by Dani Amore
Once I passed by, he threw the switch and the doors closed. He turned and breezed past me. I caught a faint scent of cheap cologne and industrial strength mouthwash. I followed him as he walked down a long hallway that was so cavernous and cold that it reminded me of caves bored by molten lava, straight out of National Geographic.
I peered at the walls, trying to see if it was plaster or stone.
The man ahead of me, his back still to me, said, "The walls are stone. Imported from Germany."
"Shipping costs must have been exorbitant," I said. The man made no response and simply kept walking.
Halfway down the hallway was the first giant portraiture, an original work in oil. It was of a stern-faced man with a long gray beard. In the background was a dark rendering of the Milwaukee harbor. The man wore a dark suit, his prominent belly forced the vest to jut out, displaying the elaborate pocketwatch that encircled his paunch. There was no nameplate.
My guide continued up ahead and I hurried to catch up, passing more paintings along the way, all of them stiff people who, just before they posed, looked like they'd had terribly large bugs shoved up their asses.
The nurse opened another heavy door and we entered a startling room. It was relatively small, but with at least an eighteen foot high ceiling. Tall windows adorned one wall, their impressive lengths bordered by gold crepe curtains. The room itself was painted a burgundy red, with olive green frieze borders. The ceiling was painted as well, a bright mosaic resplendent with gold edges and ivory diamonds. A thick beige carpet covered the floor. My feet felt as if they were sinking in quicksand with each step I took.
The man gestured toward a chair and told me to sit.
"Would you care for tea or coffee?" he asked.
"I’ll take a beer, please,” I said. Then added, "Thanks."
He left through a different door, one that seemed almost to be camouflaged by its proximity to one of the large windows. I got the feeling that there were lots of secrets in the house, not just having to do with hidden doors.
An ancient clock on the wall tick-tocked. The house had a strange smell, equal parts musty history and fresh Pine Sol. I wondered how big a cleaning staff a house like this required. At least ten, perhaps twenty.
Several minutes later a short, squat woman with bright red hair and decked out in an old-fashioned maid's uniform entered with a sterling silver coffee pot and one cup and saucer. And a bottle of beer. She popped the top to the beer, and poured it into a beautiful pilsner glass. She handed it to me. Then she poured a cup of tea. She added a dollop of cream to the then plunked in two sugar cubes. She stirred with an equally bright sterling silver spoon. The whole time she never looked me in the eye. When she was done, she turned to go and I said, "Thank you." Like the man, she gave no sign that she heard me, other than a slight hesitation in her step.
I took a drink of beer and heard soft footsteps on the carpet, looked up, and saw an ancient woman standing in front of me.
Startled, I rose, and sloshed a little beer onto the tabletop. Halfway up, I reached back down and mopped up the spilled beer with a napkin that appeared to have a higher thread count than the most expensive bed sheets I'd ever bought. I felt my face flush red at my clumsiness.
"Oh, God, I'm sorry, look at this." I dabbed, but now the beer was on my hand. I wiped off my hand before extending it. "Hi, I'm Michael Ashland," I said.
She was old, to say the least. Tall, with erect posture, her skin hung on her in folds. Her gray hair was thin and despite an attempt to cut it stylishly, was a mess. She had on a powder white dress, with a necklace of dark pearls. A very old necklace that was probably worth a yacht or two.
She extended her hand to me, which I took. It felt like leather.
As we shook, her eyes swirled.
"Are you..." I started to ask.
"I'm the woman," she said, "to whose films you've no doubt been masturbating."
Nineteen
For want of a witty comeback, I sat back and sipped my beer as she sat down across from me at the small table.
"Yes, I'd love some coffee, thank you," she said. Her hand shook slightly as she reached for her cup, and I detected a twitch in her face.
"Excuse me, I don't know where my manners are," I said. "Any gentleman knows to offer a lady coffee, especially after she's just accused you of masturbating."
"Tell me, Mr. Ashland," she said, ignoring me, a fact to which I was rapidly becoming accustomed to in this house. "Are you married? Or are you a whoremonger?"
"No, I am not married," I responded.
"Ever been?"
"Married? No. And you?"
"Never," she said. "I've been asked a few times, but the concept of sharing a life with someone seemed such a dreary idea. Our life is all we have, why share it? I want it all for myself. What do you do, Mr. Ashland?"
"I'm a private investigator, Ms. Schletterhorn. What are you?"
She sighed and looked up at the ceiling mosaic, as if she could divine a simple answer from the complex pattern.
"I'm curious, Mr. Ashland." She lolled her head to one side, then fastened her gaze on me. As she did, I became sure of one thing. Mary Schletterhorn was insane.
"Curious about what?" I asked.
"Everything, but at this time, I'm curious what you are doing here."
I pulled out the still frames and set them on the table. I looked at the one of the young girl, then looked back up at Mary Schletterhorn. Even though time had taken its toll, I could see a resemblance to the fresh young face in the photograph.
I watched as her eyes lingered on the photograph of the man. Her eyes seemed to darken with emotion, her mouth parted and her hands shook. Her chest heaved as she breathed faster. She caught me looking at her, and closed her eyes. She spread her hands flat on the table, her fingers were long and slender. A giant diamond ring sat on her right ring finger. A gold bracelet encircled her left wrist. It too was covered with small diamonds.
"I'm here because a friend of mine was murdered,” I said. “And the film of you and this man had something to do with it."
"You are a dullard," she said, seemingly unaware of the fact that I'd just said my best friend had been murdered. Or had she already known?
"That’s the first time I’ve ever been called that,” I said. I drank the rest of my beer and looked for some kind of ringer button to get another one.
She gestured toward the pictures on the table. Her face was flushed, and her throat worked without emitting a sound.
We sat there for several minutes while she contemplated. The sound of the clock on the wall grew in intensity. I wanted to crack a window. The fresh, chilled air would be a welcome relief from this mausoleum of a house, filled with dead memories.
Suddenly, she snapped up the picture of the man with both hands. Her lips trembled with anger. Red spots appeared on her sagging cheeks. "You cretin!" she yelled at it, a big gob of spit hung from her lower lip. The photo began to collapse in her hands as she squeezed it, trying to choke the image of the man’s face in her hands.
Then, just as suddenly, she dropped it to the floor where it landed between her feet. She lifted the hem of her dress, looked at me, a challenge in her bulging eyes. Then she closed them.
And a long yellow stream of urine shot out onto the picture.
It splattered on the photograph, sounding like a spring shower on the rooftop. I sat there, unmoving. Not believing what I was seeing.
I looked at the picture, then back up at the old woman. She met my eyes. "I don't mean to rain on your parade," she said and giggled, her chest shaking with convulsions.
The male nurse appeared behind me and placed a hand on my shoulder. The sound of the urine diminished, like a faucet being turned off. I stood and decided not to ask for the picture.
Mary Schletterhorn let go of her dress and it dropped back down over her scrawny legs. She plopped back into her chair.
The nurse led me from the room. The old woman shouted obscenities at me as I le
ft.
Outside, it was cold and gray. But I couldn't have been more relieved than if it had been seventy-five degrees and sunny. I stood there for a long time, taking deep breaths.
I got back in the car. Took a last look at the giant mansion. I drove off, the hint of a snowstorm hanging in the air.
Twenty
I wasn’t really sure how much jail time could come from a charge of obstruction of justice, or withholding evidence, or even evidence tampering. I supposed it would depend on the judge, and the mitigating circumstances. Maybe how good my lawyer was. Or how pissed off the cops were. I did know, however, that I didn’t want to go to jail. A week behind bars was too much, let alone five to ten years. That’s right where Tim’s killer would want me, so that my investigation would stop.
I had a bottle of Point beer in front of me. I was at a bar just around the corner from Hoopin’ Productions. Which would make the whole transaction simple and efficient. I had a feeling it wasn’t going to be painless, though.
Homicide detective Gabby Engel walked through the door like she was breaking the finish line at one of her races. She had on dress slacks and gray overcoat. Which looked sexy as hell, for some reason.
She sat next to me. “Bottled water, please,” she said to the bartender.
"So this isn’t your kind of place?” I asked.
“Off-duty, maybe. On-duty, no.” She looked around the place. “Actually, not even off-duty.”
I lifted a box from beneath the table and set it in front of Gabby.
“Ooh,” she said. “For me?”
“A few days ago, my friend Fred Pip received this in the mail. They were from Tim Bantien. Not knowing what they were and if they might have anything to do with Tim’s death, he didn’t look at them right away. This morning, he dug them out, called me, and together we looked at them. After I saw them, I called you. Immediately.”
“Okay, okay,” she said. “You called me right away. I know that whole timeline is probably bullshit, so just get on with it.”
“It may be bullshit, but it’s bullshit that’s on the record, am I right?” I still had my hand on the box, like I could run out of the bar and throw it in the lake.
“Yes, it’s on the record,” she said, rolling her incredibly cute eyes.
“They’re old eight millimeter films,” I said. “I had Fred digitize them and put them onto DVDs for you, as well as a zip drive. You’ll want to take a look at them right away.”
She took a sip from her water. “What’s on them? Reruns of Family Feud?”
“Why don’t you just watch them. It’ll probably be similar to your typical evening.”
“Just tell me what’s on the tapes,” Gabby said.
“Porn,” I said.
“And that would be your typical evening,” she said with a smirk.
“It’s old porn. Like turn-of-the-century porn. Fred thought the originals were really old. Way back when movie cameras were first invented and being used. That kind of old.”
Gabby drummed her fingers on the top of the bar. They were nice fingers. Slim, the nails clear and not bitten.
“All together, how much…”
“Footage?”
“How much footage is there?” When she nodded, I said, “All together it’s a little over a half hour.”
“Great, a fuck film,” she said. “The boys in evidence will get a kick out of this. Probably schedule a movie night.”
Twenty-One
The sun blessed my living room with its presence, threw soft rays of dappled light on my oak floor. Sunny days like this made the long winter more tolerable even though at this time of year it was a lame duck sun: it still held the position but with none of the power.
A ringing phone had awoken me from a restless night. It was almost nine o'clock.
The woman on the other end of the phone told me she was Philip Krahn's secretary. She said that Mr. Krahn would like to meet with me, could I stop by later this morning? I pretended to think about it briefly, then said yes.
I threw back the sheets put on a sweatshirt and sweatpants, checked my watch then headed upstairs and fired up the computer. My desktop icons appeared one by one. I double-clicked on the Firefox icon and watched as Google's home page popped up. I closed the window without looking, then called up a search engine and typed in the word “Krahn.”
I’d heard of Philip Krahn, since he was managing director of Krahn Breweries, and great-grandson of Jacob Krahn, the company's founder.
After showering and throwing on jeans and a sportcoat, I took 68th to Wells. Wells took me to 35th street where I saw the first sign of Krahn breweries, a huge tower with the logo spinning slowly on top.
I reached a giant cement bridge that provided an overview of Krahn breweries. To the north of the bridge sat the main warehouse, next to which were the towering fortress-like vats that looked like mutant farm silos gathering for a riot. I saw the mile long line of beer kegs. A sour stench filled the area, smelling vaguely of a frat house the morning after a rush party. The Krahn sign sat atop the vats, now crusted in ice and snow.
The road dipped and went between more Krahn warehouses before cresting another hill. To the right was the original Jacob Krahn house, now a museum. It was from that house the old man built the brewery, watched as horses carried sleds of beer up the hill. Built his dynasty of hops, malt and barley.
A man after my own heart.
The brewery tour and info center was on the right, its windows filled with Krahn beer memorabilia of every kind: mugs, banners, t-shirts, wastebaskets and inflatable Krahn logos.
At the top of the hill a sign pointed to Krahn headquarters and I turned onto a private drive. It curled and meandered its way past evergreens and park-like benches before arriving in front of corporate headquarters.
The new, modern office building was only four stories high, and seemed remarkably unimaginative for a corporation of this size. They must have gotten a bad architect.
Inside, I told the receptionist I had an appointment to see Philip Krahn. She motioned toward the elevators and told me his office was on the fourth floor and that I should check with his receptionist.
The elevator deposited me into a room of rich, dark wood and thick plush carpet. A secretary sat behind a half-oval desk made of faux granite.
"I'm here to see Philip Krahn," I said. "My name is Michael Ashland."
She checked her appointment book.
"Oh, yes. You can go right in."
•
There was so much smarminess in his office that I feared when I stepped onto the thick carpet I would hear a soft, squishing sound. I didn't know if it was the mood lighting, the low ceiling, the control panel that held switches for the lights, stereo and temperature, or if it was just the man himself.
Philip Krahn, one of the richest men in Milwaukee, and certainly among the Forbes Four Hundred, sat with his back to me, his hands clasped behind his head, his feet propped up on the edge of a bookcase. His shoes looked Italian, his suit was neatly pressed.
The office was large and elegant with a sleek desk, two Steelcase leather and chrome chairs and a black leather couch. On the right was a giant picture window, providing a view of the brewery trucks, rows and rows of kegs, the giant tower with the Krahn sign, and beyond, wooded bluffs from which a few old homes watched.
He swiveled his chair to face me.
"Mr. Ashland." His voice was smooth, refined. Just the slightest hint of a baritone rasp.
I reached across the desk and shook his hand.
"Mr. Krahn."
He was an odd contrast of a big man with wide shoulders and large hands, yet the face of a pretty boy. Straight, cosmetically straightened and whitened teeth, sharp nose, thin lips, clear skin, soft brown eyes and sandy tan hair, brushed casually across his forehead. I knew he was in his early forties, but he looked like he was twenty-eight.
"So glad you could take a meeting with me." His tone was cultured and silky, his smile as genuine as only the fi
nest social coaching could produce.
"It was my pleasure," I said.
We exchanged pleasantries for a few minutes until he said, "So you're a private detective, I understand?"
"Fully licensed," I said.
“Do you have room to take on a case?” he asked.
“Not right now, no. I’d be happy to refer you to someone, though.” I decided to leave it at that. If he was surprised, he didn’t show it. Normally, someone in my position would be honored to be summoned by Philip Krahn. There were at least a half-dozen PIs in town who would salivate over the prospect of taking a meeting with Krahn.
"I think I have someone leaking insider information to the press,” he said. He placed a huge stack of papers on his desk. “This is all of the research we've done so far. I'd like you to look it all over, and come back in say, two weeks, and give me your assessment."
I hefted the papers. This was a serious assignment. But not as serious to me as finding out who killed Tim. Perhaps Krahn hadn’t heard me.
"It's all in there," he said, gesturing to the papers, and letting me know he didn't want to talk specifics.
"Like I said, I can refer you to some good people…”
"I’ll pay you a retainer of fifty thousand a month.”
I tried to remain still, the number was shocking. Not unreasonable perhaps for a company of this size, but to simply be handed that amount was unheard of.
“Would you throw in a lifetime supply of free beer?”
He smiled, not sure if I was kidding. “Of course,” he finally said.
I pushed the stack of papers back toward him. “No, thanks.”
He looked at the packet on his desk then switched gears. "I wanted to ask you about something else, if you don't mind. There was a story in the papers about a history professor who was murdered. I understand he was a friend of yours."