Personal Effects by J C Hutchins & Jordan Weisman

Author:J C Hutchins & Jordan Weisman [Hutchins, J C & Weisman, Jordan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781429989367
Publisher: St. Martin's Press
Published: 2009-06-09T04:00:00+00:00

As Rachael pried her way into Daniel Drake’s life, Lucas and I sipped Dogfish Head beers and viewed the footage he’d recorded at the blind man’s apartment that afternoon.

I was amazed by the images on the screen. Even there, in the darkness of Grace/Drake’s spartan living room, Lucas had artfully composed each shot: rule of thirds, depth of field (as much as the Handycam could accommodate, anyway), the proper balance inside the frame that coaxed the eye, unconsciously, to focus on specific objects. Without words, he’d masterfully told a story, and evoked a mood so spooky, I felt myself transported back there, breathing the place’s stale air, praying for light.

The kid had it. He really did. But he’d make a lousy documentary filmmaker. The things I’d wanted him to record—the names of the CDs on the bookshelves—had been all but obfuscated in the name of artful angles and evocative cinema.

Lucas didn’t seem to notice this as he watched. I didn’t have the heart to mention it.

The movie concluded, we learned what Rachael had found so far. Remarkably, public records indicated my patient’s son had changed his name back to Daniel Drake less than a year after his father had returned to the United States.

Rachael had scored Daniel Drake’s address and a New York driver’s license number minutes after she’d queried his name in her online resources … but she had pressed on, conducting an impromptu background check, cross-reffing with criminal records.

As she did this, the cell phone in my pocket vibrated and played skeleton song. Text message. I flipped the phone open and read the message from Nicolina, Rachael’s friend.

DOG TAG NAME READS, “PIOTYR I. ALEXANDROV,” Nicolina’s message said. RANK: LT. COLONEL. HOPE THIS HELPS, SEND <3 TO RACHE.

I scribbled the name “Alexandrov” in the open notepad on our steamer trunk, and shared the news.

“We’ll follow up on that later, babe,” Rachael said, peering over the screen of her laptop. “I’m busy … and so are you. Get crackin’ on Drake’s other stuff.”

Right. Papa Drake’s effects from The Brink. Lucas and I exchanged a quick grin—we motherless Taylor boys knew who ran this operation—and began to examine them.

People my father’s age think that I’m a tech-head because I can work a computer and cell phone and appear to know what I’m doing. It’s bogus. I’m an analog man. I appreciate the tangibility of doing things without a mouse: the dusky smell of pencil shavings, the splash of paint on a canvas. I dig phone calls more than Facebook messages, prefer week-old postcards to eye-blink emails.

So I gravitated to the wallet while my brother gleefully poked through the menus on Drake’s cell phone. It was an expensive thing, brimming with programs for the visually impaired. In addition to the standard calendar and address book, it featured a GPS receiver and map software, both of which were voice-enabled and did text-to-speech.

“Cracked case, off-brand,” Lucas observed as he eyed the phone. “The guy’s got some archived voice mail, but we need a password to get to it.

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