets you through multiple court checks, including the DUI mess last month.”
“What about the Schmidt group itself?Any link to Amy Schmidt?”
“Not in the press.The family went quiet years ago, dumped all their shares during the pandemic.Amy married some loaded senator up in Massachusetts—guy’s twenty years older, if you care.”
“Way too much info, pal.”I scoff.“What about his old name?”
