Three police officers chased Marcus as he ran to Emma’s car and began to circle it with the officers on his tail. Emma’s head was turning in circles like the young girl in The Exorcist as she screamed, “The camera! The camera!”
The scene looked like something from a Mel Brooks movie. Archie sighed and said, “This is bullshit,” and trotted to the BMW and grabbed Marcus by the arm when he went by.
It stopped the camerman like he’d hit the end of a chain. Marcus said, “No-no-no,” and looked at the police.
Emma screamed, “What are you doing?”
Archie held up his hand to the officers in a stop motion. They stopped.
Arch said to them, “You care if they make a copy?”
All three said at the same time, “No.”
Arch released Marcus and said to Emma, “Ms. Storm, why don’t you let this fellow take his camera and ride with these officers to your studio to make a copy, then they can take the original with them for their evidence file.”
Emma looked sheepish. “Certainly. Marcus, go with these officers. I’ll meet you at the studio.”
When they were gone, Arch walked back to us.
“Well, aren’t you just the take charge type.” I said.
Arch said, “It was obvious your lightning quick mind couldn’t figure out what to do.”
“I thought it was funny.”
Arch grinned, “It was, wasn’t it.” The three of us went to our office and unlocked the door to check the damage. Arch said, “Just a few holes. A little putty and some paint, it’ll be like new.”
“We’ll take care of it, Arch,” Hondo said. Arch nodded and went out, closing the door behind him.
A yellow Post-it note was on the back of the door. We both walked over to read what someone wrote in blue ink: THE MURDERED MAN’S NAME WAS JOHN SUNDAY. SHE IS HIS DAUGHTER. SAVE HER.
I looked at Hondo. “Are all the locks on our doors plastic or something? I’m starting to think a three-year-old could pick them.”
“It’s not the locks. We keep coming up against pros.”
“Ghost pros,” I said.
“I hear that.”
I picked up the receiver on my desk phone and dialed CIA Agent Harris. When Harris answered, I said, “I want a full briefing on John Sunday. Why? Because we just had the crap shot out of our office and someone left us information about him, that’s why. No, either you fill us in or we’ll go to our other sources. I’ll give you one hour. Okay, tomorrow morning then.” I hung up and said, “It’s not often you can leave the CIA stuttering on the phone when you hang up.”
“That’s because you’re such a diplomat.”
“Hah.”
**
CIA Agent Harris came by himself the next morning. I opened the door to let him in and Hondo pointed to a seat. I brought him some coffee. Harris sipped the coffee and said, “Okay. I checked you two out and read your military records.” He looked at Hondo, then at me for several seconds, “Very impressive by the way.”
“Let’s hear about John Sunday,” Hondo said.
Harris said, “It’s more…complex than that. It’s also about his daughter, the one you saved.”
“What’s her name?” Hondo asked. I glanced at Hondo’s hand on the coffee cup. The knuckles were whitening.
Harris said, “Her name is Jett Sunday. But this all really begins decades ago, with John.” Then he told us the story.
John Sunday was born to a dysfunctional family, back before they used the D word to describe such things.