Arrow Security conducts most of our work off-site, and, as such, most of our office cubicles remain empty. We offer both physical and IT security services, surveillance, protection detail, and we work with government entities on international projects. Unbeknownst to the public, the National Security Agency, or NSA, the Central Intelligence Agency, or CIA, and the Federal Bureau of Investigation, or FBI, are all clients.
Typically, Arrow handles projects when the government wants to be able to deny culpability should something go wrong. And we handle private citizens’ requests when standard law enforcement doesn’t offer a solution.
On my way to the elevator bank, I nod at a few individuals in the cubicles along the way. They wear headsets for the job or to listen to music. The employees in the open cubicles typically work on surveillance, watching videos or monitoring reams of electronic communications. Sometimes we have coders in-house, but it’s rare. We have two partners who manage tech security, and they both reside farther north in Napa.
The elevator dings, and the doors open.
Jack Sullivan flaunts his wealth, from the well-fitted three-piece custom suit to his shiny dress shoes to the gleaming gold Rolex on his wrist. The dark-haired stunner at his side is a natural beauty, but her inexpensive interview suit doesn’t match his aesthetic.
Since opening Arrow, I’ve interviewed hundreds of candidates, most of whom don’t wear suits daily and own one suit for interviews and funerals. The sleeves on her ill-fitting jacket hang loosely. Her pants ride too high above her ankle. Scuff marks mar the tips of her sensible, low, black heels. The thin gold choker around her neck contrasts with a larger chunky sea-glass necklace. Brown eyeshadow and dark eyeliner accentuate large, dark eyes that dart past me, taking in the room, possibly scanning for entrances and exits. In person, her hair is closer to dark chocolate than black, with long bangs that frame smooth skin and an angular jaw. Her pale pink lips are bare, her nails short and trimmed.
The last time I saw Jack, he’d told me he’d found the one. That was over fifteen years ago. The woman at his side might be in her late twenties, but she could also be in her early twenties. There’s no way she’s his wife. Would Jack hire a young lawyer?
As I approach, Jack faces me head on, shoulders back, with no trace of a smile. The woman at his side angles her body toward Jack and clasps her hands nervously in front of her. I extend my hand to my old friend.
“Jack Sullivan. It’s been a long time.”
“Ryan Wolfgang.” He grips my hand in a firm handshake. “Do you still go by Wolf?”
I force a cordial, professional smile. Wolf is the name I went by at the Naval Academy, and it stuck throughout my military career. With a foo-foo last name like Wolfgang, I gladly embraced the shortened moniker my friends gave me. But, in the business world, I prefer Ryan. Within Arrow, my closest friends still call me Wolf.
“Sometimes.” I let his hand go. “You can call me Ryan. Or Wolf if you prefer.” I turn to the woman at his side and offer her my hand. “And you are?”
“This is Dr. Rolfe,” Jack answers for her. Her handshake is unexpectedly firm, and she maintains eye contact.
“You can call me Alex.” Her hand remains in mine a beat too long as my gaze begins to drift over a borderline too-skinny figure swallowed by ill-fitting clothes. She swallows nervously. I release her hand and redirect.
“Shall we meet in the conference room?”
Jack and Dr. Rolfe pause at the end of the hallway, taking in the cavern of desks and monitors. Offices line the perimeter of the open cubicle area. Open doors offer views of office desks and windows with bright blue Santa Barbara sky. The far glass wall opens into a conference room with a long table and a window with a view over buildings. Off to the horizon, between buildings, glimpses of the Pacific Ocean hint at the proximity of the beach.
“Just this way,” I direct. “Can I get you any coffee or something to drink?” They both decline, and I close the door. “Tell me, how can I help you?”
Dr. Rolfe pulls out a notebook and a pen. She rolls her chair and situates it a foot away from Jack’s chair, angled so she can observe us both. Chew marks mar the end of her plastic pen. Her long, thin fingers are bare.Definitely not the wife.
Sullivan smooths his tie and leans forward, resting both forearms on the table. Under the fluorescent lighting and in this proximity, deep wrinkles around the corner of his eyes show, as does a hint of red around the whites.
“Can anyone hear us?” he asks me.
“No. This room is soundproof.” Dr. Rolfe scans the corners of the room. There are visible camera lenses in the corners beneath black glass globes. “No cameras are running. Nothing is being recorded.”
Jack gazes down at his clasped hands. He raises his gaze, and I am met with a mask of professionalism.
“My daughter, Sophia, is missing. She’s only fifteen. Will you help me find her?”
“Have you been to the police?”
“Last night. The officer on duty said most missing persons are found within twenty-four hours. They suspect it’s a misunderstanding or a runaway case.” Jack’s pasty skin, tired eyes, and the fact he flew to me say he’s not placing any weight on a simple misunderstanding.
“How long has she been missing?”
“Since yesterday evening.”
“Do you think she ran away?”
“Maybe.” His shoulders hunch inward. The youthful pride I remember is absent. Sadness and desperation are taking root. “When I asked around, Arrow Security came up multiple times.”
“That’s good to hear. But missing persons isn’t our specialty.” Alex’s pen pauses against the paper.