Free The Zero by Jess Walter Page A

Markham.
    “What?”
    “You said martini. It’s not a martini. It’s a Gibson. Onions instead of olives.” His perfectly manicured index finger pointed to the tiny glass in the picture.
    Had he said martini out loud?
    “Yes, you did. But see, it’s a Gibson.” Markham pointed to the glass again. “You can just make out the cocktail onions. Here, you can see them better in this one.” He thumbed through his briefcase until he came up with another photo, a blown-up detail of the drink showing fuzzily but unmistakably that there were, indeed, two tiny white onions in the glass. “I don’t like onions. I prefer olives myself,” Markham said. “Without pimientos. You have to request it that way or they’ll just assume you want pimientos. I mean, honestly…what is a pimiento? A fruit? A vegetable? A legume? I mean, come on—” He was taking on the tone of a standup comic. “Does it even occur in nature?”
    “I think it’s a pepper,” Remy said.
    “I know. It was a…” said Markham, clearly disappointed that his joke had fallen flat. “Oh. Well, then…” He put the onion picture away and pointed again at the picture of the girl. “This is March Selios.”
    Remy looked at the picture. Marge?
    “No, March. Like the month.”
    Remy bit his lip so no more words would sneak out. He looked at the picture again, taken from across the table of a restaurant, ferns everywhere.
    “She worked for a firm that managed legal issues for importers of various goods through foreign contracts, international consortiums, that sort of thing. She was trained as a paralegal. That’s two legals.” Markham spit laughter, but became serious so quickly that Remywondered if there had been another gap. “She specialized in shipping, trade law, tariffs, oil. Spoke fluent Greek, but also passable Arabic and a bit of Farsi. Did a lot of work with Middle Eastern and Mediterranean companies: Greek, Italian, Saudi, Syrian, Lebanese. Intelligent girl, single, moderate drinker, liberal politics: for a time in the 1990s, she raised money for Palestinian relief charities, protested Israeli aggression, that sort of thing. A bit of a wild child, a drinker, no drug use that we can find. She wasn’t afraid of sex, but then, she was in her twenties. Worked for this firm, ADR, for approximately two years. The firm’s offices were sprinkled throughout the top floors, so as you might guess, the company was hit hard—a third of its employees, everyone who was at work that morning, twenty-three people, all MPD. Although—”
    Remy looked at the picture again.
    “—the number of Missing Presumed Dead from that firm would be twenty-two…if one were to take Ms. Selios off the official list.” Markham let this hang in the air.
    “You think…she shouldn’t be…on the official list?”
    “We have reason to believe…” Markham paused again. “There are indications…” He stopped again. “There is some evidence that…Ms. Selios may not have died that day. She may, in fact, be alive.”
    Remy waited for more, but this Markham seemed to revel in dripping details one at a time. “How?” Remy finally asked.
    Markham crossed his hands and put his index fingers across his lips. “Based on document re-creation and interviews, we are exploring the theory that she may have gotten advance warning and fled moments before…”
    Again Markham was quiet. Remy made an effort to speak out loud. “I’m not sure I’m following you.”
    Markham pulled on a rubber glove, reached back in his briefcase and pulled out a zipped plastic bag with a small piece of paper inside.He put the bag on the table, then pulled it back. “Obviously, this is classified.” Then he slid it forward again, as if it contained some magical secret.
    Remy reached for the baggie. Inside was a single index card. On the card was a recipe, handwritten with a blue pen, for something called pecan encrusted sole. Remy read through the last ingredient ( 1 tsp sea salt ) and the