The Missing Map

The lights were out for eleven seconds. I counted. Eleven seconds doesn’t sound like much until somebody steals a thirty-year-old harbor map from a table six feet in front of you. Then it feels considerably longer.

The lights came back. The archivist stood exactly where she’d been. Dom’s photograph was still beneath my paw. The map wasn’t. I looked around the room. Nothing. I didn’t like that. Mostly because cats are supposed to be good in the dark.

The Other Door

“Who else is down here?” I exclaimed more than asked.

“No one.”

“Try again.”

The archivist hesitated. There. Hesitation is where truth usually starts leaking out. “There’s another entrance.”

“Where?”

She pointed toward the far wall. I saw filing cabinets. Nothing else. “Very funny.”

“The last cabinet,” she gestured.

I walked over. Behind it was a narrow wooden door. Unlocked. I looked back at her. “You forgot to mention the secret staircase?”

“It’s not secret.”

“It’s behind a filing cabinet.”

“It’s an old service entrance.”

“That’s what secret staircases say when they’re trying to sound respectable.” I opened the door. Stairs descended into darkness.

Naturally.

The Alley

The stairs ended at another door. This one opened onto an alley behind City Records. I stepped outside. Nobody. I looked left. Empty. Right. Empty. Whoever took the map had eleven seconds plus however long it took me to discover the staircase.

Enough time. Not much more.

Then I saw something beside a storm drain. Paper. I crouched. A torn piece of the harbor map. One edge showed part of the waterfront. The rest had been ripped away. But the handwritten circle was there. So was the M.

Except now I could see more of it. The letter wasn’t alone.

M.R.C.

I stared at it. “M.R.C.” An engine started somewhere behind me.

I turned. Black car. End of the alley. It pulled away. I ran. The car reached the intersection. Turned. Gone. No license plate. Of course. Why would the mysterious black car fleeing with stolen evidence have a license plate? That would be convenient.

Midnight Harbor dislikes convenience.

Three Letters

I went back inside. The archivist was waiting. “Did you find it?”

“Part of it.”

I put the torn map on the table. She looked at the letters. Her expression changed again. “M.R.C.”

“Mean anything?”

“No.”

Too fast. “Try again.”

“I said no.”

“You said it before I finished asking.”

She looked at me. I looked at her. Neither of us blinked. Another advantage of being a cat.

Finally she sat down. “I’ve seen it before.”

“Where?”

“I’m not sure.”

“That’s not useful,” I replied.

“It was years ago.”

“More useful.”

She stared at the letters. “Shipping records, maybe.”

“What kind of shipping records?”

“Old ones.”

“You’re very good at this.”

She ignored me. “There used to be dozens of small companies operating around the harbor. Shipping agents. Warehouses. Freight companies. Some lasted a few years. Some changed names.”

“Any with M.R.C.?”

“I don’t remember.”

“But you’ve seen it.”

“I think so.”

That’s when she looked toward the cabinets. “The old commercial directories.”

M.R.C.

We searched for almost an hour. Nothing. Then I found it. A directory from thirty-four years ago. Page 217.

MARITIME RECOVERY CORPORATION

M.R.C.

Address: Pier 17, Midnight Harbor.

I read it twice.

“What did they recover?”

The archivist shook her head. “No idea.”

The listing didn’t say. No advertisement. No description. Just a name, address and telephone number. I checked the next year’s directory.

Nothing. M.R.C. was gone. One year. Maybe less. A company nobody remembered, operating from a warehouse the city later erased from its maps.

Then I noticed the telephone number. Something about it bothered me. I went back to the earlier directory.

Different company. Same address. Different number.

Then the year after. Warehouse 17 gone.

I looked at the M.R.C. number again. The final four digits: 0917.

Could be coincidence. I don’t like coincidences. Especially ones that end in 17.

One More Problem

I tore a piece of paper from my notebook and copied the listing. The archivist closed the directory.

“Nick.”

“What?”

“If someone stole that map because they knew you’d found M.R.C…”

“I know.”

“They know you’re looking.”

“I know.”

“And they know where you are.”

I stopped writing. That part I hadn’t particularly enjoyed hearing aloud. I slipped the paper into my coat. Then I looked toward the dark service staircase. Somewhere in Midnight Harbor was a company that had existed for barely a year, inside a warehouse that officially disappeared three years before it burned.

Someone had just stolen the only map connecting them. And now I had a name. Maritime Recovery Corporation.

The question was what they had been recovering. And from where.

CASE STATUS: OPEN

To be continued…