4
When an hour passed with no phone calls from prospective clients, Harlan Ulrich gave himself permission to take a second lunch break. He trekked down to the basement level, to the assortment of vending machines positioned near the stairwell, and picked out a small bag of cookies, which he brought with him back to the office.
Watching his phone intently, he nursed the bag of cookies and the last of his coffee while fanning himself with whatever was in reach. As the afternoon wore on, Beardsley grew more active, wandering out of his box beneath the desk and chasing shadows throughout the room. Now and then, as Ulrich descended into thought, the cat's strange purrs and yowls would bring him back to the present moment.
It was past two in the afternoon when the detective heard a series of long, hard footsteps echoing up the stairwell towards the third level. Straightening himself and ushering the cat back into his box, Ulrich sat at the ready. This time, he was sure to be visited by a good client—someone with a case worth his time.
The stairway door was thrown open and a few moments later came a firm knock just outside.
“Please, come in,” called the detective, sitting back on the stool, arms crossed.
The door swung open and in walked a familiar figure. The visitor hadn't made it two steps into the cluttered office before letting loose his signature salutation. “Mr. Ulrich, how goes it?”
Instinctively, as if to mask his displeasure, Ulrich brought the empty thermos to his lips and took an imaginary sip. “Oh, hello, sir.” His voice echoed in the metallic vessel. “What can I help you with, Mr. Harden?”
Harden, owner of the Otterbein building, was a bald, well-fed man somewhere north of fifty years, and with a van dyke beard the color of pitch—an obvious dye job. Thumbing at the breast pocket of his corduroy jacket for a handkerchief, he set about wiping down his glistening face and head. “Goodness,” he said with a laugh, “it's really heating up these days, isn't it?” He stuffed the damp rag back into his pocket hurriedly, casting a look around the office with his pinched eyes. “I see you're settling in nicely. I'm glad.”
Upon arriving in Tanglewood, Harlan Ulrich had seen it necessary to procure two things. The first, a cheap apartment, had been easy enough. For a few hundred a month and a small downpayment, he'd landed a reasonable studio around the corner that suited him. The second necessity, however—an office that he could run his private investigation business out of—had proven prohibitively expensive. Whether his eventual placement in this steaming hovel could be remarked upon as a stroke of good fortune or bad was up to debate, but it had been an inquiry regarding the aged Otterbein building that'd first put him in touch with Harden. The building owner, understanding the detective's limited budget, had allowed Ulrich to rent out the third-floor storeroom for his purposes. Their arrangement had been founded on a handshake, with matters such as rent to be dealt with under the table.
“Yes, it's a great place,” said Ulrich. The smile he summoned barely stuck around long enough to lend his words any sincerity.
Setting down his soggy bulk in the creaky folding chair with a sigh, Harden struggled for a beat to cross his legs and then, opting to sit forward, pressed his chubby palms together. “So, where the rent is concerned, you'll be prepared to make the agreed-upon payment by week's end, yes?”
The detective's lips puckered suddenly, like he'd just taken a bite out of a lemon. “The rent?”
Harden nodded expectantly.
“Yes, the rent. Of course. The agreed-upon figure...” Ulrich counted silently with his fingers. “If I recall correctly, the rents are pro-rated for this month?”
“Yes, yes,” replied the owner with a chuckle, “but I forgot to mention a small detail—an additional charge for utilities. With this weather we've been having, the air conditioner has been running almost non-stop, so the building utility bill is higher than usual. Everyone in the building is sharing the cost.”
Ulrich felt a bead of sweat roll down the bridge of his nose and glanced away from the owner, sparing him a withering stare. “The air conditioner?” he choked out. “There's... there's air conditioning in this building?”
“Anyhow,” continued Harden, handing over a slip of paper marked with the new rent total—including the charge for the mythical air conditioning, “I just wanted to make sure you were aware. That won't be a problem, will it?”
“No,” replied the detective, shaking his head. He looked down at the slip of paper, at the figures written there, and then squeezed his hands into fists. “T-Thank you for letting me know,” he stammered.
“Great,” said Harden, standing up with a wide smile. The man's teeth seemed too small for his mouth. “It's a pleasure having you here, Mr. Ulrich. If you need anything, don't hesitate to reach out. You're a member of the Otterbein family, after all!” He reached out and patted the detective on the shoulder gratefully, then—noting the sogginess of Ulrich's dress shirt—quickly drew his hand away. “Oh,” he added, reaching into his back pocket, “I nearly forgot!”
At seeing the man reach for his wallet, Ulrich already knew what was coming. He steeled himself, fists still balled beneath the desk.
“My daughter,” began Harden, “just joined the university orchestra. They put on their first concert a little while back.” He produced a glossy photo from his wallet, holding it out so that Ulrich couldn't possibly miss it.
“Ah,” replied the detective, glancing over the picture.
It was a habit of the building owner's to share photos of his only daughter, Iris, with everyone he knew—and in those who rented his building, he had always a captive audience. Among the Otterbein's other residents, it was a well-established fact that one could easily worm their way into the owner's good graces by fawning over this—frankly unremarkable—daughter of his. The booksellers on the first floor, for instance, sometimes managed to get extensions on their monthly rent by complimenting her looks or sending along small gifts for her.
“She's lovely,” said Ulrich through his teeth. “She takes after you.” This wasn't so far off the mark. The girl was homely, with a disproportionate face like a russet potato. In this photo, surrounded by handsomer collegiate specimens, she held the neck of her instrument awkwardly and offered a smile, showcasing undersized teeth that were indistinguishable from her father's. Studying her short, thick fingers and dull eyes, he couldn't imagine the poor creature making anything remotely like good music; she was all thumbs. Even so, the detective poured it on thick. “She'll be playing Carnegie Hall before long, I'm sure.”
With abundant paternal pride, Harden glanced at the picture himself for a moment and then returned it to his wallet. “Well, I'll leave you in peace, Mr. Ulrich. I'm sure you've got a number of cases simmering. I'll be round at week's end for the rent, yes?”
The only thing Ulrich had simmering at that moment was his blood in that hotbox of an office, but he nodded and stood to see the owner out. “Sure, see you then.”
When Harden's footfalls had died out and he found himself alone again, Ulrich set about the unhappy business of assessing his financial situation. This unexpected charge for the mythical air conditioning was probably going to make for a lean month.
He hadn't been prepared for just how lean, however.
To start with, he'd spent a tidy sum on moving. His meager savings had been further taxed by a deposit on the office, groceries, gas, and a number of other necessities. Beardsley's recent checkup at the veterinarian's office had been costly, and the vet's recommendation that the cat be started on a new, organic food had set the detective back more than he would have liked. Then there was the impressive tab he'd racked up at the cafe down the road, sampling the entirety of their coffee menu many times over.
Running the numbers in detail, he realized there was no way around it. He was busted. If he dug deep and managed to sell a few pints of blood then it was possible he'd be able to cover his apartment rent, but the office rent could not be met with his current balance, and what's more, h
e wouldn't be able to afford staples like food, gas or entertainment.
Or coffee.
Anticipating a tight month, Ulrich had sought out blood banks in the area and had played around with the idea of donating blood or plasma in a pinch. He'd also scoped out a clinic that solicited bodily fluids of a very different kind—which he could have donated with greater ease and frequency, and which offered much better payment—though for reasons unknown to him they'd rejected him out of hand, labeling him an “unsuitable” donor.
A man could only give so much blood, and Harlan Ulrich could only go so long without a good cup of coffee. He was in a jam.
It seemed the only path left to him was that of earning an honest wage. But how? He had no cases lined up, no interested clients! Just one investigation would loosen things up for him, ease his many troubles, but so far there'd been no—
No, that was inaccurate. He had managed to attract a single interested client.
That morning, a woman had dropped by. What'd been her name? Nora? Nanette? Whatever. Her case—that of a supposed stalker—had struck him as dumb, too vague, but now that he was in a pinch, he found himself reconsidering. She'd mentioned that she owned the only pawn shop in town, and it stood to reason that she could pay him. He was none too happy about the nature of the case—surveillance operations like what she'd requested always left him with a sore back and a crick in his neck—but her money was sure to spend as well as anyone's, and damn it, things were getting dire!
In his haste to get rid of her he hadn't taken down her phone number; if he wanted to somehow keep hold of this case, he was going to have to do a bit of sleuth work to find her. Ulrich stood, made certain his keys were in his pocket and then gave Beardsley a nudge. The cat looked up at him sleepily from within its nest of printer paper. “I'm going to need you to look after things while I'm gone. Don't burn the place down.” He thumbed through a folder filled with old photocopies of his generic contract and tucked one into his back pocket.
With that, he slipped out of the office and down the stairs, pausing on the second floor before the offices of the Gore Accounting Firm. At her desk, reading studiously from a chunky hardcover book, was Emma, the kindly young accountant who sometimes visited him upstairs, and who was fond of playing with his cat during her lunch breaks. He cleared his throat and waved from the doorway. “Uh, excuse me, miss Emma?”
She glanced up at him and grinned. “Heya, Mr. Ulrich. What brings you down here?” She motioned to what appeared to be a box of donuts sitting at the edge of her desk, across from the phone. “Did you come by to pick up your donut? I grabbed them on my break and made sure to get enough for everyone in the building.”
Ulrich sauntered in and peered into the box where a number of frosted delights awaited him. “Thank you, that's awfully kind.” Selecting a cruller, he stepped back to the threshold and munched while she began a furious bout of page-flipping. During a brief pause in her work, when he'd nearly polished off the pastry, he cleared his throat again, attracting her gaze. “Say, I have a question for you. You wouldn't happen to know where in town I could find a pawnshop, would you?”
“A pawn shop?” She blinked up at him with her big eyes—further magnified by a pair of slim-framed reading glasses. “Why, you're not in some kind of a financial pinch, are you?”
“No, no, it's not like that,” he assured her. “It has to do with a case of mine, that's all.”
She straightened out her glasses, nodding. “Oh, I see. The only pawnshop I know of in town is the one on Terrace View—across from the bowling alley. Know the one?”
Ulrich nodded. He'd been in town long enough to pin down that landmark, at least. “Gotcha. Thanks for the tip.” He raised the last bite of uneaten cruller in appreciation and continued his descent, starting out through the used bookstore on the first floor. Rather than risk running into the woman who owned it—she wasn't particularly fond of him—Ulrich struck out for the side-door and into the alley.
The afternoon was uncomfortably warm, though the outside was alive with a pleasant breeze that made it bearable. Smoothing out the wrinkles in his sweat-stained shirt, he started down the sidewalk, paused long enough to ensure he was headed in the right direction, and then crossed the street. The bowling alley—and the pawnshop that allegedly sat across from it—wasn't far.
Ultimately, the detective made a mess of it. Had he been hired to find the pawnshop in a timely fashion he'd have gotten sacked by even the most lenient of clients. Still, after a half hour of aimless walking—of presumed shortcuts and frustrated dead-ends—he eventually found himself starting down Terrace View Drive, and towards a shop whose only signage bore the name TERRACE VIEW PAWNSHOP. It was past four in the afternoon when he finally walked in, hoping to find the owner there.
All the way to the shop, Ulrich had been rehearsing a spiel to win the client back over. He'd made a real ass of himself—had all but kicked her out of his office. Now, with his tail between his legs and his food bowl empty, he had no choice but to swallow his pride and seek her out. He hoped he'd be able to smooth things over, to offer some credible excuse for his initial hesitance at taking her case, and to furnish a reason for his sudden change of heart that had nothing to do with his impending rents.
Stepping into the well-lit—and, thankfully, well-air-conditioned—shop, Ulrich strode up to the front counter where a young man was busy sorting pieces of jewelry in a glass showcase. “Hi,” he said, pausing at the register and peering past the counter to what looked like a series of back rooms. “I don't suppose the owner is in, is she?”
The man, late-twenties or early-thirties, with long hair and a single earring, looked up from his work long enough to shout, “Hey, Nance! Someone here to see ya!” He promptly ducked back into the case, arranging several pocket watches in a neat row.
Within a few seconds, from one of the back rooms, emerged the owner. “Who is it?” she asked before suddenly coming to a halt some feet from the counter. She stared at the detective with bald bewilderment, setting down the cardboard box of baseball cards she'd been working through. “M-Mr. Ulrich? What brings you in here?”
“I'm in the market for a new pocket watch,” replied the detective, hiking a thumb towards the showcase. Then, grinning, he continued, “Just kidding. I actually came by to discuss something with you. Do you have a minute?”
Guardedly, she approached the counter and waved her employee off. “Take these cards to the back room and get them into the binder, will you, Jack?”
Jack looked up and, sensing the mood, carted off the box of baseball cards.
When the two of them were alone, Nancy buried her hands into the pockets of her jeans and asked, “So, what is this about?”
Ulrich offered a conciliatory smile. “About earlier. I'm sorry about that—I was too hasty in refusing to take your case. The thing is, there may be something to it after all.” Something like enough money to cover my office rent, for instance, he thought. “Unless you've found someone else, I'd be interested in taking on your case, Nancy. A night or two of surveillance will bring the culprit to light. Work of this kind isn't my preference but it's not uncharted territory for me, either. If you'll have me, of course...”
She seemed to hesitate—looked him over from beneath hooded lids like she wasn't sure whether he was being serious. Then, chuckling, she shrugged. “Trust me, after I left your place, I looked for someone else. You're the only show in town, though.” She nodded as if to reassure herself. “Sure, yeah, if you want the job—and think you're really up to it—it's yours. I'm kind of in a tough spot. I don't have a lot of options. I just don't want this person poking around my property again. Do you think you can handle it?”
Ulrich reached out and shook her hand. “I've zero doubt.”
“All right, so, how do we handle the paperwork for something like this?” she asked.
“I'm glad you asked,” he replied, tugging the folded contract out of his back pocket. Spreading it out on the showcase, he plu
cked a pen from a cup near the register and marked out the spots where signatures or initials were required with a big X. “I'm a simple man; the terms are mere legalese. Payment is standard; a fifty-percent deposit now, the rest when the job is complete.” Clearing his throat and tapping the corresponding section of the contract, he added very quietly, “No refunds on that deposit, of course...”
Nancy took a few minutes to read the contract from beginning to end, and when she didn't find anything egregious enough to dissuade her, she signed and initialed it where necessary. “Do you take checks?” she asked, pulling a checkbook from her purse.
Within a few minutes, Ulrich walked out of the pawnshop with a deposit in hand and a plan to meet Nancy at her place—554 Harvest Lane—just after dark. With the details set, he returned to his office with a skip in his step.
The case still didn't excite him; it was going to be a night of drudgery, no doubt. Even so, the prospect of working a new case in a new town brought him an unexpected thrill. Tanglewood, Ohio was going to get its first taste of detective Harlan Ulrich.
Little by little you're going to make a name for yourself here, he thought to himself. Before long they're gonna give you the key to the city, just watch!
5
“What kind of job is it?”
“Oh, I really can't say,” said the detective with a chuckle.
Harry peeked at him over the top of the espresso machine, his bushy black eyebrows waggling. “Come on, who're you working for? It's probably someone I know, isn't it? You can tell me. I'm not going to blab!”
“No, sorry,” insisted Ulrich.
“Come on, spill it!”
Ulrich demurred. He studied the tiny porcelain cup of espresso—the third that the proprietor had comped him in the hopes of loosening his lips—and delighted in another sip. “Sorry, Harry, I can't give you the specifics. What kind of private eye would I be if I didn't keep the details of my cases confidential, huh? Maybe when everything is through and settled I'll be at liberty to chat about it. Till then...” He set the cup down gently onto a matching saucer.
Deep Night Page 3