Page 47 of Letting Go

Mateus stand by the elevators while Jackson and I retrieve Raymond Clifton. It was all I could do not to lift him by his fancy lapels and shove him against a wall. Every muscle in me screamed to do something.

The room is filled with about a hundred participants including the waitstaff. There's finger food, which Jackson tested in the kitchen, and hotel security guards positioned at each of the three exits. On the walk down and in the elevator, Raymond Clifton had said hardly anything. He seemed genuinely nervous, tugging on his expensive cufflinks, adjusting his tie, checking his hair in the glossy reflection of the elevator walls.

We three had put in our earpieces the moment we left Clifton's room. Now Jackson is off stage, standing with the tech guy and with a clear view of Raymond. Mateus and I are stationed at points that form an equilateral triangle with a position behind podium. We three double-check the mics one more time, and then Raymond begins, to rousing applause.

Scanning the audience, it becomes clear my initial profiling of the crowd is wrong. Every type of person here is represented … if they made over a hundred grand a year. The predominant age range looks about thirty-five to fifty: people who have made enough money to understand they'll never make enough to satisfy themselves. There are a few younger ones too, about three-quarters of the participants are men. But Raymond Clifton knows how to work an audience, and he has them in the palm of his hand.

Two wall screens behind him magnify his image in stereo and the headset magnifies his voice. He loses his Louisiana drawl in front of this audience, and as he speaks, he warms to his subject: How a better you shapes a better future. He's holding a clicker in one hand and gestures with the other.

His groupies are in heaven.

At least he didn't roll up his Armani suit pants and kept his shoes on. Maybe he was saving the walking on coals for later in the week. When it was over, he started to go to the right of the stage and I heard Jackson's low whistle above the loud conversations of the disciples. Raymond turned on his heel and walked towards Jackson who then escorted him to the back. We'd meet around by the conference door and then head to his room. No threats indicated, no threats expressed, no potential threats outlined. As I shoulder my way through the crowd, Mateus beats me to the stage. He glances at the short flight of five stairs.

"I'll meet you around in back."

It's like a gut punch. He can't manage them. Still.

"Don’t look so weirded out. I'll get there," he says with a grin.

Now I know why he's an analyst. He really can't be in the field.

Raymond Clifton had installed himself with creature comforts at the penthouse. Fully stocked bar, two beers on tap. The suite held four rooms, plus the bedroom Jackson had already swept. I finished up and then demonstrated how to slip a belt through the hinge at the top to keep anyone from opening the door. A fire marshal would have my skin for this, but it works.

"Just in case you hear somebody outside and it's not one of us," I explain.

Mateus picks up the thread. "So let's debrief. Did you see anybody there who could be a possible threat? Someone angry with you?"

Clifton shakes his head. He moved easily behind the bar and poured himself a Scotch. The three of us declined.

"No. It all went smoothly. I saw no one. I saw no one yesterday." He comes around and sits down at the table. Mateus remains standing. Jackson shrugs off his suit jacket, revealing an open "V" T-shirt. He orders clothes from England, so even this T is cut a little higher. He looks English, so it works. Pale skin, curly light brown hair, and one tattooed sleeve. So like a ne'er-do-well British chap, hailing from Sheffield, with a penchant for the arts.

Raymond swallows, and his soft accent thickened after he clears his throat. Just as I pull out a chair to sit down, Raymond beats me to the punch.

"I hate to say I haven't been completely honest with you fellas or with Finn and Nic and I feel like I need to come clean."

I'm watching him. A thin chin and a thin face, large knuckles knobby and white on large hands, but he didn't work with them. I could tell from a glance. The guy must stay wedged behind a desk or someplace where he didn't have to exert much effort on the palms of those hands.

There's something else though. There's a magnetism to him. I can feel it: not sexual and not predatory, but somehow you knew he could take advantage of you if he wanted to.

"My daddy used to say, 'there's many a slip twixt cup and lip.'" He took a long drink and then set the glass on the sleek glass tabletop. "I'm fessing up boys."

"Is this a formal statement?"

Jackson looked nervous and I realized he probably has never covered a formal interview.

I leap and dive deep. "We know you're looking for someone."

If I meant to shock him, I failed. He merely took another hit off his drink and pushed the silver wire-rimmed glasses further up his nose with an index finger.

"Yes. I am. You' all are very good at your jobs." He squares his shoulders and makes a quarter-turn of the heavy glass of Scotch on the table "Yes, I am looking for someone."

Mateus looks pissed off and I get it. You don’t involve your detail in a missing person's case unless you've a) told them the facts, and b) hired them.

"My brother, Reed."

"Is he missing?"

"No. Not really. Well. Yeah. Now he is."