The Missing First Lady
The President walked into my office on a Monday morning, looking less like the leader of the free world and more like a man who’d just been told his golf club was closed for the season. He had the tired eyes of a man who’d just realized his tie was crooked, and he didn’t waste any time.
“Jack,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “I need you to find my wife.”
The First Lady, Melania, had been missing for two days. The official line was that she was visiting family, but the real story was that she’d vanished from their heavily guarded penthouse apartment. The cops had put the case on ice. No forced entry, no note, no witnesses. Just a quiet disappearance. He even mentioned, with a strange mix of pride and fear, that he didn’t think she would divorce him, and he wasn’t sure she could be deported, but you never knew with all the new laws they were writing.
Jack Hammer is All in
I decided to come out of retirement for one last case, After all, this was The President of the United States!. The first place I went was the apartment, a sprawling place on the thirty-fifth floor. Everyone gave me the same clean, sanitized story. But Frank had taught me that the dirt is always where they’ve just swept.
In the First Lady’s bedroom, I found it. A single, crumpled piece of paper tucked under the top drawer of an antique desk. A one-way flight ticket that left the night she vanished. Destination? Ljubljana, Slovenia.
That wasn’t all. Her jewelry box, a thing of gold and velvet, was empty. Not a single diamond left to lie about its value. A woman on the run doesn’t take the time to pack, but she’ll make sure to get her hands on the escape money. It was a hell of a lead. I took the ticket and was on a plane before the sun had a chance to set.
Ljubljana, Slovenia City, of Darkness
The city was a maze of old stone and cobblestone streets, and it felt like every word I heard was an accent on a lie. I spent the next few days in the underbelly, working every dive bar and smoky club. I talked to bartenders with cauliflower ears and drank cheap liquor that tasted of rust and regret. Nothing.
Just as I was about to give up, a veiled showgirl hissed from the shadows. “You’re looking for the American. I saw her. She was asking about a boat, a boat to Turkey.” She pointed me toward the docks and disappeared into the fog.
I should have known better. The docks were a world away from the bright lights, full of shadows and hard men. Just as I saw a freighter with a Turkish flag, two men emerged from the dark. The last thing I heard was a thud, and then a blinding flash of light as a fist met my jaw.
When I woke up, my pockets were empty. My wallet, my notes, the plane ticket, and my passport were all gone.
I spent the next ten days on a fishing trawler to earn enough for a grub stake. With a few bucks in my pocket, I headed to the immigration office. I should have known better. A foreigner with no passport and a face full of bruises is an invitation for trouble. The next thing I knew, I was in custody for overstaying my visa. If you think ICE and Alligator Alcatraz are bad, you should see their agents and gulags.
My flight back to the USA wasn’t first class. It was a one-way deportation on a cargo plane that smelled of sweat and old fish. I was sent packing, back to the city I’d tried to escape.
I’m sorry, Mr. President. This one’s for the books. Some things that are lost don’t want to be found. And sometimes, they really don’t want to be found.
Yours Truly, Jack Hammer.
