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office. On his arrival, the security guard at FrazTek ushered Randy directly up to Carl’s fourth floor office.
    On his previous visit, Randy had scarcely made it into the lobby, but this time was different. He was immediately escorted to a spotlessly-clean glass elevator, which took him up to the fourth floor. The stark white walls, modern artwork and stainless steel railings were the antithesis of Carl’s elegant home decor. His office building looked like it had sprung from the pages of a modern architectural magazine.
    He found his friend in his office, behind the floor-to-ceiling opaque glass double doors, sitting behind a transparent, glass and chrome, sofa-sized desk. The modern glass and chrome shelving that surrounded the room held years of memorabilia, mostly pictures of Carl shaking hands with various politicians, world leaders and Hollywood types.
    Carl was already in ‘investigator’ mode. He waved Randy into a nearby chair. “First, tell me what you know, and then I’ll try to fill in the blanks.”
    Randy walked Carl through the events of his previous evening; how he had arrived at the restaurant, checked in with the hostess, waited at the bar, went to the back of the restaurant, and how he found the body in the alley. Randy also shared the bits of words that the dying doctor had tried to spit out before he died. He elaborated on each event and each person he had contacted, trying to include every detail he remembered. He concluded his summary with finding out about Dr. Johnson’s death and a few choice words for the attractive detective who had confiscated his weapon.
    Carl was nodding throughout the recap, and the name of the cop raised an eyebrow. “I happen to know that particular officer, but that’s a story for another time. Here’s what I think. I think your girlfriend doesn’t want to be found and you should forget about finding her. The security systems around the Call Center are better that the ones at Fort Knox, so you can forget trying to break in after hours or something else equally stupid. Their computer systems are impenetrable.”
    “Doctor William N. Johnson is the head of Neurological Rehabilitation at Johns Hopkins Hospital in Baltimore,” Randy said. “Someone didn’t want him talking to me.”
    “You mean ‘was’,” Carl corrected.
    “Was what?” Asked Randy.
    “He ‘was’ the head of neuro-whatever at Johns Hopkins.”
    “Right. Was. Whatever. Anyway, I called and tried to get an appointment with the guy. It seems Dr. Johnson is one busy guy. No one can get an appointment with the good doctor inside a two month wait. Even after I lied and told his staff I was a patient, they wouldn’t budge. I ended up leaving my contact information on his voice mail.”
    “Apparently, that’s why he called you,” said Carl.
    “He left instructions for me to meet him last night,” Randy continued. “He showed up dead in the alley before we could talk.”
    “The good doctor may have simply fallen victim to some crack head with a gun,” Carl speculated.
    “What kind of investigator are you?” Randy asked. “The only way the police could have identified Dr. Johnson so quickly would be by his ID! And no crack head is going to walk away from a dead body with a wallet on it!”
    “Oh, yeah, I guess you’re right. So you think it was something more sinister than a simple robbery, huh?”
    Randy sensed that his friend was hiding something, but he had no idea what it might be.
    “This whole thing is becoming more and more unbelievable, Carl. Why would a renowned doctor insist on a personal meeting outside of his office with a complete stranger? And why was he afraid to talk on the phone? Why all this secrecy surrounding the Federal Call Center?”
    “Here’s what I think, Fairbaby- With the dealings I’ve had over the years with the federal government, it might be wiser if you were to leave this one alone.”
    That doesn’t sound like the Carl I know, Randy