The missing link, p.1
The Missing Link, page 1
A Camel Press book published by Epicenter Press
Epicenter Press
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Cover design by Scott Book
Interior design by Melissa Vail Coffman
The Missing Link
Copyright © 2024 by R. Franklin James
Library of Congress Control Number: 2024931754
ISBN: 978-1-68492-300-7 (Trade Paper)
ISBN: 978-1-68492-301-4 (eBook)
To Kennedy Watkins, an author in-waiting.
Contents
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
As I ease into my Chapter Two, I have enjoyed a lineup of support that has made it a journey more than worth travelling.
First, I cannot go a single step without walking up to Jennifer McCord. She has stood by me and more importantly my work, for over a decade—there are not enough thanks. I also must acknowledge Phil Garrett and the dedication of the Camel Press publishing team that have brought my books to light.
A boundless thank you to my critique group: Kathleen Asay, Cindy Sample and Karen Phillips. They lift me with care and use their “reader” skills and knowledge to bring a richness and life to everything I write. Our critique group recently lost a member, Pat Foulk, and we are less without her.
And always, always, always I have those who continue to root for me: Patsy Williams, Penny Manson, Geri Nibbs, Carol Oliveira, and Margaret Helgeson. They inspire, support and make me smile. Thank you.
CHAPTER ONE
Johanna Hudson unlocked the front door and sniffed at the smell of fresh paint. The landlord kept his word and finished the renovation work over the weekend. Legacy Consultants’ new offices would not be considered luxurious except when compared to what they had before. Thanks to a couple of client bonus payments earlier that year, they were now financially secure enough to exchange their second floor 3-room lease, for the fourth floor. This new workplace had a small reception lobby, three workplaces, a combination space for business machines and a break room—a modest upgrade.
Her office, while slightly smaller than her partner Ava Lowell’s, had a coveted view of the Hayward Hills and if she stood on her toes, she could see a sliver of the San Francisco south bay. Ava didn’t mind losing the vista. She was rarely in her office, preferring to be in the “field” doing research. Her background as an archaeologist brought immense benefit to Legacy’s genealogical investigations.
Johanna took a peek into the office of their new associate, Trinidad Owens. It was the closest room to the front reception area with the only window facing the hallway. The space was painted a subdued gray containing a medium-sized desk, a sole bookcase already full of books, and a slate gray and black herringbone area rug under an overstuffed gray tweed chair. Johanna sighed. It was pretty neutral and bland. Until a few months ago this room would have been filled with flowers and brilliant artifacts. Now, as Trinidad would say, it reflected her heart. The recent death of Trinidad’s friend, and Legacy’s unofficial driver had brought a cloud. His killing and Trinidad’s own near-death hospitalization, had submerged the young woman into a “dark place” from which she had not yet recovered.
Still, every so often, Johanna would catch a glimmer of the old Trinidad that had not totally slipped away. She smiled at the small but empty cerulean blue vase that sat defiantly in the corner on the window ledge.
Next she headed to her own desk. She had come in early to get a jump on two new clients. Since the news headlines of Legacy’s involvement in the solving of a high profile murder a few months past, their business had blossomed and they had turned the corner into profitability. Unfortunately, it hadn’t translated into the elimination of tedious day-to-day responsibility for administrative chores. This morning required setting-up new client folders and creating online data files.
Ever since Trinidad had taken on an associate’s role, they each were doing their own clerical work and shared receptionist duties. Johanna and Ava had finally come to the conclusion they were going to have to hire someone for the front desk.
“I don’t like to do the paperwork,” Ava said shaking her head. “And you don’t like to do it. And I’m not about to ask Trinidad to revert back to her old clerical duties. So we are going to need to hire someone—maybe a temp.”
They had left it at that, but Johanna knew it was time to do something, especially after she had spent a half hour pulling out the printer’s misplaced staples on client files.
“Ah, good morning Johanna,” Trinidad said taking her jacket off at the same time. “What time did you arrive? I thought I was getting here before anyone. What are you doing? Did you mess up the printer again?”
Named after her homeland, this morning Trinidad’s silky, wavy black hair was pulled into its usual thick mid-back braid. The young woman’s creamy café au lait complexion was set off by light brown eyes and a generous smile. She took a seat in Johanna’s office.
“Good morning,” she said. “But evidently I didn’t get here early enough. All my extra time has gone into making up files.”
Johanna re-stapled a client intake card to a folder.
Trinidad looked on. “It takes some getting used to, but you’ll get the hang of it. Remember, I had to make up files and find a missing person. If I could do it, you can do it.”
“Thanks Trinidad for the vote of confidence.” Johanna gave her a wry smile. “So, why are you here so early?”
This morning her friend was wearing what was apparently becoming her pseudo-uniform of navy-blue pants-suit and white blouse. The blouse varied in style but not in color. The recurring outfit appeared to be a homage to her grief. Johanna often thought Trinidad had lost her footing as a person.
“Yes, good news. I think I have my first by myself client,” Trinidad smiled proudly and spoke with the remnants of a patois accent. “Yes, she contacted us online and she wants us to do a family tree. I talk at . . . with her and sent her the contract on Friday. Today I see if she will sign it.”
“Does it sound pretty standard?”
Trinidad tilted her head in an unasked question.
Johanna rephrased, “Does it sound simple or average?”
“Oh yes. It is standard.”
Trinidad’s English classes were working out well. Just every so often, it was good to double check to ensure the understanding was mutual.
Johanna glanced at the time.
“I’m ready for a break. I’m going to the cart. Can I bring you back some coffee?”
“No, I’m fine,” Trinidad said. “I’ll be glad when our kitchen is working and we don’t have to go to the truck. Don’t forget the workers will be here tomorrow to finish the infrastructure.”
Johanna glanced up quickly and grinned. “Infrastructure, my goodness such a big word.”
Trinidad beamed. “I looked it up when the leasing people were here last week. They used it when they talked about all the electricity and plumbing we needed—the infrastructure.”
“Very well then, I’ll leave you with whatever infrastructure we have,” Johanna said, putting her wallet and phone in her coat pocket. “I’m going to the food truck before the coffee line gets any longer.”
Outside, she slowed her pace and frowned. She sensed she was someone’s focus. Without turning her head, she saw a man out of the corner of her eye standing across the street staring at her. He held onto a sign of well-used bent cardboard: “Will Work For Food.” She kept her gaze forward.
The food truck had a long winding line this morning. Evidently the “infrastructure” was out in several other offices in the building. When her turn came, Johanna ordered two cups of c offee and two donuts. She walked across the street to her observer.
Seeing her approach, the man tightened his grip on the sign, but continued to stare at her.
“Here?” She reached out with the bag. “Would you like some coffee and a couple of donuts?”
He was tall and thin, wearing at least three sets of flannel shirts and a once tan, now multi grime looking trench coat. His face and hands were smudged, and his dark hair oily, still Johanna could tell he was young.
Without hesitation, he set the sign on the ground next to a weathered backpack. Grasping the bag he took out the coffee, drank deeply, and then practically inhaled a donut. He avoided looking directly at her, but she could see from the glances he stole, his blue eyes held intelligence and clarity.
“Thank you.” He took another long drink.
“You’re welcome.” She turned to walk back to the building.
“I . . . I know who you are.”
Johanna turned and frowned. “What?”
He took a step forward, then when he saw Johanna’s expression of alarm, took the step back. “Yeah, I was the one who was there when you were rescued at the BART maintenance yard.”
Her breathing quickened. His words transported her to a flashback from a few months past. Johanna had been kidnapped and had barely escaped except for the help from a homeless man—apparently this homeless man.
“You!” Johanna exclaimed. “You were the one who saved me. I always wanted to thank you. Did the police tell you I wanted to thank you?”
He tilted his head with a smirk. “No, lady, the cops didn’t tell me anything except to get my stuff off of BART property.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I did, and I do, want to thank you for actually saving my life.”
He looked down at his battered tennis shoes. “You’re welcome.”
There was an awkward silence. The coffee line at the cart had gotten longer.
“Well, I need to get back to work.” Johanna took out her wallet. “Look, here’s thirty-dollars. It’s all the cash I have. I can meet you somewhere tomorrow with more. I know it’s a small thank you for all you did to help me.”
He took the money and shoved it in his coat pocket.
“Not more cash. You can really thank me by giving me a job.”
“What? I don’t have a need for a . . . a . . . a person. We’re an office. We need clerical and administrative skills.”
He straightened and ran a hand over his head, moving his thick dark hair from off his forehead.
“I . . . I read about you and the killings in the newspaper. I went to the library. They let me in if I . . . if I stay invisible.” He looked past her. “I wanted to know about you . . . who you were, and uh, where you worked.” He once more looked down at his battered tennis shoes.
“You mean you were waiting for me this morning?” Johanna stiffened.
“Yeah, but not in a weird way,” he sighed. “Look, I can do office work,” he rushed on. “I used to work as an intern for an insurance company.”
Johanna groaned. How did she get into this, even more how could she get out?
“I don’t know.” She looked over her shoulder, shaking her head. Then grudgingly, “Well, we do need a receptionist, someone who—”
“Who will greet customers and . . . bring them coffee while they’re waiting . . . and know how to use a computer and a desk phone,” he said. “I know I don’t look it right now.” His hands smoothed his grubby coat lapels. “But I can do those things.”
Johanna sighed. “Uh, we’re looking for someone with education maybe even some college.”
He grimaced with disbelief. “You want a college degree for a receptionist. How much do you pay?”
“You’re right.” Johanna had to chuckle. “I guess I . . . I’m just—”
“Just afraid of hiring a homeless person who could be on drugs, or an escaped prisoner, or a burglar, or even worse. Well, I’m not any of those things. I’m just going through a streak of bad luck and you could end it for me. You could save my life, like I saved yours.”
Now that hit home.
Resigned, Johanna took a card from her wallet. “Our building is across the street. But then, you probably already know that. Here’s our suite number. We’re having some building work done today and tomorrow, but if you could come for an interview on Wednesday at 9:00 a.m., we’ll see if there is a fit.”
He nodded repeatedly and picking up his sack started to walk determinedly down the sidewalk turning to look back at Johanna with a tentative smile.
“Wait,” she called out.
He returned to where she stood. “Yes?”
“What’s your name?”
He gave her an odd look.
“I thought you were going to tell me you had changed your mind. No one has asked me for my name in a long time.” He paused. “It’s Marty . . . Martin Blake.”
She nodded and watched him disappear around the corner.
“You did what?” Ava and Trinidad said in unison.
Johanna cringed. “No need to overreact. I didn’t hire him; I only said he could have an interview.”
“But Johanna,” Ava shook her head. “What possessed you to even give him hope? Now he’ll always be hanging around, maybe even bring his friends in growing numbers to beg in front of the building for an easy touch.”
“Ava, he did save my life.”
“I know but—”
Trinidad raised her hand. “Ava and Johanna, this man is coming here; there is nothing we can do. We cannot call him to not come. He will be here Wednesday morning. I will be with Johanna so she will be safe.”
“Thanks, Trinidad, I’d like that,” Johanna said. She then turned to Ava. “It’s common courtesy and the least I could do.”
“Hmmm,” Ava responded. “Let’s hope we don’t regret it.”
TRINIDAD
Trinidad wasn’t nervous.
Okay, yes she was, but it was a good nervous. Her first client and her first official chance to prove herself. Simone Griffin had a very nice voice on the phone, and Trinidad could tell she had manners and education. And for good measure, Trinidad had made sure during a comprehensive public records search that Simone wasn’t wanted by the law nor had any legal actions filed against her.
It never hurt to be careful.
They were meeting in Ava’s office. Trinidad thought it best to impress Ms. Griffin with the full weight of the company’s best furnishings.
“I didn’t know if you wanted me to bring all my papers, or just enough to get you started.” Griffin said.
“Ah, Simone, can I call you Simone?” Trinidad requested. “And you must call me Trinidad. I just wanted you to see from our offices that we are a serious business. In the future I will come to you, or we will meet someplace convenient.”
“Sure, please call me Simone. Oh, and no problem coming here. I work in the field a lot—on calls.” Simone took out a sheet of paper from a folder and slid it across the top of the desk. “I filled out the tree chart from online. I brought it with me. As you can see, I don’t know much past my grandmother on my mother’s side and nothing on my father’s.”
Trinidad glanced quickly at the largely empty boxes on the form. She took a longer gaze at the young woman in front of her. From her own research, she knew Simone was a divorcee. What she couldn’t tell from her research was that the plain looking girl had poorly dyed her own hair a deep tin-look auburn. She also had dark circles under brown eyes and looked twenty years older than her birth certificate age of twenty-six.
“Families are funny things. Each one is different,” Trinidad said folding her hands on the desk. “Now tell me why you are curious about your family. Are you doing research to satisfy family ancestor tales? Genealogy is like a living mystery.”
“No, none of those things.” Simone moistened her lips. “I’m dying.”
CHAPTER TWO
“You say your client is dying?” Johanna asked Trinidad, setting her cup down on the counter behind her in Legacy’s small kitchen. Their file boxes were stacked against the wall and on the table there was no room to spread out.
“Let’s move this discussion to the conference room,” Ava said, already walking down the hall. “Trinidad, what does your client expect you to do?”
