Undercover Husband

Another burst of applause accompanied Roman’s short walk to the rostrum. He looked around his audience of a couple of hundred law enforcement people.

For the most part, this group in front of him—whether on or off duty—were hardworking, law-abiding citizens themselves, the cornerstone of goodness in the whole scheme of police work.

Unfortunately, the higher one climbed, be it a member of the FBI or the CIA, there was a tendency to get bogged down by a corrupt bureaucracy.

Roman. You’re tired...

“It seems the only thing Chief Wilson didn’t tell you is that the name written on my birth certificate reads Romanov Vechiarelli Lufkilovich. My great-grandparents on my father’s side were Russian immigrants who arrived and settled in New York. My mother’s people were of Italian ancestry who also settled in New York.

“When I came home from grade school with my tenth nosebleed in a row, my parents agreed to let me shorten my name to Roman Lufka, which incorporated a little of the best parts of all the blood flowing through my veins.

“Of course by then, I’d begun to learn how to take care of myself. The other guy ended up in the hospital. I suppose I have my parents to thank for putting me on the road to my particular and peculiar destiny, no matter how ignominious and self-serving its start.”

A roar of laughter filled the conference room. Someone called out, “How come you ended up in Salt Lake?”

If you only knew...

“That’s an interesting question,” Roman responded when quiet reigned. “Would you believe, skiing? The rumors are true. Utah has the best snow on earth. To this New Yorker anyway,” he added with a smile.

That part was true. The skiing was fabulous. He was already addicted...

Judging by the shouts and whistles, a large portion of the audience agreed with him.

“I could go on all day about my favorite sport. However, Chief Wilson has a reputation, if you know what I mean, and he expects us to get some work done here.”

Again the room exploded with good-natured guffaws and laughter.

“As you know, in the past, the image of the private investigator hasn’t been the best. I’ll be the first to admit that incompetent bunglers, less-than-professional idiots who couldn’t find their way out of an unlocked closet, have riddled our noble profession with holes which the media has picked up on and exploited in the worst possible light.

“We’ve been made out as uninformed, uneducated riffraff, rising from the dregs of society in our rumpled clothes which wreak of cigarette smoke and garlic from yesterday’s leftover pastrami sandwich eaten out of a rundown ’72 Chevy we haven’t finished making payments on. The exhaust pipe, by the way, long since confiscated by local hoodlums.”

Again everyone laughed and clapped in agreement because the picture he painted was too real and hit too close to home.

“I’m here to tell you that this image is changing. No longer is there room in the private investigation field for those of us choosing this line of work to be anything but professional. In fact, we’re approaching the year 2000 where we’ll be wiped out, eliminated from the competition, unless we become the absolute, total professional.

“This means you have to be dedicated to a higher degree of commitment as you study and learn everything possible to navigate and win in our specialized and technical society. As crime spreads like the incurable ebola virus, mutating in hideous new forms, we have to be equipped to handle the awful and unprecedented tasks besetting us, testing us to the last atom of our cognitive thinking powers.

“That’s what being professional is all about. That’s why I’m here today, to provoke you to be better than you’ve ever been before, to reach inside that core of you which will not stand for mediocre or slovenly service, but will respond to the highest call to be your brother’s keeper in the noblest sense of the word, defending the helpless, even to the giving of your own life, if necessary.

“But the chances of that happening diminish in direct ratio to the degree of your professionalism, and that’s a fact you can take to the bank.”

There was absolute quiet before the room suddenly erupted into thunderous ovation. When Roman could get a word in he said, “That’s it. That’s my speech. I’d rather turn the rest of the time over to a thirty-minute question and answer period before I have to get back to Salt Lake on the noon flight.”

“Another call on line two, Brit!” the secretary spoke up.

Brit’s gaze darted to the wall clock. Ten after three. Maybe this was the one she’d been waiting for.

She left the drafting board and rushed over to her desk. “Brit Langford, here.”

“Ms. Langford. This is Diana from LFK.”

Her heart plummeted to her feet. Maybe the receptionist was calling to tell her they wouldn’t be able to take her case.

“Y-yes?” she answered, dry-mouthed.

“Hold on. I’m putting you through to Lieutenant Lufka.”

Brit gripped the receiver more tightly.

“Ms. Langford? Roman Lufka here. From what my secretary, Diana, has told me, it sounds as if you’ve got a serious problem on your hands.”

The deep cultured voice whose accent suggested an East Coast education and sophistication came as much of a surprise to her as his assurance that her fears were justified. The police had shown her relatively little interest or compassion.

“I get a pit in my stomach just anticipating looking at the mail. When the first letter came, I thought it had to be some sort of hideous joke, but it has gone on too long. I was feeling so desperate I decided to call your office.”

“I’m glad you did. Can you meet me at Lieutenant Parker’s office in say, twenty minutes?”

She breathed a huge sigh of relief. “Oh, yes. Does this mean you’ll take my case?”

“It does.”

“Thank you.” Her voice trembled.

“You’re welcome. See you soon.”

She heard the click before she put the receiver back on the hook. Thank goodness she was going to get some help.

Roman drove the tan Ford he used on the job into the underground carpark of the metropolitan hall of justice.

Unfortunately, there was no anonymity here. By the time he’d reached the third floor of the complex, he’d shaken hands with a dozen officers and exchanged shoptalk with a dozen more who wanted to discuss the stakeout he’d been on.

He broke it off as soon as he could and headed for Parker’s office. The head of the stalking bureau possessed a need to be in control at all times. Since he was on the phone, Roman used sign language for permission to get into the files. The other man hesitated, then expelled a frustrated sigh and nodded his go-ahead.

On his way to the cabinet, Roman theorized that this had to be one of Parker’s better days, or else the phone call had distracted him.

His client hadn’t arrived yet. He decided to get started.

Lam, Lamoreaux, Landau, Landrigan, Langford. Roman pulled her file and sat down at a table against the wall.

The first item to meet his gaze was a copy of her passport photo, and a large color photograph of her tour group assembled on the steps of St. Peter’s in Rome.

A hairy-faced figure among the group had been circled with black marker. Obviously he was the man who’d been harassing her.

Roman’s eyes darted to the other people in the crowd until he found Brittany Langford, a budding new architect according to Diana.

With her ash-blond hair long enough to be pulled back in a medium-size ponytail, she looked about nineteen rather than twenty-six, and very attractive.

Putting the pictures aside, he began studying the information from the report taken by investigating Officer Green. It was sparse at best.