Detective Duran thinks he’s searching for a missing woman. Little does he know he’s pursuing the last remaining evidence of a CIA cover up.
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The police are looking for Velma Bloom, a young woman who has gone missing. All that’s left of her is her car parked in front of a house containing two dead Russian men.
Velma is a twenty-five year old woman who loves her life of booze, sex, and cigarettes. But this sassy, over-educated waitress has a secret—a strange ability she’s never been able to understand. Answers come unexpectedly and from an unexpected source. Armed with her new knowledge, she sees her way to forging a new future. She only has one obstacle—making sure she stays alive.
Now she has vanished, and rookie detective Jackson Duran is trying to find her. She hasn’t left many traces, and everything Duran discovers about her only complicates his search. What he does learn leads him to some sinister truths he never thought he’d know, and would rather not know.
Detective Jackson Duran opened the bottom drawer of his desk and pulled out a bottle of scotch. That was all he kept in that drawer except for the stack of books he used to hide it.
“Duran,” a voice called from behind him. He laid the bottle on its side and covered it with the case folder he had in front of him. Then he realized whose voice he’d heard.
“Stevens, you scared me.” Duran had spent his day reading some disturbing selections from Brett Riley’s collection of documents on Project MKUltra. He was looking forward to getting drunk and falling asleep at his desk
“Sorry. Now uncover that bottle and share it, please. I’ve got something to show you.” Stevens pulled a chair over from a nearby desk and sat down. Duran moved the folder off the scotch and stood it upright. Stevens opened it and took a swig, then continued, “I followed that guy you asked me to. The guy from the bar.”
“And?” Duran’s attention shifted to Stevens and the answers he might have found. Drinking and sleep were forgotten in an instant.
Stevens handed him a folder and took another swig of the scotch. “I watched him go into a house then checked the address. The owner’s name is Sam Ferguson.”
“This is all you have?” The folder was thin. Duran had been hoping for more information than could possibly be on the few pieces of paper inside.
“The guy is like a ghost. He has no criminal record, no employment history, and no living family. He was born in Pennsylvania sixty-five years ago and now he lives in Yonkers. In between, all we know is he attended the Perelman School of Medicine.”
“So we know he has a medical degree, but no idea what he’s done with it.”
“Listen, it’s something. I got you a list of past addresses. I don’t know if it’s going to help, but look it over. He’s been living in his house in Yonkers for almost ten years. Before that he lived in a swanky building near Central Park.”
“No employment records. How was he affording that?”
“No clue. He’s had a few different apartments in New York over the past twenty-three years. Now look at the second page of addresses. Most of them have him listed as ‘Doctor Sam Ferguson.’ He must have been doing something. But when he came to New York in 1985, the doctor title disappeared.”
“Shit. This creates more questions than it answers.”
“I know. Now I’m wondering if we should be after this guy for anything besides information on a missing girl.”
“We’ll probably never find out.” Duran hoped Stevens would leave. He wanted to be alone with his scotch and his disappointment.
“Probably not, but what’s interesting is why we won’t. It could just be a coincidence, but check out the fourth address down.”
Duran sat bolt upright with shock. He knew it wasn’t a coincidence. Before 1985, the town Dr. Sam Ferguson called home was Langley, Virginia.
“Who the hell is this guy?”