7 Kills + An Apple

One: Big Case

Brandon Prince

The San Francisco's office is always busy. But after watching interns bustling around, my boss screaming into the phone, and my coworkers writing emails and reports at the speed of light, I realize this is the first time I've seen anything like this. I sneak into Gabi's office.

Absentmindedly tugging on her charcoal ponytail, Gabi nods at me and then goes straight back to her computer. Like everyone else, she is on her computer. She explains, "Chicago's office called. A man—haven't gotten his name yet—is missing. He set up an appointment, but never showed up. He's been missing for forty-seven hours. Why are you late?"

"My cat had an emergency. I already called Meyer"—he is a balding man who happens to be our boss—"ahead of time." I rub my eyes and yawn. I can already see it. It is going to be a long, long day ahead of me. Whatever this case is—it is big enough to put the entire office into panic.

"You better check in with Meyer." Her fingers consistently type. Occasionally, she pauses to read something. Her teeth plays with her bottom lip as she concentrates.

I move away from her door, slightly envious of her office. Gabi is an Assistant Special Agent-in-Charge (SAC) who has been working at the FBI for the last eleven years. She moved from the Baltimore office to here for a higher pay job and good health benefits. She is directly under Meyer and will succeed him if he ever decides to step down for an early retirement.

Walking briskly, I make my way into Meyer's office. He is still on the phone line; his face is glowing red from either a lack of caffeine or annoyance. He takes one thorough look at me and holds out a dark blue folder. I accept it and quickly skim through the words, absorbing what I can.

Only three days ago, Manuel Vargas tipped off Chicago's office. He came forward, claiming he had found a white-collar crime committed someone he knows. A meeting was set up, but he never showed up. His wife reported him missing after he missed his flight back to San Francisco. All calls to his cell phone remains unanswered. His last known location was at his own hotel. From the security footage, he never came out. His room is completely clean, as if he was never there.

"This is bad," I mutter. I drop the folder on his desk.

Meyer orders, "Get everyone in Conference Room 5b. Everyone needs to be briefed."

I nod. I immediately start gather everyone up. Those who are given already given assignments by Meyer stay behind at their desk. Those who are clueless and haven't been made aware of the situation are holding up in the large conference room. I sit near the head of the table, waiting for Meyer to end his call and brief us all.

We chatter lightly among each other.

I try not to fall asleep.

"Alright, this is a busy day. I don't have much time to deal with this," Meyer says, strolling in from the doorway. He clicks the projector on; someone turns off the lights.

A Hispanic man smiles on the white screen. His dark hair barely covers his bright eyes. His teeth glimmers brightly.

"This is Manuel Vargas," briefs Meyer, opening a folder and reading off of it. "He emigrated from Mexico thirty-six years ago, naturalized sixteen years after his arrival, and went to community college for his degree in enology. That is, a wine expert. A vintner. He was in Chicago when he contacted the FBI office there. They set up a meeting, but he never arrived. His wife reported him missing when he failed to arrive at SFO six hours ago. From what Chicago can see, he was missing about two days ago. Hotel's security footage doesn't see a thing."

"But why is—"

Meyer interrupts the agent standing in the back. "It gets even more complicated. Two hours ago, California Highway Patrol found a heavily burned body on Freeway 5. A John Doe. Possibly tortured. We are still getting more information, but my gut says it is him. Right now, we need to find all of the suspects in his possible murder. We need to create a timeline. We need someone to look through Vargas' finance history, investment portfolio—I don't care what. Don't let a single detail be missed over."