Chapter 4
Pandora Box
Laird
I visit a small office tucked inside one of the rows of office buildings on the edge of Brooklyn. The building’s only three floors, each chopped up into smaller offices, and I climb the stairs of the old place to the top.
One office has a rusted door and dirty glass covered with yellowed blinds, a white nameplate with blue letters reading “Private Investigator Matthew Logan.” I knock once and step right in, no hello, no pleasantries.
A guy with black hair lowers the newspaper he’s been reading and looks up from behind the desk.
“Laird, look who it is.”
“Hey, Matt.” I drop down onto one of the shabby sofas with the cracked leather peeling at the edges.
“Right on time. Just finished checking the lottery numbers in the paper.”
“Hit the jackpot yet?”
“Not yet. Gimme time. I’m still mapping out which counter’s got the best odds.” He sighs and slides down on the matching worn-out sofa across from me.
“That better not mean you need more time with my request.”
Matt’s eyes widen like I just offended him, then he laughs. “C’mon. Please. I got it.” He pulls a brown envelope from the drawer under the coffee table and waves it. “Feast your eyes. A goddamn miracle, courtesy of my genius.”
He puffs his chest, tilts his chin up, beams at me like he’s handing over the crown jewels. I reach for it, but he yanks it back against his chest.
“Cash first.”
I snort, dig out my wallet, and peel off three hundreds. “Don’t tell me this is going straight into scratch-offs.”
“That and maybe a couple other things.” He slips the bills into his shirt pocket.
“You do realize the lottery’s a scam, right?”
“Sure, but cracking it feels way better than winning by dumb luck. Think of it as an investment.”
“You’re kidding yourself calling that an investment. It’s just gambling dressed up.”
This time, he finally hands me the envelope. “Trust me, this is worth way more.”
I’ve known Matt since Harvard Law, back in criminal law class.
He always swore his brain could crack anything—even the lottery—so working nine-to-five as a prosecutor would’ve been a waste.
I call it a gambling addiction. But when it comes to digging dirt, he’s sharp as hell, the kind of guy who can tail someone for days and charm information out of them without blinking.
I flip open the envelope and pull out photos of Alan, some official letters, and a stack of court documents.
“This what I think it is?”
“Yup. The guy you’re after’s been living under a new identity for six years. Last name ties him to the Schmidt hotel group, but funny enough, you won’t find him on their shareholder list.”
“So either it’s fake papers or he…” I frown, letting the thought hang.
“Changed his name. Way more likely. No fake ID gets you through multiple court checks, including the DUI mess last month.”
“What about the Schmidt group itself? Any link to Amy Schmidt?”
“Not in the press. The family went quiet years ago, dumped all their shares during the pandemic. Amy married some loaded senator up in Massachusetts—guy’s twenty years older, if you care.”
“Way too much info, pal.” I scoff. “What about his old name?”
He hands me a printout of a local news article on a Schmidt shareholders’ meeting. Barely a thousand words, more formality than journalism.
“Couldn’t get further. Haven’t had time to hit the census office in Andover. Data’s not public.” He clicks his tongue.
“Of course they covered it up. But you’ve got other ways to track it, don’t you?”
“I could dig through court records for legal name changes. But that’s a grind. Three weeks, easy. And by grind, I mean…” He makes air quotes with both hands. “Intensive.”
“How intensive?” I arch a brow.
“Couple weeks in Andover. Lodging, gas, three meals a day, some… entertainment. Call it a grand.”
“I’ll front you three hundred now. Rest when you’ve got the name.”
“That won’t even cover the room.” He frowns.
“Then quit blowing cash on scratch-offs. Six hundred’s plenty to last you two weeks in Andover.”
I toss him three more hundreds. He scowls, but he takes them. That’s our relationship: transactional. Still, I can’t help worrying he’s sinking further into this lottery nonsense. Not close enough to recruit him into my company, but close enough to feel responsible.
“If you hit a wall, check Whitehill Academy’s student records. My old school. Check grads from about seven to nine years ago. Cross-reference birthdates, addresses, IDs.”
“You went there too?” His brows jump.
“Yeah.”
“But the name never rang a bell?”
“Not once. The only Schmidt I ever knew was Amy. Maybe you’ll find a connection with her.”
“Hmm. Interesting. I’ll poke around.” He rubs his chin, fingers grazing his trimmed beard.
“Alright. Call me when you’ve got something. Then I’ll square the rest.” I slide the docs back into the envelope.
“As soon as I can.” He clicks his tongue, stands, and then spins back toward me.
“Oh, one more thing. Might matter to you.”
“What’s that?” I get up, button my jacket.
“Malcolm Golden’s sniffing around Alan too. Ran into his assistant at the census office. The guy nearly tripped seeing me digging for the same name.”
“Recently?”
“Yeah. DUI verdict was just last month, remember?”
“What the hell is he after?” I mutter, frowning.
“He won’t say, but Golden’s not the type to let go. He’ll chew Alan down to the bone. You could team up, pool what you’ve got.”
“Team up with him?” I scoff. “Not a chance.”
I grab the envelope, shove the door open, and slam it behind me. Maybe Matt means well, but if my old man ever found out I was cozying up with Golden, he’d kill me before Alan ever could.