Eye of the Storm (The Mystery Squad)

3. Lance

Lance couldn't wait to get out from under his father's shadow. Literally, the man was standing in his light. "Dad," Lance moaned, "can't you see I'm working?"

Windsor Donovan, a ornate, bookish man, ignored his son's request. "You aren't listening. You never listen. My only son—and look at you! Always going on and on about 'acting,' or whatever it is now. What are you doing now?" he stepped in closer, grabbing the paper from under Lance's pen. He held it up to the light. "Is this...?"

He snatched it back. "Work."

"It looks like a screenplay."

"When it's for the stage, it's a script. I'm representing a director"

"Some of these lines are highlighted."

"It was his only copy."

"I'm disappointed in you, son. All I've done for you—and this is how you repay me? Think of it, my only son an actor!" The old man turned his nose up. "I cannot stop you from pursuing whatever foolishness on in free time, but when you're here, you're my employee. I expect you to work."

He had to stop himself from shouting: "I quit." He gritted his teeth. "Yes sir."

"Good. Do you have anything for Ms. Short?"

Lance tucked the screenplay away, under the boring legal documents he hated so much. One day, he'll see, he thought, they'll all see. When I'm famous, he'll be the one begging me for attention. But for now, back to the paperwork. "She kept a low profile back in those days. There's almost nothing from that time. Apparently no one thought much of her. There were no complaints leading up to when she resigned."

"Fired. She was fired."

"Okay?"

"That's good for us. No complaints... We just need something concrete."

He let his mind wander. His father was an intensely useful man but he—he was destined for something more. Fame. The adoration of millions. His name on the marquees of Broadway and the West End. Every schoolboy. Every housewife. Everyone, rich and poor, would someday know the name Lance Donovan. It might've have looked far away now, as a lawyer working for his dad's firm—but he had a remarkable tinge toward optimism. He was proud of himself. Pride was one of his finest virtues. It would bring him the fame he desired. So he was proud. Proud of himself for getting this far. Proud of the break he swore to make with his father. Proud of all the future success that lay in store. "All those years," he heard his dad saying, "for nothing." No. His self centered dad was wrong. All those years, for him. He'd spent his life chasing his father's approval. How blind he'd been, then, when he should've been chasing the approval of strangers.

"Are you listening to me?"

It's time. "I..."

A horrible, digital moaning rudely interrupted his declaration. His new model 1991 GS-1024 FAX machine lit up, beeping its harsh science-fictional tone. Curtain call. He ran out to it, in front of his father. To impress him, he said he expected the message. By the look on his father's face, he bought it. No surprise there—Lance was an actor. He plucked the paper from the jaws of the machine. He caught a glimpse...

"What is it?" his father asked.

"Actor stuff, you wouldn't care."

"Let me see."

"Can I get some privacy?"

His father shrugged. "Five minutes," he marched out of the office.

He couldn't let Baxter down, not when he'd entrusted him with this delicate task. He carefully examined the document, poorly scanned. His trained eyes saw two distinctly recognizable faces. One was Ralph Barrow, the charming candidate. The other was Barrow's assistant, and his father's real client, Christine Short. Brilliant! Job well done. He found a legal pad, tore off a sheet, and wrote his revelations down. He tucked the notes and the faxed document inside an envelope and labeled it appropriately. Barrow/Short—Urgent. Something this important had to be delivered by hand.