by David Archer
“That's a good point,” Sam agreed. “These letters don't even make sense. Some of them just seem to be insulting, but others are actually making accusations of either criminal or immoral conduct. Only thing I can see that ties them together is Animal Partners.”
“Then the person behind it is involved with the organization, as well, but we already knew that. To be honest, Sam, it looks like somebody’s just trying to start a bunch of trouble inside the organization.”
“Could be, but this kind of thing can destroy a person's reputation or relationships. Somehow, I've got the feeling this is just getting started.”
“Okay, let's look at the letters themselves. All of the ones we got are made up of letters cut out of magazines and newspapers, glued onto plain old, cheap white copy paper. Jack and his wife got theirs through the postal system. They came from different suburban post offices around here, but none from inside Denver, itself.”
Sam gave a deep sigh and leaned back in his chair. “There were some magazines at the Animal Partners office, in their waiting room. I should have looked at them, but surely no one would be stupid enough to actually cut the letters out right there.”
Indie shrugged her shoulders. “Sam Prichard, you of all people should know that there is absolutely no limit to how stupid people can be.”
4
The office door opened suddenly, and Indie turned to greet a woman who walked inside. She appeared to be in her early-to-mid 30s, attractive and well dressed.
“Hi, how can we help you?” Indie asked, and the woman smiled nervously.
“I'm—I think my husband is having an affair,” she said.
Sam hated those kinds of jobs, because they usually meant sitting in a car or somewhere for hours on end, doing nothing. However, it meant money coming in, and that was the point of being in business. Sam was trying to decide how much of a retainer to ask for when Indie smiled up at the woman and said, “Our standard rate is a hundred and fifty dollars an hour, plus expenses, and we require a one thousand dollar retainer.”
Sam did a double take, but the woman only smiled again and said, “Yes, of course, no problem.” She pulled an envelope from a bank out of a large, expensive-looking purse and counted off ten hundred-dollar bills into Indie's hand. Sam invited her to take the chair across his desk.
“I'm Genevieve Rogers,” she said. “I hate the fact that I'm resorting to this, but Daniel has been acting strangely for some time, now, and he won't tell me what’s wrong. He keeps on telling me it's no big deal, but I just know better. He took a business trip to Hawaii about six weeks ago, and when he got back it was almost like he had been replaced by someone else. He'd lost about thirty pounds, and he was always angry, always irritable and grumpy. He…” she paused, and Sam sat silently as he waited for her to go on.
“He hasn't even tried to make love to me since he got back. He even moved into a separate bedroom. He'd never, ever acted like this before. The only thing I can think of is that he must've found someone else, and I just—I just need to know.”
Sam nodded sympathetically, something he’d learned when he was on the force. “Mrs. Rogers, I'm truly sorry that you’re going through this, and I'll get to the bottom of it as quickly as I can. Tell me about your husband, please.”
“Daniel is a risk assessment consultant for some of the biggest investment firms in the country. He works independently, and he has to travel a lot. He's very good at what he does, and it's made us a lot of money. That lets me have the time to do all the charity work that I love.”
Sam nodded. “I see. Do you have any children?”
She shook her head. “No, Daniel never wanted to have kids.”
“Okay,” Sam said. “Have you ever seen any actual signs of an affair? You know, things like lipstick marks on his clothes, unexpected credit card charges or somebody hanging up when you answer the phone?”
She shook her head again. “No, I haven't seen anything like that, exactly, but he did sell off some stocks not long ago. It was while he was in Hawaii, in fact. That's not exactly unusual, but normally he tells me before he sells off an asset. I don't know, he's just been different, too different for any other explanation than that he's got someone else.”
“Is there anyone he might confide in about what he's doing, or what kind of problems he might be going through?”
This time, she nodded. “His mother,” she said. “He spends most of his time lately at her place, so she might know something about it. She and I aren't exactly close, though, so she'd never tell me anything.”
Sam stood and said, “Mrs. Rogers, let me get started on this and I'll try to have some information for you within the next couple of days. Wait, would you have a recent photo of your husband?”
She reached into her purse again and handed him a photo. It showed a man with nice hair, in good shape, and wearing glasses. “That was taken about six months ago,” she said. “He gave up the glasses for contacts, and he's lost about thirty pounds, but other than that, he looks just about the same.”
Glancing at the photo, Sam thought the man looked familiar. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but he had the distinct feeling he'd seen Daniel Rogers before.
Mrs. Rogers sat down with Indie to provide some of her husband's information, such as his social security number, date of birth, Facebook account and such, and then shook both their hands and left. “I want you to know that I truly appreciate this,” she said as she stepped through the door.
Sam turned to Indie after she left. “Well,” he said, “you can get online and see what you can find out about Mister Rogers. I'm going to drive out and talk to his mother, see if I can get anything out of her. If you happen to come up with anything, or if you think of anything new on the Jack Wilson case, give me a call.” He leaned down toward her for a kiss, which she gave him.
Rogers's mother lived in what had once been a servant's cottage on a big estate outside of the city. Sam found it with his phone's GPS app, and the Corvette got him there in about forty-five minutes. He rang the doorbell, and a woman in her mid-50s answered.
“Can I help you?” she asked, and Sam showed her his ID.
“I'm Sam Prichard, a private investigator, Ma'am, and I've been asked to look into some things that may be affecting your son, Daniel. His wife is pretty worried about him. I was wondering if I could ask you some questions?” She hesitated for a second, but then opened the door and invited Sam inside. “Nice little place,” Sam said, and she smiled as she led him to a sofa. He sat down, and she sat on the other end.
“Yes, well, this used to be my gardener's place, back when we owned the estate. Unfortunately, my husband made some bad investments before he passed away, and the place was too expensive to keep up, so I sold it some years ago. I kept this part, though, with the garden and cottage, so I'd have a home.”
Sam nodded. “How long have you been a widow?”
“It's been almost twenty years, now. Frank died of a heart attack, and the death taxes were the final blow to our finances. Selling off let me have enough to live on for the rest of my life, but it hasn't always been easy.”
“I'm sure it hasn't. Mrs. Rogers, could you tell me when you last talked to Daniel?”
She blinked. “Oh, goodness, he calls me now and then, but I haven’t seen him since before he went to wherever it was, a few weeks ago. He stays pretty busy, you know. And as for my daughter-in-law, she's got a habit of being imaginative; she tends to see troubles where none exist.”
That was odd, Sam thought. Genevieve Rogers had said that her husband visited his mother often, and the way she'd said it made it sound as if she considered it to be true. It was unlikely she'd believe that unless she had reason, but his mother said he only called and hadn't come by lately.
Sam let that slide for the moment, and asked, “Can you think of any reason there might be problems between them?”
She shook her head. “The only problem I know of that they ever had is her spending faster than he was
making, but that isn't the case anymore. Daniel has been doing very well, lately, so they aren't hurting for money at all. If you ask me, the only one there who might be a little strange is Genevieve, but that's just my opinion.”
Sam didn't seem to be getting anywhere with her, so he thanked her and got up to leave. She walked him to the door, and as he stepped outside he noticed that the old family place was not visible from her house, because of a large brick wall that seemed to be new.
“That wall,” he said. “I take it that was added after you sold the main house?”
“Just recently, actually. When I sold the place, the people who bought it were old friends, and they were always nice to me. They would often come over and check on me, or invite me up to the house for dinner, but they sold it again a few months ago and the new owners put that up. I think they run some kind of private club there, now, but it doesn't matter to me. It always kind of hurt to go back and see it being lived in by others, you know?”
“I can understand that,” Sam said. Another dead end, but that was the way cases like this usually went. He got into his car and drove away.
Sam went downtown to where Daniel Rogers had his office and found his car in the parking lot of the building, took a spot close to it and watched. He could see the door of the building as well as the car, and after a few minutes he even spotted Rogers through his second-floor window.
Sam picked up a digital camera from the passenger seat and used the zoom feature to watch as Daniel talked on the phone and worked at a computer. He could actually see the monitor pretty well, but as far as he could tell, Daniel wasn't using it to talk to anyone. He appeared to be simply typing up some kind of document, probably related to his work.
Finally, after three hours of watching, Daniel came out of the building and headed for his car. It was nearly four o'clock by then, so Sam figured he was getting off work for the day and tailed him from a distance to see where he might go. Surprisingly, he drove straight home without any delay or detours.
Sam watched as Daniel entered the building that housed his condo, and parked where he could continue to watch the door. He sat there through a large part of the evening, but when he caught himself falling asleep around eleven, he gave it up and went home. Indie was waiting up for him, and he told her how little he had learned.
“I haven’t seen anything yet that would indicate he’s having an affair,” Sam said. “In fact, from what I’ve seen, I think the guy is just boring. This might be nothing but a wild goose chase.”
“Don't let it get you down, babe,” Indie said. “You'll figure it out, you always do.”
5
“Daddy!” Kenzie yelled, as she jumped onto the bed. “You gotta get up, Daddy, Mommy's making breakfast.”
Sam opened one eye and looked at her, then slowly closed it. Just as she was about to shake him and yell again, he suddenly threw his eyes and arms open and grabbed her. Kenzie squealed in delight as he flipped her over onto the bed and began tickling her.
“Breakfast? Breakfast? I think I want to have you for breakfast!” Sam's impersonation of a troll, or maybe it was an ogre, got even more squeals of laughter out of the little girl. After a moment, he let her up and followed her toward the kitchen.
“Sounds like you two were having fun,” Indie said. “Have you settled down enough for waffles?”
“As long as there's butter and syrup, I'm good,” Sam said. He sat down at the table and began adding butter and syrup to Kenzie's waffle. Indie brought over two more plates a moment later, set one in front of him and kept the other for herself.
Kenzie would be going to school in just a bit, so Sam and Indie gave her their undivided attention during breakfast. That wasn't a difficult thing to do, since she was such a bright little star in their lives. They ate and talked together, happily enjoying the family time.
“Grandma Grace says I can help her make breakfast this weekend,” Kenzie said. “We’re gonna make pancake sandwiches.”
Sam’s eyebrows went up. “Pancake sandwiches? That’s not fair. She hasn’t made me pancake sandwiches since I was in school.”
Indie was staring at him. “What on earth is a pancake sandwich?”
“You never had pancake sandwiches? Oh, you don’t know what you’re missing. You make a couple of medium-size pancakes, slap an over-easy egg and three or four slices of bacon in between them and pick it up and eat it. Absolutely delicious!”
When breakfast was over, Indie helped Kenzie get ready to go to school, and then drove her as she did every morning. Sam stayed at the table with a cup of coffee until she got back, and then the two of them went to the office and began to talk about their current cases. They had just gotten started when the phone rang.
“Sam Prichard, Private Eye,” Indie said, and then her eyes suddenly went wide, and she said, “Whoa, wait a minute, calm down! Who arrested him, and why?” She listened for a moment, then handed the phone to Sam, saying, “Max Hernandez has been murdered, and the cops just arrested Jack Wilson for it.”
Sam snatched the phone to his ear. “This is Sam, what's going on?”
Christy Wilson was on the line, and she was sobbing. “Mr. Prichard, I just had to call you. The cops just showed up here and said Max has been killed, and they say they have a witness who claims that Jack was there when it happened. They came here to arrest him, and when they started slamming him around, Freddie growled at the cop who was doing it and the other one shot him. Oh, Mr. Prichard, I don't know what to do, please, please help us!”
Sam sent Indie to Jack's house with instructions to tell Christy to say absolutely nothing to anyone about Jack's arrest, while he drove straight to the jail. Indie called him when he was still only halfway there to tell him that Christy was in shock. Paramedics had been called by the police, and they insisted on taking her to the hospital when they found out she was pregnant.
“Good girl,” Sam said. “Take care of her and don’t let anyone bully her.”
“I got this, Babe,” she said.
Jack had been arrested by the Denver PD, but was taken to the county jail. Sam drove into the parking lot of the big building on East Smith Road, found an empty space and went inside. Sam put his gun into one of the empty lockers, then stuck the key in his pocket. The desk sergeant looked up at him and smiled.
“What can I do you for, Sam?” he asked.
“Here to see my client, Jack Wilson,” I answered. “I understand he was arrested for murder this morning.”
“Oh, yeah, that one.” The sergeant pressed a button and a door opened in the wall to Sam's right, allowing him to pass into the jail foyer. The jailer on duty, a woman, looked up as he came through.
“Mr. Prichard,” she said. “Who you here for?”
“Jack Wilson,” Sam said, “I'm his PI.”
She shrugged and put down her crossword puzzle. “Hang on a minute and I'll get him into the interview room.”
Sam was led to the room where Jack was already being questioned and was shocked by what he saw. Jack was handcuffed to a bench against the back wall, and four uniformed officers were in the room with him. As he entered, one of them shoved Jack's head viciously back against the wall and shouted in his face, “Why'd you kill him, huh? Why'd you kill Max? You gettin' jealous he's doing so well, and you're just a messed-up bum? Was that it? Answer me, you son of a bitch!”
“Officer, have you advised this man of his rights?” Sam asked, and all four of them turned to look at him.
“What are you doing in here?” asked the mouthy one, and Sam flashed his ID again.
“I work for him, and if you don't back off right now, I'm the son of a bitch who’s gonna get him a lawyer that will cost you your career. My client has not been afforded a reasonable opportunity to consult with his attorney before or during questioning, so you are in direct violation of his constitutional rights, and I would just love to ruin your life for that, but I'm gonna give you one chance to make it through this intact. Now, get the hell out of her
e, all of you, and don't come back until his lawyer arrives!”
The jailer had followed Sam in, probably expecting to see him get shut down by the uniforms, but that didn't happen. She picked up a microphone on her shoulder and told her supervisor that Jack was being brought to contact room one for a PI visit.
A contact room was a visiting room where contact between prisoners and visitors was allowed. In some cases, a man might get a visit from his wife and children there, and they'd be allowed to share hugs and kisses. The rooms were also used for attorney-client meetings, as long as the prisoner wasn’t considered a danger to the attorney. Because of his status as a former police officer, Sam was allowed to use one most of the time when he visited a client in the jail.
Sam was led into the room a moment after Jack, and they sat in chairs on opposite sides of a small table that was bolted to the floor. Sam took one look at him and knew there was going to be a problem. Jack’s eyes were darting all over the place, and every sound, even the scuff of a shoe on the floor, made him flinch and duck. He was having flashbacks.
“Jack,” Sam said softly, “it's Sam Prichard, remember me? I'm here to try to find out what's going on.”
Jack nodded his head. “Roger that,” he said. “Cap'n, I can't find Freddie. We gotta find Freddie.”
Just great, Sam thought, he's in full-blown traumatic shock. Sam patted Jack's hand and said, “We'll find him, Jack. We'll find him.”
He went to the door and knocked, and the jailer opened the communication window.
“Yeah?”
Sam smiled at her. “Hello, Dearie. My client is in shock and needs to be seen immediately by a doctor. I want him taken to the emergency room at Mercy Hospital, right now.”
She looked at Sam for a moment, then said, “I'll have to see when I can get someone to…”