Deep Blue Goodbye

by Robin Mahle

  The more she listened, the more she believed Milo and Tommy were friends for a reason. They weren’t dissimilar. And Tommy seemed like the kind of guy who would give everything so long as he didn’t think he was being taken advantage of. She liked him already. “My plan is to get my license and open an agency like yours. Of course, you’ve been doing this a long time, I don’t mean to suggest…”

  “I’m not surmising. I get it. But this is no easy gig. It takes hard work, persistence, and thick skin. Speaking of,” He rustled through some files next to him. “Milo told you I needed an extra hand and boy, he was right on the money. So, I think I got something to fuel your fire. You do good for me on this, we’ll see if we can generate ourselves an amicable relationship.” He handed over a few pieces of paper. “I need someone to check in on this man.”

  She pulled the papers toward her and slipped on her reading glasses. A picture was paperclipped to the sheets. It was a man, tall, dressed in a suit and tie, and stepping out of a Range Rover. “Who is this?”

  “That is Mr. Harlan Goodfellow. But don’t let the name fool you. He’s no good fellow.”

  “What’d he do?” She noted Goodfellow’s salt and pepper hair, light stubble on his face, and his obvious wealth.

  “He’s boning his boss’s wife.”

  She deflated all at once. The idea was so cliché. A private investigator trying to catch a cheating spouse.

  “This should be right up your alley unless Milo has led me astray,” Tommy added.

  Allison wasn’t easily offended, but the statement seemed to be a loosely phrased personal attack. “I pursued fraudulent claims for the state. I didn’t take pictures of adulterers and their liaisons.”

  Tommy Boyce doused his cigar in a glass of water and set it on a cocktail napkin. The wet tobacco smelled like scorched earth. He captured Allison’s gaze with his eyes that were set wide apart from his globular nose. “Look Ms. Hart, I understand that you want to be in the trenches, but ma’am those trenches are lined with double-dealing spouses. It’s my bread and butter. There’s nothing glitzy about this job. It’s dirty and reeks of human misery, and it’s better if you understand that right off the bat. This is what I can give you right now. I’m working on some other stuff, sure, but nothing I can hand over to you, someone who isn’t even licensed yet. I thought you wanted work. I’m willing to pay you. Take it or leave it.”

  Allison reevaluated her options and turning down money wasn’t one of them. If this was her chosen field, cherry-picking assignments was a pipedream. And if she wanted the respect of others in the business like Boyce, maybe this was the only way to do it. “Okay. I’ll take it. I can handle this. Do you have a daily planner or anything that will tell me where I can find Mr. Goodfellow?”

  “In fact, I have a comprehensive schedule. Glad to have you on board, Ms. Hart.”

  4

  If Allison ever had the desire to recall what it was like being 19 again and taking a job fetching coffee every morning, this assignment was it. Aside from the fact that she couldn’t even see 19 in her rearview anymore. But everyone had to start somewhere, regardless of age. Her reputation, one she hadn’t built yet, was on the line. Not to mention she couldn’t afford to turn it down.

  The paperwork of the alleged cheating spouse and Mr. Goodfellow rested on the passenger seat of her car as she drove home. Tommy Boyce had given her the intel to get the evidence and take it back to his client, a wealthy CEO.

  And there was no time like the present. The rendezvous was happening tonight. Allison’s plan was to stakeout Goodfellow’s apartment where the wife was scheduled to arrive, get the obligatory pictures and then job done. She would take the photos to Boyce and get her first freelancing check in the process.

  This should have felt like old hat to Allison. She’d stalked the homes of plenty of scammers, but this was personal no matter how hard she tried to remain objective. If she was going to be any good at this, painting her targets with the same broad strokes as she painted her life experiences was out of the question.

  Allison walked inside the house.

  “You’re home.” Nolen sat on the sofa, ramming a sub sandwich in his mouth.

  “And so are you.” She set her keys on the side table. “Why aren’t you at practice?”

  “Canceled. Coach said the field was too wet from the storms earlier.” He chased down the sandwich with a Big Gulp. “I know we talked about dinner, sorry. I should’ve picked you up a sandwich…”

  “Don’t worry about it. I have to leave soon anyway. Just came in for a quick change and I’ll grab a small bite.” Allison started into the hall toward her room.

  “Where are you off to now?” Nolan said as he leaned over to make his voice carry.

  “I have a gig.”

  “A what?” He shouted.

  “I’ll tell you later if it all works out.” Allison made it to her room and closed her bedroom door. She dropped to the bed with the file in her hands and stared at it. “Harlan Goodfellow. Probably not a good idea to put your pen in the company ink. Especially when that ink belongs to the boss.”

  She stood again and pulled off her pale blue capped sleeve shirt. From the third drawer in her dresser, Allison retrieved a black shirt with a high neckline and a pair of black shorts. It was too hot for long pants, but the dark clothes would help serve as camouflage.

  Her master bathroom was only steps away and she stood in front of the mirror, pulling the elastic band from her hair and the several bobby pins that helped hold the large full bun in place. Tonight, she would wear it down and tuck it beneath a black baseball cap that would help her to blend in with the night.

  She returned to the living room where Nolan had polished off his footlong sub and was slurping down the rest of his giant soda.

  “Are you starting a cat burglar business?” He eyed her attire. “What’s with all the black?”

  “I’m going on a stakeout.”

  “Wait, what? I thought you quit your job and it’s like, what, 7 o’clock at night?”

  Allison sat down next to him. “I wanted to tell you this last night, but since you got home at one in the morning…” She paused for effect and when that failed, she continued, “I didn’t get the chance and you had school this morning.”

  “I’m here now. What’s going on, Mom?” Nolan asked.

  “I’ve decided to go out on my own. Start my own business. I’m going to get my P.I. license.”

  Nolan chuckled and tilted his head. “You’re going to be a private dick?”

  “Really? That’s what you want to say to your mother? I can still swat your behind. Don’t test me, son.”

  He held up his hands and laughed harder.

  “Are you finished?”

  Nolan cleared his throat. “Sorry. Please, go ahead. You want to become a private investigator. I think it’s great. What does Dad think?”

  “I haven’t told him I committed just yet, but I will. I ran it past him, not that I had to, of course. He’s supportive.”

  “And what about, you know.” Nolan cast down his sights. “Like what about money and stuff?”

  “Well, that’s why I’m wearing this. I’m working as an independent consultant for a P.I. in the city. He gave me a job and the money will help tide us over until I can get another job and then another. And eventually, get my license.”

  Nolan held her gaze. “I think it’s great, Mom. I’m proud of you. I know how hard it was when you and Dad got divorced. But you got a job, ran the house just as you always did. And now this. I’m lucky to have you for a mom.”

  Allison’s eyes turned watery. “Well.” She cleared her throat and patted his knee. “I better get out there and earn some money. You’ll be okay on your own?”

  A tsk rolled off his tongue followed by an exaggerated eye roll.

  “Sorry. I forgot. You’re an adult now.” Allison grabbed her car keys and started toward the door. “I don’t know how long I’ll be, but I’ll text you when I’m on my
way home.”

  “Okay, Mom. Be careful. Love you.”

  “Love you, too, baby.” Allison walked through the front door and wiped a rogue tear from her cheek. She clicked the remote to open the car door and stepped inside. “I raised a good kid.”

  The address of the apartment lay on top of the paperwork in the passenger seat and Allison glanced at it to double check it against her phone’s map. “This looks like the place.” She knew the area, Channelside. An expensive place to live, but she already deduced that Goodfellow must have had money that came with his executive job. And the perks of screwing the boss’s wife. She pulled to a stop about 50 yards away from the entrance to the high rise building adjacent to the Hillsborough Bay. The building didn’t have a waterside view but was only a stone’s throw away from the cruise port. Fortunately, it was a populated area with several cars parked alongside the road. She didn’t stand out unless one was looking for the crappiest car on the block.

  Allison rolled down her window and cut the engine. Based on the information in the file, Harlan Goodfellow was due home any minute. And, according to the client, his wife had said she was going out with her girlfriends. The idea was to catch the wife arriving, snap a couple of photos then use her telephoto lens and hope for some shots of the happy couple in Goodfellow’s apartment. The unknown variable was whether he liked to keep open his curtains. She could get definitive, if not racy, pictures if he did.

  Allison bided her time with the distraction of social media, which she’d only recently begun to use. She struggled to see the point of it all. It was filled with people feigning perfection and happiness. Well, not everyone did that, and probably not the ones she friended. Mainly because she was actually friends with them, not some weird virtual online friend thing. Anyway, nothing special to report in the world of Facebook. She returned her phone to the center console and grabbed a nearby bottle of water, downing a large gulp. Allison pulled back the bottle and recalled her weak bladder. “Better ration this.”

  The time had arrived that Goodfellow should have been pulling into his parking garage. “Come on, guy. I don’t have all night.” Her eyes narrowed at a car that had just turned the corner. She shuffled the papers to confirm her suspicions. “Range Rover, black. Gotcha. Now just pull on into the garage and we are golden.” She watched closely while the luxury SUV slowed to make the turn. “Yes! Now where is your little girlfriend, Mr. Goodfellow.” Allison eyed Goodfellow’s sixth floor apartment and waited to see a light in the window just to be sure it had been him in the car. Her eyes raised and fixed on the sliding glass door of the unit. “Turn on a light so I know you’re home, Mr. Goodfellow.” She waited, inhaling a deep breath. And then it happened. “Perfect.”

  But this was only the beginning. She needed Mrs. CEO to arrive and according to the file, the woman drove a white Lexus convertible. Allison waited; her eyes glued to the street ahead, just itching for that Lexus to arrive.

  After a few minutes, her initial excitement waned. “Maybe she was telling the truth.” Allison returned her sights to the paperwork and reviewed the car’s description just to be sure. Headlights soon shone through her windshield and caught her attention. Allison tensed up and her eyes locked on a small car. “Hold up. A white Lexus?” She squinted to see past the bright headlights. “And check.”

  The car pulled into the same parking garage and now Allison had to prepare to ensnare her targets. She reached into the back seat for the expensive camera and telephoto lens that would allow her to capture all the action from that distance. It had been an investment made during her time with Fraud Investigations. A worthwhile investment it now seemed.

  With her lens trained on Goodfellow’s apartment, Allison waited for her chance. Her arms were growing tired and she rested her elbows on the edge of the driver’s side door.

  The sweat from under her breasts formed a ring through the bra and now appeared on her shirt. She looked down for a moment. “Great. I look like I’m lactating.”

  The sliding glass door leading to the balcony opened and Allison jumped to attention at the movement. She refocused her lens and a moment later, Goodfellow and who she believed was Mrs. CEO appeared, her actual name wasn’t in the file. Boyce had opted to keep his client’s name private. Not that it mattered. She didn’t care who these people were, just that Karma was about to pay them a visit.

  The two walked onto the balcony holding drinks and rested their forearms on the rail. Allison used the rapid photo setting and snapped at least fifty shots in a manner of seconds. She’d hoped to catch them in an embrace or kissing or something meaningful. So far, they stood about a foot apart from one another. It appeared they were engaged in conversation and Allison captured each one smiling. That was a good sign. She had fully expected clothes to be ripped from one another immediately, but then that was how she imagined it had been with Leo and that girl. It was six years ago and yet it still felt like yesterday. The mind had a funny way of making a person imagine the worst.

  The notion that compromising photos weren’t in the cards for tonight was growing increasingly certain. Goodfellow turned back and opened the glass doors before they both walked inside.

  Allison could still see light through the curtains, but there wasn’t a chance she’d get anything more detailed. Not unless he opened them.

  She lowered the camera and stared at the balcony. Her eyes shifted from every window in her purview until she reached the inevitable conclusion. “I’m not going to get anymore tonight.” Allison laid down the camera on the passenger seat and turned the ignition. She glanced at the unit one last time to be sure all bases were covered.

  A flash of light exploded behind the curtain. Then another. “Oh my God.” It was the briefest of flashes, like a… “A gunshot.” Allison’s heart jumped into her throat. Her pulse raced and her eyes scanned about wildly in search of more flashes or movement or anything. But everything became eerily still.

  Allison fixed her gaze on the windows of Goodfellow’s apartment. “No.” She gasped for breath. Someone was alive in there and had just turned off the lights. She swallowed hard and turned to the parking garage.

  The echo of screeching tires from inside the garage pierced her ears before wafting out onto the street. She scrambled for her camera again, aiming it at the garage’s exit. A silver sedan cut through the echo of the burning rubber. She snapped as many pictures as she could, following the vehicle as it veered right onto the road. “Oh shit.” It was coming right at her. She tossed the camera into the back and crouched low, pulling down on her ballcap. “Damn it. I need the plate.” It was too risky. The driver would see her. Allison had a family to think about. She eyed her glovebox where she kept her gun.

  The rush of air the silver sedan kicked up as it passed by rocked her compact car. Allison shut her eyes praying it would keep on going and that she hadn’t been spotted. The gravely whirl of its engine faded and Allison slowly raised again. The road was clear. The shooter was gone. She’d blown it.

  Allison reached for her phone and dialed 911. “Yes, I’d like to report gunshots at the Cabana Apartments in Channelside.” She listened. “I don’t know if anyone’s hurt. I only heard the shots. Please, come fast.” She ended the call and pulled fully upright. Her sights turned to the balcony. The apartment was dark and all Allison had were some photos on her camera. But were Harlan Goodfellow and Mrs. CEO still alive in there?

  5

  The application for a private investigator license would include the question, have you ever committed a felony? Allison wondered if fleeing the scene of a murder counted as one. Probably so. The engine ran, her hands gripped the wheel and she was paralyzed. But when the wail of sirens filled the street, her instincts kicked in. The cops were coming. They might be interested in knowing why she had been sitting outside the building with a telephoto lens trained on the victim’s apartment. There wasn’t a single reasonable explanation she could muster. “Yes, Officer, I was taking photos of the victims. I can’t tell yo
u why, you understand.” She would find herself sitting in a jail cell with an answer like that. Her first night as a freelance private eye and Allison had to keep her head above water, or at the very least, keep out of jail.

  People spilled out of their apartment buildings standing around in bewilderment. Her window to bolt undetected was closing fast. She rolled away from the curb without turning on the headlights and continued along the frontage road until making her way to a turning. Beyond that turning, Allison would be in the clear but behind her, red and blue lights flashed.

  “I have to see Boyce.” She reached for her phone and dialed, praying he would answer. “Come on. You sent me out here, buddy. Put down your cigar and answer the call.” But it rang through to voicemail. “Damn it.” She didn’t know where he lived but knew where his office was. There was only a slim chance he would be there, but it was a chance she had to take.

  Not knowing whether Goodfellow and his mistress were dead devoured her every thought as she drove through town and headed toward Boyce’s office. The idea of contacting Shane crossed her mind more than once. He didn’t work Homicide, but he might know what had happened. “No. Just wait. Don’t panic.”

  Boyce’s office was situated in a strip mall in a questionable neighborhood and Allison had just arrived. It was after 10 pm and the eye doctor, vape shop, and nail salon that surrounded his office were closed. The entire building was dark. She pulled into a parking space that fronted his unit and stepped out of her car. Allison hurried to the building with the distinct feeling of being watched. On her approach, it was clear something was wrong. She slowed her steps, casting her sights left, then right. The door had been jimmied. She peered through the glass and while it was dark inside, there was no question someone had broken in. A sensible person would’ve run away but Allison didn’t have her senses about her at the moment.

  Whatever she thought she knew about the life of a P.I. had just flown out the window. And if Allison crossed the line, there might be no turning back. She stood in front of the office; the glass door was cracked likely from the crowbar used to pry it open. There was no choice. Not if she wanted to do the right thing. Allison walked inside.