“Ginger, what kind of work do we have today?” I asked my receptionist/assistant detective as I walked into the office. Never mind that my office is actually the spare bedroom of my house, or that there are old bridesmaid dresses stored in the closet, along with the rest of my disguises. I had just finished my morning routine of running five miles and bench pressing 150 pounds, which is a lot if you’re me and have noodle arms that Kraft wanted to feature on a commercial for macaroni.
“Miss Rossen I—”
“Ginger, how many times do I have to tell you? It’s Joelle. Miss Rossen is what my students called me. And I am an ex-teacher now.”
“Okay…Joelle. I have a really exciting appointment coming in for you at two o’clock today! You are going to soil your pants.”
“That’s gross. Good thing I have fresh ones in the other room. So what is it that is so exciting?”
“There is a client who has requested some help in locating some missing sensitive data. The data is apparently worth a bundle, and the client doesn’t recall where it went. He’s afraid someone may have stolen it.”
“So do you think this will turn out to be more like an episode of Hoarders, and the person has so much crap I’ll die under a stack of forty year old newspapers looking for the data, or do you think it will be more like an episode of Law and Order and I’ll have to prosecute someone for theft?”
“Neither. It’s going to be like an episode of Covert Affairs. Specifically, the one that aired three weeks ago.”
“How do you mean?”
Ginger grinned at me. “The data that you are looking for is contained in a microdot.”
“For real? A microdot? You’re sure the client didn’t say microdog? And really it’s Paris Hilton and she’s misplaced her Chihuahua?”
“No. A real microdot. You know, like they talk about on spy television.”
“GET OUT! This is gonna be so awesome! My high school performed a mystery play once about a missing microdot. Turned out it was hidden in a chocolate chip cookie and the detective ate it.”
“I know, right? You’re big time now, Miss Rossen,” Ginger said brightly.
“Joelle,” I corrected.
“Exactly.”
****
At two o’clock I found myself sitting opposite a sweaty, bald man who had a nose like a mushroom. Don’t think I’m being mean. I’m just stating the facts. And a fact is, I like mushrooms. Just last weekend I barbecued a Portobello and put a grilled peach on top of it. So delicious.
The man was very flustered, and not because I was about to put his nose on the burner. “I just can’t find it!” he said. “Can’t find it anywhere! I looked in all the places I thought I would have put it, but it’s not there. I’m going to lose my grant money!”
“Please calm down, Mr. Sphongos. Can you tell me the nature of this missing data?”
“Yes. It’s research. Ten years of research.”
“On what, if I may ask?”
Mr. Sphongos twitched his nose a bit and then replied “On Swedish education practices. I was funded by the National Education Department to research successful countries, so that we may implement similar practices.”
“I could have saved you ten years. You could have talked to me and in about five hours I could have told you all the things we do wrong in American public education. I’m an ex-teacher. I was homeschooled as a child so I have an interesting perspective on it.”
I tell this story to a lot of people, but they never think I am credible on account of how I look like I’m 16 years old and write ridiculous top stories for fun.
Mr. Sphongos gave a thin grin, then said “Do you think you can help me? I am supposed to submit all my data next week to the board.”
“No problem, Mr. Sphongos. But can I just ask you, why did you shrink your data down to a microdot? Was a USB drive not small enough?”
“I understand your curiosity. See, I was living in Sweden during all my research, and I accessed some information that, well, wasn’t public knowledge. I was afraid that when I boarded the plane and moved back to the United States… I was afraid Swedish officials would confiscate my research. The data is a lot more valuable than you think,” he finished defensively.
“Hey, I don’t judge,” I replied. “If you had misplaced love letters from your first girlfriend, I would have helped you find those. It doesn’t matter what you’re missing. I will find it. With utmost confidentiality. You know, for a fee…” I slid over the contract of agreements with initial costs itemized on the side. A girl has to make a living.
****
Finding a single period amongst a house full of possessions is not any easy task. Looking for a microdot is much like looking for a needle in a hayfield, only harder.
That’s why I brought in reinforcements.
The next day I arrived at Mr. Sphongos’ apartment, which was full of empty boxes and scattered belongings. His method of search was rather frantic and not very orderly. He seemed to be living out of a suitcase, which makes sense, I guess. If I just came back from a foreign country and had to turn in ten years of work to my boss the next week, I wouldn’t worry so much about coordinating my curtains and paint chips either.
I would have brought Ginger along, but considering she is just a sophomore at the local university, she had statistics class that day. I told her she could join me the next time. I was expecting my associate to show up shortly. I had met Ashley in school as a child. The teacher had asked us to write a paragraph about our summer, and when I wrote mine in code, Ashley looked on, intrigued.
“What’s it say?”
“I’ll make a second copy for you and you can crack it.”
“Cool. But do you think the teacher will get mad that you didn’t write in English?”
“I did write in English. It’s coded, but they are English words. Besides, I have a suspicion that our teacher may be a CIA agent, so I’m testing her.”
“Oh.”
“Hey, do you have a sheep farm?” I asked nonchalantly.
“No.”
“Hmmm. Okay then.”
****
Just as I had shifted Mr. Sphongos’ things to one side of the apartment, in order than we could manage the processed objects and the non-processed objects, Ashley came in. She was wearing aviator sunglasses that had those sorts of lenses that allow for people to use as a mirror and pick their teeth. She had a baby on her hip.
“I know what you’re thinking and don’t even worry about it,” Ashley began. “I may have an infant with me, but I am all business. This kid is better trained than a German Shepherd. Sawyer wouldn’t dare interrupt an important investigation.”
I watched as she tucked the child into his carrier and put him in a corner, introduced herself to Mr. Sphongos, and then gave me a hug.
“Long time no see,” she said.
“So you have kids now?”
“Yep. Three of them. Two boys and a girl named Sydnee.”
“Is that a high school tribute to Alias?” I asked.
“Maybe yes, maybe no. Let’s get to work.”
Because Ashley does top secret investigative work that I can’t really speak of, she is well versed in microdots and had brought along with her several incredibly strong microscopes. These scopes were so high tech that they were able to read writing had it been written on a grain of sand. They were also worth a lot of money. The microscopes may or may not have been borrowed without consent from the State Department. I can’t really say.
We began a method of scrutinizing every square centimeter of everything Mr. Sphongos owned. Through the scope, my eyes processed every detail of many documents and files and books and pages. I once got excited that I had found something, but it turned out to be just a booger.
After scanning 298 pages of Tolkien’s The Hobbit, looking for a period that wasn’t like the others, I started to get bored and thus decided to initiate some conversation. Ashley was two feet away looking at some file folders.
“I’m sure glad Mr. Sphongos isn’t a high school health teacher,” I whispered.
“Why’s that?” she asked.
“Do you remember junior year with Miss Ray? And how she had that four inch binder full of nothing but pages and pages of periods to show how many sperm a man produces in a lifetime?”
“Oh yeah, I remember that!”
“Well, just imagine if Miss Ray had misplaced a microdot in her classroom. I would not want to search a thousand pages of pseudo-sperm dots looking for it.”
Ashley nodded her head in agreement.
I spent thirty minutes examining a calendar from 2009 until I started talking again.
“So, Mr. Sphongos…you’re Greek, right?”
“I am, how’d you know?”
“I’ve studied root words and have a fascination with etymology.”
“Clever.”
“Not really. But you’ve never lived in Greece, correct?”
“No, I haven’t.”
Ashley joined in. “What was life in Sweden like?”
“Difficult at first. I had to dye my hair and eyebrows blond, because people looked at me like I was a criminal and would never answer my questions.”
Ashley pondered this. “I don’t think John Stamos had that problem when he moved to LA. Actually, now that I think about it, in his first television role he played a delinquent teen who stole a car.”
My stomach interrupted the conversation with a growl that would have scared off Goldilocks.
Mr. Sphongos eyed me. “Shall we take a lunch break? Do you like Mexican food? I could make you a burrito or a quesadilla. I’m sorry I don’t have much else in my cupboards.”
“Oh no, that’s fine. I really like burritos,” I said.
****
As we sat around the table in the kitchen for lunch, Ashley began feeding a bottle to Sawyer. He had cute baby cheeks and would giggle every time I made a fish face.
Ashley and I began asking Mr. Sphongos questions about Swedish food, mainly “Do those gummy fish really come from Sweden? What’s the story on those?”
Mr. Sphongos launched into a story about a candy store he visited once. While talking about kanderade lakrits and gelehallon, he sat our burritos plated down in front of us.
“So gelehallon…is that like Gyllenhall, specifically Jake?” I was trying to make a dumb joke, of course, but just as Ashely brought her burrito to her lips, something unexpected happened.
Mr. Sphongos screamed, “WAIT! DON’T EAT THAT!”
Ashely dropped the burrito onto her plate and it splashed into some salsa.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“It’s just. The tortilla. It has those little brown spots on it. We didn’t scan it for the microdot.”
“You think you placed the microdot on a tortilla?” I asked.
“Well, no. But I might have. Maybe I did it when I was cooking one night.”
I am just guessing, but Mr. Sphongos may have also seen that high school play where the microdot is hidden in a chocolate chip cookie.
“Mr. Sphongos, do you remember when and where you bought these tortillas?” Because like he brought them over on the plane from Sweden.
“Yesterday. On my way home from visiting your office. At Winco.”
I smiled patiently. “But you were missing the microdot before that. If you bought the tortillas after having misplaced the microdot, there’s no way you could have hidden it on a tortilla. Unless, of course, you sent flour to a woman in Mexico.”
“Oh. Okay, you’re right,” he said, relieved. “Continue with your meal.”
After we were done eating, we went back to the living room. I opened a box to discover it held dishes wrapped in newspaper.
“Hey Mr. Sphongos, I found your bowls!” Now he could stop eating Corn Flakes off of plates.
When he looked up to see me holding a bowl in one hand and a sheet of newspaper in the other, his eyes got wide, he stopped breathing, and I basically thought he was having a cardiac arrest.
“Oh no. No no no no no,” Mr. Sphongos choked out.
For a second I thought I had done something offensive, like discover the bowl that his old cat had drowned in or something.
“What’s the matter?” I asked. Ashley looked up from her work.
“Looking at that newspaper has reminded me of something dreadful. I gave away a newspaper to the neighbor who lives in the apartment next door.”
I looked at him patiently. Reader, if you are also a person who regrets getting rid of paper items, I suggest you do not subscribe to any magazines, or you might end up like my dad and have twenty years worth of National Geographic stacked up in the dust of your old shop.
“Don’t you see,” he continued. “I may have put the microdot on that newspaper. When I packed to leave Sweden, I placed the microdot on page 47 of Great Expectations. When I got to Oregon, I transferred the microdot somewhere else. Actually, I moved it about nine different places because I couldn’t decide on the best location. And then I…celebrated the end of my research and return to the states with…a little wine. When I woke up the next day I couldn’t remember what I had done with the microdot. I could have put it anywhere! Like on that newspaper!”
“Okay,” I said calmly. I had gathered more of the picture, mainly that Mr. Sphongos was a lush who liked to read old literature. “Let’s just go over and see if your neighbor still has the newspaper.”
We went out to the apartment door and I knocked.
“What’s her name?” I asked.
“Miss Hadari. Her first name is Heidi, but I don’t think we’re on a first name basis yet,” replied Mr. Sphongos.
“Okay.”
The door opened and there stood a woman in sheepskin slippers.
“Hi, Miss Hadari,” I said. “I’m Mr. Sphongos’ friend and I was wondering if you still had that newspaper he gave you. It had an article in it about my uncle and Mr. Sphongos was supposed to cut it out for me but forgot.”
Instantly Miss Hadari’s eyes narrowed.
“You want the newspaper back?” she snapped. Her tone of voice may as well have indicated that I donated a kidney to her and wanted it back now too. “You can’t have it. I need it so I can clip coupons. I’m on a budget. I don’t like to waste money. Last week I saved 60% on three bottles of aloe vera gel,” she finished proudly.
“Oh, that’s fine,” I said. “If we could just get the newspaper back for a little bit, I’ll be sure to give the coupon section to you.”
“But I need all of it. I have a pet hamster and I line his cage with newspaper so I don’t have to buy packaged bedding at Petco.”
If there is one thing I learned from my dad, it’s negotiation skills. “Tell you what, Miss Hadari. I have a whole stack of old newspapers at my house. It would give your hamster enough liner for a year. I also have an entire 26 page coupon magazine that was mailed to me yesterday. I don’t really want it because I prefer to pay full price for everything. I’ll bring those things over to you if you would just let us have Mr. Sphongos’ newspaper back.”
Miss Hadari’s eyes became as hungry as a child starving in Africa.
“Okay. Wait here. I’ll go get it.”
A moment later she returned with the newspaper, smiling.
“Thank you so much, Miss Hadari. I’ll have those things over by this evening.”
“Oh no, Thank YOU,” she said. “And please, you can call me Heidi.”
As we walked back to Mr. Sphongos’ apartment, he asked me “Do you really like to pay full price for everything?”
“Heavens no. It pains me to waste money. I got that coupon book for free at the library. I’ll just pick up another one for myself on Tuesday when I have to return my Learn French Instantly CDs.”
“You’re learning French?”
“Oui.”
****
On day two of the search, we went full force. Ashley had found a sitter for Sawyer, Mr. Sphongos was remaining calm, and I had eaten a boat load of carrots the night before in order to aid my eyesight for this search.
“Hey Joelle, I’ve got to leave at one o’clock for an appointment with my dermatologist. But I’ll be back.”
“Is everything okay?”
“Yeah. I just have some moles on my arm that I need to get checked for skin cancer. My doctor, Lissa Skott, says it’s important to have yearly skin check ups. If there is a suspicious mole, then what she does is punch it out of your skin.”
“Like with a hole punch from Office Max?”
“Sort of. Anyway, I am a bit concerned because I swear I got a new mole yesterday. I just noticed it this morning.”
All of a sudden my gut dropped down to my knees and my brain came up with a wild idea. Maybe you’re thinking it to. Are you thinking “Maybe Ashley touched the microdot yesterday and didn’t even know it and now it is stuck to her skin”? Because that’s what I was thinking.
“Ashley. Can I see it?”
Ashley lifted her elbow and pointed to the new little dark spot. I used my super strength scope to inspect it at 1000 times its original size. Sadly, it was just a mole. But a healthy looking one!
I sighed, disappointed that Ashley wasn’t wearing the microdot on her left elbow. “You know, it’s actually kind of cute,” I told her. “Next to the other ones, it’s like a little nose in a smiley face.”
Ashley inspected it. “Hey, it kind of is a cute little one.”
We spent many hours searching for the missing dot, but by the end of day two there was still 28 boxes of items to be examined. I was getting frustrated. What if someone had stolen the microdot? Maybe someone had followed Mr. Sphongos home, observed him through the window, and then when he got drunk and passed out on his couch that night, they snuck in and stole it? Of course I didn’t tell any of this to my client. I didn’t want him to panic.
That night, after work, I called my friend Casey.
“I just can’t figure this one out,” I lamented. “I’m going mad searching for a period.”
Casey sympathized. “I’m no detective,” she started, “but can you try any other angles on this? Change the way you are searching?”
“How do you mean? Basically we have to look at everything under a microscope for hours. How can we change that?”
“Hang on just a second, I need to pause Buffy.”
Casey really got into the vampire slayer over the summer. I think it’s because she hates Robert Pattinson and secretly hopes that Buffy will make an appearance on the last movie of the Twilight series and slay them all.
“You still there?” Casey asked a second later.
“Yep.”
“Well, pretend that I misplaced a microdot. Where is the first place you would look.?”
“Easy. On that framed picture of you and Kendra from your high school graduation.”
“Why?” Casey asked, even though she knew the answer.
“Because it’s important to you. You would never accidentally throw it out. No one would dare take it from you. It’s a safe place.”
“So apply this theory to Mr. Sphongos. What do you know about him?”
“That he over indulges in wine. No, Casey, I get you. I can’t believe what a moron I’ve been. And here, I’m supposed to be the clever detective. Thanks for the talk.”
“No problem. Keep my updated on your progress.”
“Okay. G’night.”
I hung up the phone and realized I wasn’t going to find this microdot because I am good at finding things. I was going to find this microdot because I am good at figuring things out, and I am good at figuring people out. What I needed to do was take some time and get to know the person who had misplaced the item. Once I knew more about Mr. Sphongos, I’d have at least some idea of where he may have hidden his data. It’s like cracking a person’s e-mail password (which I’ve done). If you know enough about the person, you know exactly what their code is, even if they think they are being clever.
[For example, if your older sister tells you you’ll never crack her e-mail password because it’s a totally random word and is difficult to spell, you have some clues. I knew enough about my sister to know what sort of words she’d think were hard to spell. I knew what kind of music she listened to, what kind of shows she watched, and all of her other hobbies. That’s why when I tried typing “asparagus” on my first try, I totally got in. She had been going through her Veggie Tales phase. I wonder if she ever changed it. Lemme check…Oh my gatos she totally has had the same password for 14 years! Good thing she uses a new address, or I’d spend the rest of the night reading her messages instead of writing this story. Jess, if you are reading this, then you have unread mail dating back to 2001. And sorry about the whole hacking thing. I took your smug comment as a challenge].
I showed up at Mr. Sphongos’ door at 6:30 the next morning. I had skipped my ritualistic running and weight lifting so I could close this case pronto. I wanted to close it like a suitcase lid belonging to person who was headed to Barbados for vacation after a job well done.
Mr. Sphongos opened the door, a bit sleepy eyed.
“Sir. Let’s take a break from this madness of searching so I can get to know you.” I handed him a coffee.
We sat at the kitchen table and I made my client tell me all about his life. I pressed him for information about past relationships, pets, places he lived, growing up, schooling, his parents, siblings, and extended family members. After the first hour he felt comfortable enough to tell me the intimate details of his life. By hour three I felt like his therapist.
“My father was very musical. He played many instruments. His favorite was the piano. He would play and my whole family would sing.” Mr. Sphongos got a faraway look in his eye, like he could see himself back in 1958 as a child, belting out the lyrics to Rock’n Robin by Bobby Day. Which would have been difficult, considering it’s not really a piano song.
“Is your father still alive?” I asked.
“No. He passed away seven years ago. My brother played the piano at his funeral, as a tribute.”
“Do you have anything special to remember your father by? A picture? CD? Letter he wrote?”
“Well, I have all those things, but what I keep dear to me is the old sheet music from his original compositions. He was very talented.”
By this point my synapses were firing so much that I could have burnt the house down. We had not yet examined any sheet music.
“Let’s find it,” I said, jumping up from my chair.
Within minutes Mr. Sphongos located the stack of sheet music.
“Here’s one he composed for my fifth birthday. It’s quite animated and it’s titled “My Little Fun Guy.”
The page was indeed popping with fun little measures. It was written with many eighth notes, instructed to be played allegro. I took the sheet and stuck it under the microscope. Nothing. Not even a booger.
“Do you remember the last piece he ever wrote?” I asked. “Is it here?”
“Yes. I wouldn’t dare throw that away.” Mr. Sphongos took some time finding a lovely, lengthy piece titled “My Heart Lives On.” I reached for it carefully and slipped it under the scope. On page three I spotted it. 36th measure. It was a C. Quarter note. Instead of a black dot full of black ink, I saw hundreds of little words. I spotted key words like “Sweden” “Education” “Achievement” and “No recess.”
“I’ve found it, sir. Take a look for yourself.” I moved over so Mr. Sphongos could verify.
“Oh thank heavens,” he said. When his face turned up I could see his eyes were full of tears. “Thank you so much, Detective Rossen. You have found my microdot, I’ll be able to turn in my work, keep my job, and reform America’s horrendous education system.”
I didn’t have the heart to tell him to dream on. Or to tell him that reform comes slowly, that it starts with yourself in your own heart, that is spreads to your family and friends, and then to your city and nation. It’s not a top down process, it’s a bottom up process, and it requires people to surrender their hatred, sacrifice their sanity, bleed out love, and miss their favorite spy television show on Thursday nights.
Indeed, I wished Mr. Sphongos the best on his venture to change the nation. But mostly I was just relieved to pack for that vacation to Barbados.
