I was sitting at my desk contemplating a blueberry scone when an older gentleman limped into my office. He was around six feet tall but looked like he had lost a few inches since his prime. He gave off the aura of an athlete in his twilight years as he limped up to my desk favoring one leg. Almost as if he were Willie Mays fumbling around in the outfield for the Mets when he was well past it. A sad and wistful nostalgia that was palpable if you knew what you were seeing.
"You Spencer?" I like a man who comes right to the point. "That's what they tell me." "Names McGee. I want to hire you." "That's what I am here for, so you came to the right place. What do you need? Have a seat and let me know what this is all about."
He pulled back one of my client chairs and sat gingerly so he could extend his bad knee without touching the desk. You could tell it was his bad knee because it was obvious that he was favoring it as he walked. He had a deep tan that you could only get if you were out on the water all the time or lived in a tanning parlor. Sandy hair which had gone white and an athlete's build that age and strain had weathered to the point where you could only get a fleeting glimpse of what he once had been. He reminded me of a retired athlete like Jim Brown or Dick Butkus who had been a prime physical specimen all of their life and were astonished at how their body had betrayed them.
"I live down in Florida on a houseboat in Fort Lauderdale. I'm retired but I used to do what you do now. I didn't have a license or any paperwork. Kept it all off the books you might say. I operated as a "salvage consultant.'" Basically, people hired me to find something they lost. I covered the expenses, and they owed me nothing if I didn't find it. But if I recovered it, they owe me half the value." "Sweet. But that's not how I operate." "I figured. I will pay your rate. I heard from some people that you are the best up here in Boston. I need you to find someone for me."
"Okay, who is it?"
"My best friend. His name is Meyer. Ludwig Meyer. He came up here for a conference at MIT and I haven't heard from him since. That was three weeks ago. His conference was supposed to be four days max. When nobody heard from him for a week, I came up here and went to his hotel to see if he was there. Sometimes he gets so involved in his work that he loses all track of the outside world. But that wasn't the case. He had checked in and was seen a couple of times, but he had never checked out. He hadn't been in his room for two weeks. It was a police matter. At least as far as the hotel is concerned. I spoke to a cop named Frank Belson. I am sure you know him. Cheap raincoat. Smelly Italian cigars. He seemed to know what was what. He recommended I talk to you. So here I am."
"I know Frank. What did your friend do so that he had a conference at MIT? Is he a professor?"
"He was an economist. A pretty well-known one in economic circles. He had published a couple of important articles back in the day that he had monetized to support himself. Lately, he had been working on a computer algorithm that he said would be revolutionary. He said it had a predictive modality that was a game changer. I have to admit that I didn't follow it. But I know it has to have something with his disappearance." McGee leaned back in his chair with a puzzled expression. I had a feeling that doubt was a stranger to him, and he didn't like how it felt.
"Why didn't you start looking for him? You seem to have a lot on the ball. You know what to do. I am sure you have done it before so why pay me?" McGee gave me a soft smile and said, "How old do you think I am Spenser?" I looked him in the eyes and lied. "I don't know. Late sixties maybe?" "I am 87. Like Harry Callahan used to say a man has to know his limitations. Will you take the case?"
"Yes. I will. I will have a few questions. Do you want coffee? Half a scone?" "Coffee. You keep the scone."
I liked him. He let me eat my scone. This could be the start of a beautiful friendship.
