City of the Lost (Rockton 1)

"She's a friend and we both need to move."

Another pause. "All right then. Send both sets of identification." She hung up.

I fax the identification and provide the number from a prepaid cell I buy for the purpose. It's less than twelve hours before I get a call requesting our "reason for moving."

"Fax us a written note explaining the situation, along with all supporting documentation. We will require proof of your claim."

"Anything else?" I ask. "Details on us personally."

The voice takes on a slight edge of amusement. "We have your identification. That is enough for us to retrieve what we need, detective."

Okay, they've already started doing their homework.

"There is also the matter of our fee," she says. "Five thousand each to cover the costs of the transfer and integrating you into your new home. I trust that's satisfactory?"

We'd already been warned of this, and I've agreed to pay Diana's fee as well as my own. I say that's fine and sign off.

I scan and send supporting documentation from Diana's hospital visits and official complaints against Graham and newspaper articles on my attack and a copy of the police report on Kurt's shooting.

Her story is the truth. Mine is that those who attacked me in the alley years ago had mistaken me for someone else, and they continued to stalk me, culminating in the attack on Kurt. Do I expect them to believe that? Not really. If there's any chance this town is legit, I'm hoping that if these people call bullshit on me they'll still grant Diana admission. She'll be safe, and that's what counts. Then I'll transfer to a new city to protect Kurt, and then ... well, whatever. The point is they'll both be safe.

Again, it's less than twelve hours before the next call. I'm told we've passed the documentation check and are okayed for the next step: the in-person interview. She rattles off a time and an address.

"That's local?" I say.

"We come to you."

"And I'll meet what, a selection committee?"

"You will meet Valerie, our firm's representative and client liaison."

"She'll answer my questions, to verify the legitimacy of your firm?"

Silence. I say, "What I mean is--"

"Yes, I understand your meaning. You wish to make sure we are what we say we are, we can do what we say we can. Most clients don't bother." A soft sound that may even be a chuckle. "Valerie will do her best to satisfy your doubt, detective. She cannot get into details--she must put our existing clientele first. But she should be able to satisfy your concerns."

We meet Valerie at 10 p.m. in a random office building. Yes, an office building. She even looks at home there: middle management, late forties, greying hair cut in no discernible style, decade-old suit.

There's no small talk, no offer of coffee or tea. She ushers us straight into a meeting room that's as stark and impersonal as my apartment. Rent-an-office? Never knew there was such a thing. It does come with an interesting feature, though: one-way glass. I walk to the mirror and pretend to fuss with my hair. Then I wave into the mirror and take a seat.

Valerie is pulling a folder from her satchel when the door opens. A guy stands there. He's around my age with dark blond hair cut short, and a beard somewhere between shadow and scruff. Six feet or so. Rugged build. Tanned face. Steel-grey eyes with a slight squint, crow's feet already forming at the corners. A guy who spends a lot of time outdoors and doesn't wear sunglasses or sunscreen as often as he should.

"You," he says, those grey eyes fixing on me. He jerks his chin to the door.

"We've just started--" Valerie begins.

"Separate interviews."

"That's not--"

He turns that gaze on her, and she freezes like a new hire caught on an extra coffee break. He doesn't say another word. Nor does she. I follow him out.

He takes me into the room behind the one-way glass and points to a chair.

"Local law enforcement, I presume?" I say.

He just keeps pointing. Now I fidget under his stare, like I'm the misbehaving new hire.