long month because his beloved Tampa Bay Rays were in a slump, dropping from first to last in the American League East. Raja dutifully attended the home games, yelling encouragement from his box seats behind the home dugout. However, lately he could barely stand to see the hangdog faces on the players as they trudged back from home plate after what were all too frequent strikeouts.
Raja loved the underdog status his Rays held due to being in the small-market town. As a private detective, he appreciated the challenges someone small could face in a world of mega-corporations and heavily armed governments. For that reason he spent his time and fortune leveling the playing field for those who needed a hand.
Raja was walking out of Tropicana Field after a satisfying come-from-behind win over the Yankees when Gloria called.
“Well?” she asked.
“A rally in the ninth gave us a win in a squeaker,” said Raja.
“Irie, irie, bwoy. Glad to hear dat. Maybe you not so happy after I tell you about da call you got today.” Gloria was the one person who sat between Raja and the requests that came in for his help. Although starting out as a housekeeper and house sitter of sorts that Raja needed because he was a bachelor who traveled frequently, Gloria had become a trusted confidante and adviser. As word of Raja’s role as an investigator in the fiasco last month involving the governor of California spread, the volume of calls coming in made it necessary for Raja to use Gloria as a filter. She was a Jamaican woman who reminded him of his childhood roots in the Caribbean and kept him grounded.
“I promise I won’t hold it against you, Gloria.”
“Don’t be foolish, bwoy. I just be warning you. A man called from overseas. Says he can’t find ’is wife.”
“Did you ask him the obvious question?”
“Why he still looking? Don’t be no smart ass, bwoy. He sounds real bad. I think you should talk wit ’im. Real bad.” If there was one thing Gloria could sense, it was true human suffering. There was a legend among the Jamaican people about their first ancestor Loka, an angel who had the task of painting the heavens. When the gods had criticized his work, he cast himself down to earth in a fit of suffering and self pity. Although the gods refused to bring him back to heaven, they gave him the gift of empathy so that he could better understand his own fate and also help others. Legend or not, Gloria had the gift. No one could fake being troubled. She always knew.
Raja trusted her judgment and asked for the phone number.
“Yes, Mr. Williams. I do so appreciate your returning my call.”
“Call me Raja. And you?”
“I beg your pardon. The dire circumstances have apparently compromised my manners. My name is Browning. Dr. Phillip Browning. I have a desperate situation that needs resolving. I was given your name and number. Excuse my presumption, but I was told you could help.”
“It has been known to happen. Where are you and what exactly is the situation?”
“I am in Paris, France working with the museum here on — well, that isn’t important. My wife Margaret has been here with me on holiday and she has disappeared. There must have been witnesses, but the local police claim to know nothing. Apparently there was a murder nearby no one wants to talk about. I am getting no cooperation despite going to the British Embassy here in Paris. I’m afraid I had nearly given up when a kind woman at the embassy gave me your card. She said that one of her relatives knew of you from Oxford University. You attended?”
“Yes.”
“I teach at King’s College London.”
“About your wife. Was there any reason for you to expect trouble?”
“No, no. Nothing.”
“Perhaps your work. What do you do?”
“It is rather unlikely to be my work. You see, I am a professor with a PhD in literature. I came to Paris to study a newly discovered text from the nineteenth century. I’m afraid it isn’t very interesting to
Raja loved the underdog status his Rays held due to being in the small-market town. As a private detective, he appreciated the challenges someone small could face in a world of mega-corporations and heavily armed governments. For that reason he spent his time and fortune leveling the playing field for those who needed a hand.
Raja was walking out of Tropicana Field after a satisfying come-from-behind win over the Yankees when Gloria called.
“Well?” she asked.
“A rally in the ninth gave us a win in a squeaker,” said Raja.
“Irie, irie, bwoy. Glad to hear dat. Maybe you not so happy after I tell you about da call you got today.” Gloria was the one person who sat between Raja and the requests that came in for his help. Although starting out as a housekeeper and house sitter of sorts that Raja needed because he was a bachelor who traveled frequently, Gloria had become a trusted confidante and adviser. As word of Raja’s role as an investigator in the fiasco last month involving the governor of California spread, the volume of calls coming in made it necessary for Raja to use Gloria as a filter. She was a Jamaican woman who reminded him of his childhood roots in the Caribbean and kept him grounded.
“I promise I won’t hold it against you, Gloria.”
“Don’t be foolish, bwoy. I just be warning you. A man called from overseas. Says he can’t find ’is wife.”
“Did you ask him the obvious question?”
“Why he still looking? Don’t be no smart ass, bwoy. He sounds real bad. I think you should talk wit ’im. Real bad.” If there was one thing Gloria could sense, it was true human suffering. There was a legend among the Jamaican people about their first ancestor Loka, an angel who had the task of painting the heavens. When the gods had criticized his work, he cast himself down to earth in a fit of suffering and self pity. Although the gods refused to bring him back to heaven, they gave him the gift of empathy so that he could better understand his own fate and also help others. Legend or not, Gloria had the gift. No one could fake being troubled. She always knew.
Raja trusted her judgment and asked for the phone number.
“Yes, Mr. Williams. I do so appreciate your returning my call.”
“Call me Raja. And you?”
“I beg your pardon. The dire circumstances have apparently compromised my manners. My name is Browning. Dr. Phillip Browning. I have a desperate situation that needs resolving. I was given your name and number. Excuse my presumption, but I was told you could help.”
“It has been known to happen. Where are you and what exactly is the situation?”
“I am in Paris, France working with the museum here on — well, that isn’t important. My wife Margaret has been here with me on holiday and she has disappeared. There must have been witnesses, but the local police claim to know nothing. Apparently there was a murder nearby no one wants to talk about. I am getting no cooperation despite going to the British Embassy here in Paris. I’m afraid I had nearly given up when a kind woman at the embassy gave me your card. She said that one of her relatives knew of you from Oxford University. You attended?”
“Yes.”
“I teach at King’s College London.”
“About your wife. Was there any reason for you to expect trouble?”
“No, no. Nothing.”
“Perhaps your work. What do you do?”
“It is rather unlikely to be my work. You see, I am a professor with a PhD in literature. I came to Paris to study a newly discovered text from the nineteenth century. I’m afraid it isn’t very interesting to
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