It's midnight. I have been sitting in my car for hours.
The rain has been a blurry vail over my car all night and is causing a low-set fog as it rests on the streets.
When on a stakeout, you have to be patient, but I have
only a little coffee left, and it is cold. I finished my last burger about an hour ago and knew I should have picked up some donuts before blending in. I'll wait 15 more minutes, and if I see no one, I'm going in. I need to verify the cases I choose—better.
My name is Frank, Frank Brown, and I'm a private
investigator. I try not to take these overnight cases, but something about this one made me curious.
After drinking my last sip of cold coffee, I thought, who
usually goes to a blood bank at 1 a.m. five nights a
week? And on top of that, this guy looks whiter than the
moon on a clear night. I'm still sorting through the crime
photos—while endlessly sitting here waiting and thinking
to myself, does this person have a bizarre fetish and
have anemia? That idea cancels itself out pretty fast,
considering what I have on the shortlist—this guy is very
fit and is never out in the sunlight.
The only background I could find on the mysterious John
Smith I am looking for may not even be his own. The
age—that I got from my client—was only an approximation
of Mr. Smith's actual age. Including his location, country,
and city of origin, the man turned up to be born 60 years
before the person I am searching for was ever an
accident. I wish I had brought a bottle of bourbon instead
of coffee.
I watch the curtains light from behind the window in front
of his apartment. My attention is now on the door and
nothing else. The light behind the window curtains goes
black. I wait a minute, then two, and watch as no one
exits the door.
I hear the walking of hard-heel shoes on concrete and
see nothing. I look in my rearview mirror and see who
I'm waiting for, walking down the street away from my car.
How, how is that possible—
I quickly sit my now empty coffee thermos on the
floorboard. I open my car door with a large part of my
weight and have my trigger hand wrapped around the
pistol butt.
Standing next to my car, I do not see him. He was not
running, and the fog wasn't too dense to hide him that
fast. He vanished!
As soon as I take my hand off the pistol butt, I feel two
fingers touch me—one on each temple. My vision starts
to fade fast, and my body becomes weak. During the
lowering of my eyesight and the altitude of my head, I
look for his reflection in the car window, but there is no
reflection to be seen. Before my eyes close all the way, I
have one more thought—
I wish I had brought a bottle of bourbon as old as
Mr. Smith.
