Missing Lawyer
James Brogan sat in his cramped office above the Korean deli on 14th, nursing a lukewarm coffee that tasted like regret and burnt chicory. The rain hammered the window like it had a personal grudge. He was halfway through a pastrami sandwich when the door opened and a woman walked in smelling of expensive perfume and expensive worry.
“Mr. Brogan? I’m Elena Voss. My husband is missing.”
Brogan wiped mustard off his thumb. “Lawyer, right? The one who eats corporate defendants for breakfast?”
She nodded, elegant even with dark circles under her eyes. “Richard Voss. Senior partner at Voss, Hale & McQueen. He left for the office Tuesday morning, kissed me on the cheek, and… nothing. No calls, no credit card activity, no body. The police think he ran off with a secretary. I know he didn’t.”
Brogan raised an eyebrow. “Why?”
“Because he hates secretaries. Calls them ‘administrative vampires.’ And he was terrified of something last week. Wouldn’t tell me what.”
Brogan took the case. He always did when the paycheck had commas.
First stop: Voss, Hale & McQueen on the 32nd floor of a glass tower downtown. The receptionist looked like she’d been Botoxed into mild surprise. Brogan flashed his license and asked for Richard’s junior associate, a twitchy kid named Kyle who kept adjusting his tie like it was trying to strangle him.
“Mr. Voss was working on the Meridian merger,” Kyle whispered, glancing toward the corner offices. “Big defense contractor. Some numbers didn’t add up. He said he was going to ‘fix it before the devil noticed.’ Then he just… vanished.”
“Any chance the devil noticed first?” Brogan asked.
Kyle swallowed. “I hope not.”
Brogan spent the next two days doing what he did best: bothering people who didn’t want to be bothered. He talked to Richard’s golf buddies (clean), his mistress (didn’t exist), and the parking garage attendant who swore he saw Voss drive out at 11:47 p.m. Tuesday looking “like a man who owed money to the wrong people.”
On Thursday night, Brogan got a text from an unknown number: Old shipyard, Pier 19. Midnight. Come alone or he dies.
Classic. Brogan loaded his .38 anyway.
The shipyard smelled of rust, salt, and bad decisions. A single security light buzzed overhead. Three men waited near a rusting container. One of them had Richard Voss on his knees, hands zip-tied, looking like he hadn’t slept or shaved in days.
The leader, a thick-necked guy with a neck tattoo of a snake eating its own tail, smiled. “You’re the PI. Cute. Voss here found some creative accounting in the Meridian books. We told him to forget it. He decided to be a hero.”
Brogan kept his hands visible. “Creative accounting? That’s a polite way to say ‘embezzling from a defense contractor.’”
Snake Tattoo shrugged. “Client wanted the deal done. Voss was going to blow the whistle. We can’t have that.”
Voss looked up, eyes desperate. “Elena… tell her I’m sorry. I should’ve just kept my mouth shut.”
Brogan sighed. “Here’s the thing, gentlemen. I don’t care about your crooked merger. I care about my client getting her husband back. So how about we do this the easy way? You let Voss walk, I forget I was ever here, and everybody lives.”
Snake Tattoo laughed. “Or what?”
Brogan smiled the small, tired smile he saved for moments like this. “Or I send the USB drive full of Richard’s evidence—plus photos of you three idiots—to the U.S. Attorney, the IRS, and that reporter at the Herald who hates defense contractors more than I hate decaf. Your choice.”
There was a long silence broken only by the lapping water and distant traffic.
Snake Tattoo stared hard. Then he cut Voss’s zip ties. “You’re lucky we’re on a deadline. Take your lawyer. But if any of that evidence sees daylight—”
“You’ll know where to find me,” Brogan finished. “I’m in the book.”
Two hours later, Richard Voss was reunited with his wife in their expensive kitchen. Elena cried. Richard promised he was done being a hero. Brogan drank their very good scotch and accepted a very nice check.
As he left, Elena asked, “How did you know they’d blink?”
Brogan shrugged. “Guys like that only respect two things: money and consequences. I didn’t have enough money.”
He stepped out into the damp night, lit a cigarette, and walked toward the glow of the city. Somewhere out there, another client was probably waiting with another missing person.
Brogan smiled faintly.
Just another Tuesday.
