Eye of the Storm (The Mystery Squad)

2. Baxter

Depression wasn't the word he'd use; he was a pessimist. He couldn't wrap his mind around Barrow's appeal. The man was essentially shouting, "A better world is impossible!" from the rooftops. Who likes that? Yet every day he woke up to stories about how goddamned well he was doing in the latest polls. Christ, The New York Courier couldn't get enough of him. 

A man for our time, the paper said. What a joke! Barrow's message, or lack there off, might as well have been an infomercial. "Are you tired of the same old politics? Can't get your head around ideology? The solution is simple! Vote for Barrow!" His whole campaign was a lie, built on deceit. Barrow had never uttered an honest word in his life. Barrow was no politician. He was a conman. His whole God-forsaken personality was a lie. A lawyer, a trust funder, a pretender. He's no president any more than I'm a private detective. He slammed the paper down on the desk. This couldn't go on. If only he would come out and admit who he really was. Right, if only.

Inauthentic son of a—

He heard the office door squeak open. Danger. He pushed the paper aside. Better pretend I'm working. He brought out a stack of official looking documents—résumés. Danger knew who she was—she was authentic, if nothing else. She was no secretary, a fact Baxter had known from the moment he laid eyes on her; dreads, tattered shirt, bad-attitude and all. She'd never spruced herself up to fit into the straight-world, like he had. So now she was leaving. Off, she said, to some other part of the world. Escape this crummy office he couldn't pay for, wrongly gifted to him a year ago, and run away to some other life. Good for her, but he couldn't help but feel a tinge of jealousy. For his own lack of direction, he would make a show of looking for her replacement. An easy, dull task, anyone could do in an hour—but he would stretch it out over days... just to rub it in her happy, forward-looking face.

Except it wasn't Danger, but his laidback partner Rosalyn.

"Hey man," his partner said. "Hell of a morning."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Oh, nothing."

Nothing from Rosalyn, as usual. He and Rosalyn lived separate lives, lives that would never meet, except in the confines of this office and on the trail of a case. Rosalyn was not Danger, though he was rather genuine in his own bizarre, casual way. Baxter admired him. Rosalyn was a man entirely unto himself. If only I could be like that. He returned to his papers, the résumés. Even with Rosalyn, best pretend you're working. Always best to pretend. "I don't know how we're going to manage once Danger's gone. You know how many résumés I have to sort through for chrissake? I can't handle it."

Rosalyn gave a muddled response, but Baxter noticed something off. Beyond his usual secretive demeanor, Rosalyn was paranoid. He was hiding something.

"You hear about this Barrow guy?"

Rosalyn began to ask all about Barrow—he wanted to know everything. Everything about his speech later that day. Baxter hated himself for it, but he could answer all of Rosalyn's questions. He'd read the paper, after all. Barrow, he cringed. "All posturing, that guy." Why does Rosalyn care? "Wait, you aren't actually planning on going—are you?"

"Maybe."

Maybe? Is Rosalyn taking any of this seriously? He was always like this, at least with him. Confidence was a quality Baxter admired and detested in equal parts. Rosalyn needed no one. He needed nothing. Yet, he felt totally comfortable asking stupid questions about a stupid candidate. And even that would be okay, if it was real—and yet, he didn't seem to care.

A flash hit Baxter's eyes. Now he has a camera?

"You look like a tourist."

"I am a tourist."