Grave Misgivings

by Kristen Houghton

  Not only did the eliminator murder her father and cut off his finger as proof of the murder, he put the body in a warehouse and blew it up so it was never found minus a finger. He’s good, of that I can be sure. Jennifer Brooks-Warren is in more danger than she knows.

  “Moira, listen to me. Try to focus here. I need to find this man, this hired killer. Perhaps you can call your father’s associate, the one who gave you his number. Maybe he knows how to get in touch with him again.”

  KRISTEN HOUGHTON 36

  Moira Hollis begins to laugh and the laughing turns into sheer hysterics. “You are not serious! What can I say to him? I have another friend who is being abused? Oh, dear, you are so funny.”

  I wait out her laughter and try again.

  “I need this hit man’s whereabouts. He’s going to eliminate my client. You don’t want that murder on your conscience.”

  When she doesn’t answer me I decide the time has come for some tough negotiation. I stand up and take my gun out of my shoulder bag. “Sit up, Moira,” I say, pointing the gun at her. Keeping my hand steady, I grab my cell phone from my back pocket. I key in a number and pretend to wait before pushing the call key. “Listen carefully to me Moira because I will not repeat myself. Unless you agree to cooperate with me, I’m calling the Virginia State Police and telling them that I’m a private investigator from New York City with some information concerning a murder that occurred around here two years ago.”

  “No! Please.”

  “Then get me the information I need.”

  “I, I don’t know if he’ll give it to me. I don’t know!”

  “Moira, you have exactly ten minutes to come up with a reason you need to get in touch with this eliminator. After that you have five minutes to get your father’s associate on the phone and get him to tell you how to reach him.”

  Telling me she’s going to be sick, Moira rushes out of the living room into a bathroom with me following, gun held level. I afford her no privacy but stand in the doorway while she vomits up her dinner and the booze. I can’t risk her locking herself in the bathroom or going out the window to escape me. While I wait, I grab a face cloth from the sink counter and wet it with cold water. When she’s finished I hand it to her.

  “Come on Moira. You’ll be fine. Just take deep breaths.” I say this gently; I need her to see me as a confidante who is concerned for her. She takes a few minutes before she stands up. “Let’s go sit down. Just sit down and breathe slowly, okay?” I say as I lead her back to where we were.

  Once we’re in the living room I put my gun away. Truthfully if she tries anything I can handle her. Right now I need her to cooperate so I pick up her phone and place it next to where she is sitting. “Call him.”

  “What should I say? I haven’t spoken to him since my father’s will was read.”

  This is going to be difficult. I may have to change tactics. She’s in no condition to think clearly during a phone call; the wine coupled with the fear of being found out have made her a shaking mess. I assess the situation. It’s possible she doesn’t have to call anyone at all.

  “All right. Maybe there’s another way.”

  “There has to be another way! I can’t do this!” She begins crying again.

  “When you went to his office, how did he give you the number? Was it on his cell phone, in a file cabinet, or safe? Think, Moira.”

  GRAVE MISGIVINGS 37

  I see her sit up straight. She’s relieved that she might not have to call him after all. “It was in a drawer, a locked drawer in his desk.”

  “What is the name of this criminal businessman and where is his office?”

  Moira looks at me with wide, scared eyes. “You should be afraid of him, Cate. He’s a dangerous man involved in crimes you don’t want to know about. Don’t go see him.”

  “I have no intention of going to see him. I want the information he gave you. You have a choice: Either you call him right now or you tell me his name and where his office is located. I can break into his office and get what I need without you being directly involved. Understand?”

  Moira Hollis looks at me as if I am crazy but slowly nods her head and tells me the criminal associate’s name is Peter Karis. “His office is on Mead Avenue, 4860 Mead, third floor. It’s an old building but I’m pretty sure that there’s security there and probably an alarm system too.”

  “Do you remember which drawer it was in his desk?”

  “I—I don’t remember. I think maybe on the right side but I can’t be sure.”

  I check my watch; it’s almost nine o’clock.

  “Are you, are you…going to call the police about what I…did? Am I going to be arrested tonight?”

  Her fear is palpable and her hands are shaking. I see a liquor cabinet near the dining area and walk over to it. She needs a drink right now. Grabbing a bottle of cognac and a glass from the cabinet I walk back to Moira, set the glass in her hand and pour about a half inch into the tumbler. “Drink this.”

  She sips it and watches me.

  “Are you ready to deal here, Moira?”

  “What do you mean?” She coughs and cognac dribbles from her mouth.

  Handing her the packet of tissues again, I squat down in front of her so that we’re eye to eye. “This is what I mean, Moira. I won’t report your father’s murder to the police or your part in it.” She sighs and begins to cry. “But, in return for my silence, you have to understand that you will completely forget that you met me or that I am going to break into an office tonight to retrieve crucial information for my case. That’s my deal, take it or leave it.”

  “I promise I won’t say anything, anything!”

  “Your promise is no good to me. I don’t go by promises, I go by consequences. All you have to know is that if you don’t keep your part of the deal, the consequence will be the police knocking on your door tomorrow asking questions about your father’s murder and questioning your part in what happened two years ago. You also need to know that if anything happens to me, my colleagues in NYC will be paying a visit to the police down here. It seems that, through your father, you know some unsavory characters who could possibly harm me and I’ve taken steps to protect myself.”

  She shakes her head in protest. “No, no I would never think to…” I hold up my hand to stop her.

  “To let you completely understand how serious I am, I’ve recorded everything you’ve said on my cell phone. It’s already been sent to one of my most trusted people. Technology really is wonderful.”

  KRISTEN HOUGHTON 38

  “I don’t want to harm anyone and I don’t want that innocent woman, the one you mentioned, I don’t want her death on my conscience. I will forget that you even came here if that

  is what you want.” I stand up to pour her another drink. As I’m turning away, she says my name

  very quietly.

  “Cate?”

  I face her again. “Yes?”

  “Please, I have to know something. I am very grateful that you are not bringing the police in on this matter but…why would you not tell the police about what I did? After all, you said you’re a private investigator. Aren’t you required by law to report a crime?”

  I hesitate before I answer. She’s right; legally I am bound to report a crime or criminal activity. But there are times when I’ve skirted that requirement. My decision always depends a lot on facts. In this case I have to determine if there is a definite assurance that Moira was involved in the crime and if she can be linked to it without reasonable doubt. There’s only one person who could finger her as the woman who hired a killer and that person is the killer himself; money changed hands. As for Jennifer testifying as to what she heard, any good lawyer could argue that what was said in the bar to a young scared waitress was hearsay; the ramblings of an intoxicated woman. Even what Jennifer Brooks-Warren says she saw and heard in the alley behind the bar could be torn apart by a cunning lawyer. The law deals in facts, not suppositions.

  Then to
o, I believed Moira when she told me about what a bastard her father was. I will check up on that and the disappearance of Anthony Cole for my own satisfaction, but I think Moira was telling me the truth as only a desperate person can.

  “Maybe it’s not in anyone’s best interest, yours or mine, to notify the police if you cooperate with me,” I finally say. “Good-bye, Moira. It’s unlikely we’ll see each other again.” And with that I walk to the door and let myself out.

  Chapter 7

  BREAKING AND ENTERING is a skill every private investigator needs to have. I was taught by an expert, a break-and-enter professional I had used several times as a source for information on a case. She was, and more than likely still is, the absolute best. She could get into anything that was locked and she passed her skills on to me.

  The building on Mead Avenue where Peter Karis has an office is gracefully old. It has aged well. This is the same as most of the architecture I have briefly seen in this area. It is not falling apart old as some historic buildings in New York City are. These buildings have a fine elegant patina about them. Besides the beauty of their age there’s another plus; the locks are old as well.

  Ask most people what kind of locks they think are good for doors and they’ll probably say pad locks or deadbolts. They’re pretty much on target with that answer. But there are new high-tech locks that can stall even professional burglars. Newer locks on high-rise buildings have locking devices that are computer-keyed with silent alarms built into the mechanism.

  The outside lock of this building is a Federal style fancy one that looks complex but it’s not. It’s simply ornate, not complicated. A standard small Philips screwdriver in the right hands will open it within three minutes. It takes me five minutes to get in. Surprisingly there’s no guard in the old building but there could be a silent system that connects to the police.

  Once inside I crouch behind the door and wait. If there is a silent alarm a police car will drive up and I’ll run. Sometimes there will be an unmarked car; I can spot one of those easily thanks to having been married to a police detective. But after waiting a breathless ten minutes I hear and see nothing that indicates security or police. I’m in and I’m unobserved. Checking the registry in the lobby for Peter Karis is next, after that I head to the stairwell.

  I jog up the stairs to the third floor silently thanking God that the tennis I play has made my legs strong. Third floor landing and I’m only slightly winded. Room 303 bears the lettering, Peter Karis, Land Surveyor.

  The lock on the door of room 303 is new and a bit more difficult but I see that the door itself is not fitted well to the frame. The screwdriver won’t work on the lock but it just might help me push the locking mechanism open through the frame. It’s a dead-latch, far simpler than a dead-bolt. I wiggle my screwdriver slowly through the small slit between the doorframe and the lock. Nothing. The lock mechanism is dirty and stuck. It needs some type of lubrication.

  I look around for a bathroom and see a men’s room down the hall. Sprinting down the hall I observe that there are only two other offices near the one occupied by Karis and I listen for sounds of movement. It seems I am alone in the building.

  Inside the bathroom I find a soap dispenser. I need to put the liquid soap in something but there are no paper towels, only a hand dryer. Going into one of the stalls, I grab a roll of bathroom tissue and use my penknife to cut away the paper and take out the cardboard cylinder. Then I bend one end of it to make a holder that won’t leak and fill part of the tube with liquid soap. Improvisation is a necessity. You work with what you have when you’re an investigator.

  Back at the door of Peter Karis, Land Surveyor, I dip the screwdriver in the soap and try sliding it back between the doorframe and the lock mechanism. I use my knife to scrape away the dirt inside the jam. Fifteen sweaty minutes go by and the work is tedious. Pushing the screwdriver firmly against the lock I finally hear a slight click and I push the curved handle open. I am inside.

  GRAVE MISGIVINGS 40

  It is dark but the curtains are thin and the light from the street below illuminates the room enough for me to see what’s there. Bookcases, a computer station, a coat tree, and a big mahogany desk. It looks as if it may be an antique. I walk over and sit at the desk, trying the middle drawer first. It opens as do the two on my left and the bottom one on my right. The top right drawer, however, doesn’t budge. That one is locked.

  I examine the lock, small, brass and most likely fitted with a tiny cylinder inside. My penknife is perfect as a key and after a few tries, I open the drawer. Inside is a pack of eight index cards held together with a rubber band. There are phone numbers and notations on them but no names. I shuffle through them, then lay them out on the desk and take a picture of them with my phone camera before returning them to the drawer and locking it with my knife.

  Voices and a light showing under the doorway let me know I’m not alone in the building anymore. Looking through the slit in the poorly fitting doorframe I see a heavyset man in some type of a uniform coming down the hall. My watch tells me it’s ten forty. I’m guessing he’s the security guard for the building. With him is another man with Beats headphones draped around his neck and carrying what looks like a toolbox. I hold my breath as they pass room 303 going toward the stairwell.

  “Listen, I had to come and disconnect the alarm, for Christ’s sake. It went off around three-thirty this afternoon and the people who rent the offices here were screaming at me to do something. Nothing I could do would stop it so I turned the damn thing off. I called the alarm company but they said you were on another job. Thanks for coming. The sensors on the computer setup say the problem is in the box on this floor. We got to have that alarm set before I can leave again. It’s our bowling night and my wife is pissed as hell that I’m not down at the lanes.”

  The man with the toolbox mutters something that I can’t make out and I hear tools clinking on the floor. I look around for an escape exit but the only one besides the door is the window. Suddenly the lights flash on in the hall and in the office. I dive under the desk and pull the desk chair as close as I can to block me from anyone looking in. The lights flash off and on several times and then it’s dark again.

  “I found the problem here, Mac,” says a voice I assume is from the guy with the tools. “You got a nest of ants. Got to spray them out then I can readjust the alarm. Take about an hour or so. Tell you what; I’ll pop the system up to a less sensitive setting.”

  “Yeah, that’s good for me. Makes my job easier,” says the guard.

  What he said is not good for me. I want to get out of here as soon as I can. If the lights stay off I can possibly make my exit through the window. I hesitate in case the lights flash on again then decide to take a risk and check the outside. As quietly as I can, I walk to the window and look out at the drop. The building is built right next to the walkway. There’s nothing outside the window that would ease my exit; no awning, no fancy grillwork to hang on to. I would land, feet first hopefully, on nothing but a cement sidewalk. That’s not an option.

  I have to leave the same way I came in. While I’m wondering how I can possibly accomplish this I hear footsteps coming in my direction and quickly slide to the side of the door.

  KRISTEN HOUGHTON 41

  The footsteps go past room 303 and stop a ways down the hall. The big guy is going to the

  men’s room. Good, now there’s only one person I have to deal with.

  Will once told me that it takes a man three minutes to unzip his pants, pee, and then zip up again. Another three minutes is spent to wash and dry his hands. That’s a total of six minutes. I’m hoping the security man has good hygiene. Either way I have to take a chance. Once the alarm is fixed, I’ll be stuck here.

  Checking my watch, I carefully ease the door open and see that the repair man has his back to me and his headphones on. I close the door without a sound and walk as if I’m on eggshells to the stairwell. The bathroom door slams open just as I’m halfway down t
o the second floor. I glance at my watch. Only four minutes have gone by. It seems as if Mr. Security Guard doesn’t wash his hands.

  ๕๕๕

  Back at the Bed and Breakfast I sleep as if I am drugged. The adrenaline rush I experienced the night before crashed as soon as I stepped into a nice hot tub. Making it to my bed wrapped in a fluffy white towel I collapsed and slept the sleep of exhaustion.

  At 8:15 the next morning, there’s a firm knock on my door. “Hello? Cate? You asked me to wake you for breakfast. I’ll begin serving in a half hour.”

  Amused at the friendly use of my first name I call out my polite thank-you and add that I’ll be ready to come down in about fifteen minutes. Then I swing my legs out of the incredibly soft bed and do a few ballet barre stretches before heading to the shower.

  I arrive downstairs with my overnight bag and go into the large dining room. Two other people are present and we nod politely at each other. There’s a side table set up with covered trays of hot food, a coffee urn, and, I am happy to see, a small pitcher of half and half. The owner of the B&B walks over to me and hands me an envelope. “This was dropped off earlier for you.”

  I thank her and open it. It’s from Moira Hollis wishing me a safe trip home and saying that, despite everything, she did enjoy meeting me. “Thank you for your discretion, Cate. I hope all goes well for your client. Moira.” I have to admit it, the lady has class. Then I head to the side table to get a cup of coffee and a breakfast of a bacon omelette, rye toast, and fresh fruit. I am starving from last night’s ordeal.