Pop Travel Page 3

  Of course, Dawson didn’t want to admit the possibility of a cover-up. He had to believe in the sanctity of the government. His job required it.

  “I don’t know. It was a very believable act, if it was an act. He kept looking over his shoulder and ducking when he heard a noise. He looked like he hadn’t slept in several days. Definitely distressed.” Cooper felt bad for the guy.

  “That doesn’t improve my opinion of his sanity. And out of all the detectives in the greater Atlanta area, did he say why he chose you?”

  “Yeah. I wondered about that, too. He said because I lived outside the city. Fewer cameras. And he read about my case against PTI.”

  “Right, the Pop Travel International monopoly. I remember it as one of your best cases. At least this guy had good judgment there. But I still think he’s tangoing with a teddy bear.”

  “Yeah. You’re probably right. Just the same, what do you think is happening with all the disappearances? A secret utopian society? A hole to another dimension? Those rumors seem just as farfetched.”

  “I don’t know. My guess is, life got to be too much for them and they escaped to some secluded paradise, out of contact with the rest of the world. But if it will make you feel better, I will look into it for you.”

  Cooper used to think the same way, ignoring the problems of the rich and famous, especially with bigger news pushing the disappearances out of the spotlight. But the more he thought about it, the more confidence he felt in his gut about an underlying cause, linking the cases. There had to be something wrong at the travelports someone didn’t want the public to know about.

  “It would. And I’ll take any info you can give me on Pop Travel International and the Creator, too. I haven’t found very much on the Qnet so far. But that’s not surprising, with it being so closely monitored by the government.”

  “For your protection,” Dawson said, pointing a finger at him.

  “Riiight.”

  “Okay. I’ve heard enough about pop travel and schizos. How are you? Have you been flying? When’s the last time you were up in the air?”

  “It’s been a while. No time. Like I said, plenty of shady characters to spy on,” Cooper answered.

  “I was hoping you’d have a funny case to tell me about.”

  “They’re all laughable. Not very funny, though.”

  “Aww. Come on. What about the dog you just found?”

  Cooper lightened up a little, recalling the case of Mrs. Clark’s dog. He even cracked a smile describing how he had to reach under the dumpster. It felt good to finish their lunch with a few laughs.

  “Love you, Big Bro. I’ll send you any info I can find. Be careful on the job.” Dawson put out his hand; when Cooper went to shake it, Dawson pulled him in for a hug, patting him on the back.

  “You, too. Glad to see you moving up in the world,” Cooper said, releasing his brother.

  Dawson got into the Caddy and headed back downtown. Cooper hoped this case was just a crazy notion, for his brother’s sake.

  After an uneventful afternoon of following the lovely, suspected adulteress Mrs. Wilkins around, Cooper returned to the office. Miki had gone. On his desk, he found her zip pad with a handwritten note. She knew better than to leave him a vid message on his compucenter. As an anti-social hermit, he never checked them. She always summed them up for him.

  The note read:

  “A strange guy came in looking for you. He was scary-nervous. His eyes shot around and he kept messing with his jacket buttons while he talked. He didn’t leave his name, but I’m betting it was the same Phisner guy you met with yesterday. He said ‘they’ found him so he had to go underground and would contact you soon. Then he said to watch your back. What a psycho!

  “And don’t forget to get my sister a gift for the wedding Saturday—you’re going! I’m running bridesmaid errands. I’ll see you tomorrow. Miki.”

  A smiley face grinned at him under her name.

  “Thanks, Miki,” he said to the note. Maybe this guy is nuts.

  Sitting down, Cooper greeted his compucenter. Though he let his furnishings become antique chic, he updated his technology on a regular basis. He beamed every time it came to life, proud of his highly-rated, 3D, holographic display imager, with super speedy, clear motion rate guaranteed to eliminate fast action blurring, and the smartest Think4U program available, with intuitive reception, regularly updating his top five preferred-channel viewing options. His gadgets made him feel ahead of the game. Knowledge and information were the most potent weapons anyone could possess. He smiled and enjoyed all his shiny toys by himself. And that suited him just fine.

  Cooper pulled down a box from the top of the imager suspended over his CC. The sharp, reconstructed features of the male anchor sitting at his desk expanded. As he spoke about the latest high profile disappearance, he wore a grave expression.

  “…is the sixth public figure reported missing this year and the twenty-fifth VIP since the first case two years ago. The frequency of these mysterious disappearances has dropped significantly from five in one month, when they started. But where these people have gone is still unknown. Stress appears to be the number one factor. The glaring link between the victims, who range from celebrities to top executives, is their drive to keep in the forefront of their fields and their exhaustive travel schedules. Some doctors have said these people overworked themselves and were weak from all the adjustments to time zones, conjecturing they were on the verge of nervous breakdowns. Kidnapping has been ruled out by the authorities. Federal Investigator Carroll Simmons had this to say: ‘These folks have the means and the motivation to disappear for a while if they so choose. We haven’t had any ransom messages or evidence…’“

  What if Phisner was right? His story had checked out. The police had no criminal record on him. Phisner appeared to be normal before all this happened.

  After running into dead ends on the Qnet and with authorities, Cooper had considered dropping the case. And after talking to Dawson, the more he thought about it, the crazier it sounded. But the poor guy came by to follow up. Cooper didn’t want to give up on Phisner just yet. He would give the Qnet one more go. Taking a different approach, he read about any open celebrity disappearance investigations.

  Nothing but rumors and gossip.

  With no bodies or evidence and not enough similarities between the victims, a serial killer had been ruled out. Not a speck of DNA had been found anywhere. But Dawson had a point, too. If pop travel had a glitch, those affected by it had to have something in common. There must be a link. Too many unsolved cases existed for them not to be connected somehow.

  Maybe there were more victims than just celebrities. Cooper broadened his search to all missing persons reported in the past year last seen at a travelport. Filtering through the articles was a pain in the ass. He couldn’t figure out the connection from them. He needed more details.

  After reading an article about a consultant from Orlando, Florida, Cooper called the guy’s office. He had gone missing six months ago.

  A thin woman in her thirties with poofy, red hair appeared wearing a tight smile. “Creighton Comp Consulting. How can I help you?”

  Cooper held up his ID and introduced himself. “Hello. My name is J.L. Cooper. I’m a private investigator looking into the disappearance of Moses Boyd. I wonder if I could ask you a few questions about it.”

  “Moe? That was ages ago. And we already told the police all we know. Go look it up.” She poised her hand to disconnect.

  This must be the girlfriend the article said he left behind. He tried to soothe her.

  “I have, miss. And I don’t believe Mr. Boyd left town with his ex-wife, like the paper said.”

  “That money slut! She took him for everything and still wanted more!” she blurted. She composed herself and asked, “What was your name again?”

  “Call me Cooper.”

  “Okay, Cooper. I’m Jean. I know Moe would never have run off with that, that—person. She was evil. Al
ways trying to con more money out of him. She had no interest in him other than his bank account.” She gave him a curt nod.

  “I see. Did you notice anything unusual about him at that time? Was anything out of the ordinary?”

  “Not really. He went to the doctor about some bothersome migraines. He got a couple of nosebleeds, too. Other than that, he was fine.”

  Severe headaches, check. “And what did the doctor say?”

  “That he needed to reduce his stress. And he should cut down on his travel. And the doctor gave him some medicine.”

  “Did he cut back?”

  “Of course not. He had to keep working to pay that deviant ex-wife of his!” she exclaimed. Her eyes pooled and threatened to overflow. She grabbed some tissues.

  “Now, Jean. I really don’t think he is with her. He—”

  “I know he isn’t. She’s dead.” She sniffed.

  “Really?” he asked, surprised. “What happened?”

  “She came in looking for him right after he disappeared, demanding to know where he was. She needed her damn money! Then, a week later, she turned up floating in Lake Okeechobee. The police blamed Moe for it. There’s a warrant out for his arrest, but I know it had to be someone else who took care of her. I can’t believe he had anything to do with it.” She paused to lean in and whispered, “I left some messages for him. I said I would help him, but he won’t contact me. He’d rather hide out alone than risk getting me in trouble. He’s so valiant, not wanting to get me involved.”

  She sighed and honked her nose.

  Dead? Fabricating rumors to mislead snooping relatives and average investigators was one thing, but murdering innocent people took the case to a whole other level. Surely, this was not true. The more he thought about it, the more he would love to prove a glitch in pop travel existed and show everyone he was right about not trusting it. But then again, maybe he shouldn’t get involved. He didn’t want to have an accident happen to him. Or worse, to Dawson.

  “I apologize for bringing back painful memories, Jean. You’ve been a great help. I do have one last question. Did anyone else interview you besides the police?”

  She tapped her chin and looked off to the side before she answered.

  “Yes. A pair of detectives in black suits. They reminded me of those old movies, Men in Black. But I guess they didn’t erase my memory because I remember them.” Sniff.

  Cooper remembered Men in Black as one of the few old movies he had been able to sit through with Kristen. She had been a 2D film buff.

  “Did they say who they worked for?”

  “They flashed badges at me, but I can’t recall who they worked for. One of the guys was tall and Caucasian and I think the other was a few inches shorter and Indian. You know, from India.”

  “Sure. Thank you, Jean, for your time.”

  “Of course. I hope you find him. Please call me if you do. You seem intelligent. No one wanted to hear much about him. They were more interested in what I knew and were in a hurry to leave.” Putting on a smile, she sighed and let her shoulders sag. At least Cooper helped her get some of that off her chest.

  “Sure thing.” He gave her a warm smile back.

  After calling a few more offices and confirming his findings, Cooper groaned. He didn’t believe in coincidence. What happened to all these people?

  Obviously, Pop Travel International would have the most to lose if there was a problem. When he had researched the company, most of the articles praised PTI and its breakthrough technology. The Creator, young genius Hasan Rakhi, started out as an ordinary kid at Georgia Tech, a bioelectrical engineering major. Lucrative, recently laid-off, manufacturing executives approached him with enticing offers of fame and fortune. Together, they formed Pop Travel International.

  Other articles explained how to use pop travel, giving recommendations on preparing for a pop and making elaborate claims of its ease and safety. Cooper even came across a couple of advertisements encouraging the public to install convenient, personal platforms in their own homes. And it cost only about half the price of their house. What a deal.

  Other than Rakhi’s association with the company, Cooper had no luck finding useful information about the Creator. No mention of his history, friends, or relatives. Fan comments and party pictures covered his public Meme site. Not that this surprised him. PTI kept the Creator’s appearances light and told the public as little as possible, to protect its investment.

  Cooper checked the gossip ezine articles. They fawned over the Creator’s sprawling plantation compound somewhere near Albany, Georgia, and all said the same thing. A brilliant young man, Hasan struck it rich with his fabulous invention, living in luxury on his grandiose plantation with his mother. He threw amazing parties, with invitations going to the rich and famous only. The most recent event was coming up this Friday for the Creator’s birthday. He was going to be a ripe old twenty-six.

  With so much useless information and no more legal resources to use from his old job, Cooper didn’t have much faith he could do anything worthwhile. Not to mention the questionable circumstances surrounding all the investigations. It might a worthy cause, but he might not be the guy for the job. He was ready to call the time of death on this case. He wished he could talk to Kristen about it.

  Rubbing his eyes with the palms of his hands, he thought of Kristen’s understanding face, with that pretty pout and the way she could talk him into anything just by saying, “Whatever you think is best.”

  Feeling the same guilt her statement delivered when she was alive, he knew he could try harder. He had never been one to turn away from a challenge, representing many an underdog. He couldn’t give up on Phisner yet. There had to be something he could do.

  FBI – Atlanta Division

  *** SEARCH ALERT!!! *** *** SEARCH ALERT!!! *** *** SEARCH ALERT!!! ***

  he warning scrolled across the giant, suspended imager in bold, red letters. But the neutral computer voice repeating the message sounded far too calm for an emergency. Snapping to attention, Nate Kobel straightened himself. He had been leaning back in his chair with his feet propped up, enjoying his girlfriend’s workout on his QV while she breathlessly told him about her day. He said a quick bye and closed her image, then flipped back his dark, shaggy hair to study the display above his touchpad desk to see what was so important.

  As an FBI Tech Specialist, Nate monitored Qnet searches flagging certain keyword combinations. He considered the job treadmill boring as everything ran smoothly and the scenery repeated itself.

  “Nate’s got a live one!” one of the other watcher geeks in the dungeon called out. Nate tilted his head and gave them a smirk when they glanced over, barely visible silhouettes, outlined by the dim light of their flickering imagers. A few chuckled before returning to monitor their own various assignments.

  Reading the report, Nate saw a combination of searches had triggered the alert, including pop travel, the Creator, and missing persons cases. A map frame popped up with a blip, showing where the search initiated. Cracking his knuckles, Nate went into a flurry of typing on his embedded desktop keypad with one hand and moved frames around on the imager above with the other, to get more specifics.

  The IP address originated in Walnut Grove, Georgia, a small town about an hour outside Atlanta, to a CC registered to Jameson Layton Cooper. Let’s see what Mr. Cooper looks like. Accessing Mr. Cooper’s web cam, Nate saw a middle-aged, average looking white guy with gray sprouts in his short brown hair and deep grooves at the corners of dim, blue eyes. Nate pulled up the guy’s bio in another frame. As he skimmed it over, he gave a mock pout. Aw. He’s a lonely, alcoholic, private investigator. He looked a lot older than thirty-four. Typical loser.

  To view Mr. Cooper’s imager, Nate opened yet another frame. He rewound the guy’s previous searches until he caught up to his current page. Everywhere Mr. Cooper surfed, Nate tagged along. With a sip of his NutriCoke, he sat back to see what else Mr. Cooper would look up. No reason to be alarmed, yet.
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  When Mr. Cooper opened his QV to copy some info, it took only a moment for Nate to link to it and view it. Details about a traveler destined for Atlanta who had gone missing. Mr. Cooper also made a couple of calls to get the person’s travel info. Not everyone he bothered wanted to talk, but Mr. Cooper handled them all smoothly. So drinking didn’t dull all of his brain cells.

  After getting enough background on the traveler, Mr. Cooper looked up the Atlanta Transport Center and found the complicated route he would have to take using public transit. So he must not have a car. Nate confirmed that with a quick check into the DMV.

  Of course. Just like all the other snoops, he’s probably going to try to see the transport center surveillance footage. He won’t get far there. Nate still held back from bothering his boss with this guy. Nothing out of the ordinary.

  Mr. Cooper sent the MARTA schedule to his QV and shut down his CC, but Nate’s webcam feed stayed alive. The older man stretched. He looked ready to crash right there in his chair. Boring.

  Nate groaned. This guy is lame. Another sap looking to make a buck from a missing person’s family. Nate squirmed in his chair, ready to go home himself. What a waste of time. Nate had seen many amateurs try to connect the dots. Most failed without Nate having to lift a finger.

  When Mr. Cooper left his office, Nate sighed with relief. He could finally clock out, too.

  Just as he stood to pass off his duty to the night shift, another alert beeped and flashed across the top of his imager.

  *** HIGH RISK ALERT *** JONATHAN ANTHONY PHISNER is HIGH RISK! *** Notify immediately any info re: JONATHAN ANTHONY PHISNER! ***

  A new frame popped open with a photo of a thin, skittish man in an overcoat, peeking over a raised collar at a bus camera, a subframe showed a map of his last known location. It happened to be suspiciously close to Walnut Grove.

  What have we here? Nate raised an eyebrow. He sat back down with a heavy sigh. Checking Mr. Cooper’s contact records, Nate found a voice call originating from a hotel where Mr. Phisner had gotten off his bus. Yesterday. Figures.