Losers Live Longer Read Free

computer forensics, document verification, corporate security, biological detection, identity-theft protection, cellular counter-surveillance, handwriting analysis, something specific, anything instead of this master-of-none shit.
     
    Knew a guy, little younger than me, who used to work at Metro around the same time. A nerdy-looking guy—thick glasses, pockmarked complexion, ink-stained pocket protector, the works. Looked like a disguise, but he never was an op, just the office’s technical support, which when I started there only meant clearing the copier’s paper jams and connecting fax machines. But the position blossomed. Suddenly he was in charge of finding the best firewall for their computer network and establishing their website, etc. The others at Metro—like at most agencies, a collection of hard-ass ex-cops—treated him brusquely, balking his attempts to join in on conversations. I sort of took him under my featherless wing, taking pity on him, always thinking, “There but for the grace of God go I.”
     
    Not long after I left Metro, he followed suit and formed his own computer security and risk management company. Couple years later, he had expanded into nineteen international markets. Last year, he was featured in a Time magazine cover story, “Faces of the New Detective.” I still had the issue in my bathroom stack. Whenever I flipped across it now, I still thought, “There but for the grace of God go I.”
     
    I tidied the office, ditching the gunked-up ashtrays, collecting empty soda cans, and hunting for shoes. Managed to find a pair, but one was black, one was brown, and both were lefts. I kept looking. I needed to make a good impression on Owl.
     
    His call couldn’t have come at a better time. The money was sweet, but so was the opportunity to learn some secrets from an old master, maybe turn my life around. And, if things went well—at least didn’t go sour—possibly get some future work from the agencies where Owl had friends. I’d been waiting for this, for a break to fall my way. If only I didn’t blow it.
     
    I kept up the search for footwear. Minute later, still hadn’t located a matching pair, but it was okay because the buzzer hadn’t rung yet either. But that wasn’t okay.
     
    He couldn’t have gotten lost, only a few dozen feet from the corner. I went to the intercom and pushed the button to unlatch the downstairs door and heard the latch buzz and clack.
     
    I opened my office door and poked my head out, calling his name, but the only sound in the stairwell was my own voice.
     
    Just furrowing my forehead over that when the morning’s white-noise blackened to pitch with a sudden thick-sick meat-thud sound and a mangled-pig squeal of swerving tires. Brakes screeched and…then nothing. The city struck dumb.
     
    Without even thinking about it, I was out of my office and going barefoot down the steps three at a time, not caring as my office door swung shut behind me, as if I knew in advance what it was, what I would see before I saw.
     
    Nothing paranormal about it though, only me naturally imagining the worst that could happen. Because had it truly been a premonition, I would have at least known beforehand to grab my keys on the way, instead of locking myself out.
     

 
     
     
     
    Chapter Two: FOOTWORK
     
    I opened the street door and looked out. What I saw started me running to the corner of Twelfth Street and Second. I didn’t even hear the door close behind me, because ahead in the gutter was a bundle of clothes with a man inside them.
     
    Head cracked clean open from impact with the granite curb. Pale-pink, white-haired scalp ruptured, a skull shard sticking out and an emission of brain like a pupal discharge. Bits of gravel studded his forehead, cheeks, and chin. His eyes were open, but each pointed off in another direction like clocks of different time zones, Istanbul and L.A.
     
    I didn’t have to touch him to know he was dead.
     
    That’s not why I