Rotted Roots — Part 1: An Early Mid-morning Meeting

The first thing Maxwell Ryder felt as he opened his eyes was a throbbing in his lower back. Sleeping on the couch in his office had once again twisted his back muscles that no amount of stretching would remedy. Not that the camp bed set up in the kitchenette was much better. But it would have helped mentally. Just another thing on the long list his prematurely aging body had taken from him.

Pushing through the stabbing pain, Ryder rose from the couch and kicked over two empty bottles of vodka next to him as he stumbled to the bathroom. A quick shower and splash of mouthwash helped cleanse away the grimy taste of Blake’s Bar. He didn’t bother to shave. The time was ten forty-five. He was late for a meeting with his client.

Pulling on one of his many tailored suits, Ryder looked over the case file he had compiled over the past few days — a disappearing ex involving a train ticket, five thousand dollars’ worth of vintage gold coins, and the patterns of a cat’s fur. He had it solved after six hours. He had spent the following days gathering the evidence needed to convict the yoga instructor (who had been sleeping with the ex in order to get the coins). The client would have the last pieces he needed. And with the meeting set for eleven, he would have to rush to catch him at the café they agreed to meet at. He hurriedly closed the door to his office behind him.

“Good almost afternoon, Mister Ryder.” Ryder turned to see a stocky man in an ill-fitting, cheap suit sitting in a rickety chair next to his door. He was eating frozen yogurt the color of bubble gum and topped with diced strawberries. “I knocked, but you must have been sleeping.”

“I don’t think I know you, friend,” said Ryder. He noticed the defined muscle tone under the man’s suitcoat as he brought the spoon to his mouth, where a silver incisor glistened.

“I’m here for your help.”

“Sorry, I don’t overbook on cases. Go to the police if it’s urgent. Or leave your name and number under my door and I’ll call you once I’m finished with the case I’m working on.” Ryder removed the key from the lock and began to walk towards the stairs.

“I’m not a client.”

“Only clients ask for my help.”

“I’m from the government.”

“Another reason why I shouldn’t care.”

“We’re going after your siblings.” Ryder stopped with one leg on the first stair. He clenched his fist against the worn railing. He turned his head to look at the man sliding his tongue over the spoon. “That is what you’ve wanted from us, yes? To dig into the things your brother and sister are ‘getting away with’ behind the guise of Ryder Industries?”

Ryder walked back and unlocked the door to his office. “Let’s talk. Inside.”

“What about your other client?”

“He can wait.”

The man smiled and walked inside. Within minutes he was situated in the seat directly across from Ryder’s ornate wooden desk. Ryder had several files splayed out in front of him, each one involving a case he could tangentially — but not definitively — connect to the dealings his estranged family were involved in.

“So why now?” asked Ryder.

“I don’t ask questions,” the man tossed his empty fro-yo cup into the waste basket filled with fatty salad containers and beer bottles, “I just do as I’m told. And what I’m told is to go after Ethan and Sarah Ryder.”

Ryder pulled out a fresh manila folder and began scribbling notes along the cover. “Name?”

“Pierce Saturday.”

“Agency?”

“I’m not at liberty to say.”

“You want my help, you will say.”

“I can tell you that we’re the group of people who handle problems inside national borders. Not as scary as our foreign correspondents, but enough to put the fear of God and Country into you.”

Ryder scribbled something illegible onto the cover and pulled a notebook towards him. Opening to a fresh page, he asked, “What charges are you looking into?”

“Nothing solid yet.”

“I’ve sent you plenty of files connecting them to drug smuggling, illegal organ harvesting, cash laundering, tax evasion…”

“All of which wouldn’t hold up in a court with the evidence you’ve sent us. Besides, we only go after assholes with tax evasion.”

“Trust me, my family meets that bill.”

“We’ll see once we’re inside.”

Ryder stopped writing and leaned back in his seat. The pain in his back had subsided into the back of his mind. “That’s your plan?”

Saturday pulled out an energy bar from his jacket pocket. He unwrapped it noisily and began munching away. “In two days’ time, Ryder Industries will be holding interviews for a mid-management position in their R&D division. Nothing special, just a numbers gig. But they’ve been very selective on who gets an interview.”

“They need to know their secrets are going to be safe.”

“Quite so.” Saturday pulled out a card from his wallet and handed it to Ryder. It was a driver’s license with Saturday’s photo on it and the name FLEMING, NIGEL printed next to it. “But Nigel Fleming has managed to get a spot on the list of candidates.”

“But not Maxwell Ryder.”

“You’re red-flagged the minute you walk in the door. Everyone knows you, after all. Maxwell Ryder, private detective to anyone who needs help. Youngest son of Mordecai and Elsa Ryder, estranged brother of Ethan and Sarah Ryder, and continuously butting heads with the expansion of Ryder Industries anywhere you can. You live in near poverty despite the profits you still receive from stocks your father left upon his passing, which you give to any bum who asks for them. Body permanently and prematurely aged from being a Chronos addict — “

“Recovering addict.” Ryder clenched his hand through the arthritis to try and remember what it felt like to be his actual age. The street drug Chronos had destroyed his life and stolen twenty-five years from his body.

Saturday held up his hands in mock surrender. “The idea being you’re persona non grata. Even if we put you in a wig and fake mustache, security would be on top of you in seconds.”

“So why do you need my help then?”

“We need you as a distraction. Be the person they expect you to be, cause a scene somewhere inside Ryder Tower, and make sure they don’t look too closely at some of the …finer details of my background.”

“I thought you government guys had resources to make all of that foolproof?”

“You can’t be too careful. So are you in?”

Ryder smiled and scratched his stubble. “It’s about damn time.”

Saturday tossed the wrapper away. “Two days. Then we start.”

TO BE CONTINUED NEXT WEEK…