Grave Misgivings

by Kristen Houghton

  Maybe.

  ๕๕๕

  I’m walking back to my office after lunch when my phone buzzes. It’s Jennifer.

  “Cate! Help me. I’m so scared I don’t know what to do! Please, please, please, I can’t do this anymore, I can’t wait for him to kill me. Help me! Oh my God! Please!”

  “Okay, Jennifer, calm down. Listen to me. I’m texting my security people outside your place right now.” Unlike its owner, my new phone can multi-task. I key in info to Adrian and his team to up their surveillance. “Are you alone?”

  “Yes, yes I am! Edward went out a half hour ago to pick up my prescription. He said he was feeling claustrophobic. I—I know what he means. Help me, Cate, I’m so frightened!”

  “I will help you. I’m on my way. How did he get in touch with you this time?” I pull my keys out of my pocket as I race back to my car. Damn it! Today there were no spaces and I had to park three blocks away.

  “He, oh God, he, he ordered a, a casket! For me! Oh my God! A casket!”

  I run down the street dodging mothers with strollers and tripping over a couple of drunks lying next to buildings. Trying to keep my voice calm I ask Jennifer how she knows about the casket.

  “They called me! This funeral home called me and said the casket I ordered was ready and they would keep it in their showroom for when it was needed.”

  “Jennifer, what is the name of the funeral home? What was the name of the person who called?”

  “I don’t remember! Cate, I don’t remember!”

  “Was that call the last one that came in on your phone?”

  “Yes. No one else has called here. No one...” Then I hear her scream.

  “Jennifer! Jennifer, what is it? What’s happening?” A few tense seconds pass before I hear her voice again.

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry! It’s the security people buzzing from downstairs. The noise scared me. That security woman you introduced to me, she’s here. Should I let her up?”

  “Yes, absolutely. Buzz her up now. When she gets to your place put her on the phone. I’m coming right over but I can’t predict traffic and I want to speak with her.”

  I get in my Edge and race as fast as is safe down the street. There are delivery trucks blocking the street and pedestrians texting on cell phones not looking where they’re walking. Twice before I get off my street I’m forced to slam on the brakes. Shit!

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  “Cate?” A calm, strong voice comes on the Synch system in my car. “This is Natalie. The place is secure and Adrian placed three additional people outside. No one will get in the lobby without being thoroughly checked out. We’re all good here.”

  “Thanks, Natalie. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Try to get her to talk about the call, see what info you can get her to remember.”

  “I’ll do that. See you soon.”

  Chapter 17

  TO THE AVERAGE person, the condo building where Jennifer and Edward live doesn’t look as if it’s being protected by armed and trained personnel but I spot the security detail immediately. A man drinking coffee lounging on a bench near the building, a woman at the corner texting on a cell phone, another woman and a man seemingly deep in conversation across the street; these are the professional security people from Adrian’s service. If I can spot them, so can the Eliminator. At the very least it will give him pause before he tries to enter the building. A woman inside the building tells me to take off my sunglasses as she checks my face against a photo of me she has on her phone; Adrian has it all covered.

  When I arrive at her condo via the private elevator there’s a man standing guard and he nods at me in acknowledgement. Jennifer is sitting on the couch drinking a mug of tea, the teabag string hanging limply over the mug’s handle. Natalie is on her iPhone talking in hushed tones.

  “Cate,” is all Natalie says by way of greeting as she nods toward a bedroom where we can talk in private. Jennifer just looks at me and shakes her head.

  “How is she?” I ask when we’re alone with the door closed.

  “Not good. I’ll stay with her today and tonight we’ll have others here. We’re doing eight-hour shifts. Her fiancé still hasn’t come back and now she’s beginning to worry that this hit man has done something to him. We can’t locate him; he left the pharmacy about fifteen minutes ago. He’s not answering his cell. Adrian has two of our agents searching the area but so far, we got zip.”

  “All right. Keep the schedule for the shifts. I’ll check in with Adrian later. Any other calls come in on her phone after we hung up?”

  “No.”

  “Okay, that’s good. I’m going to check Jennifer’s phone for the last number that came in. Let’s see who really called here and if it actually was a reputable funeral home.”

  ๕๕๕

  The call Jennifer received came from Luca Memorial Services. Arriving at their downtown office I find that they are not a funeral home at all; they are, as the manager politely tells me, “providers of services for those deceased and their families.” In other words, they provide the families of the deceased with just about anything needed in their time of grief and confusion. From specialized coffins to urns that double as clocks for your mantle to quick-freeze cryonics of the dearly departed, to making arrangements for burial at sea, and carrying out a loved one’s wish to have his or her remains sprinkled over a certain ocean or shot into space, Luca Memorial does it all and at a hefty price. I never knew there was so much money to be made from the business of death. Unfortunately they have no idea who ordered the casket for Jennifer Brooks-Warren. The order and payment was by phone.

  “The name on the credit card was assumed to be a relative of the woman,” says the solemn-faced manager handing me the invoice and sale data for the product. We’re standing in what Luca Memorial calls the showing room. “It’s really quite a lovely, lovely model,” he sighs as he gently caresses the casket he insisted on showing me. “The product is called the Perfect

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  Ruby Rest 0557,” he whispers to me with something bordering on awe. His ghoulish enthusiasm

  makes my skin crawl. As caskets go I guess it’s the best money can buy, but it, and what it is

  used for, are what bothers me. You’d think that as a private investigator I would know that death

  and an occasional dead body are pretty much part of the job but it still creeps me out. I’m not

  good with the dead.

  I take the info he gives me but when I run the MasterCard number through my iPhone I find that the card was a prepaid one, the same as the other card used for the flowers, and of course the name, address, and phone number are fake. I expected as much. Thanking the manager and giving him my PI card I say firmly, “If anyone else calls concerning this matter, let me know immediately. And please do not call Ms. Brooks-Warren again. This is a horribly vicious game someone wants to play.”

  “Someone is playing a cruel joke on the lady?” the solemn-faced ghoul asks me.

  “Cruel doesn’t begin to describe it.”

  In my car I receive a text message from the security detail telling me that Edward Penn has finally been located. He says he took a walk to clear his head after having been cooped up in the condo and then went for a drink at a wine bar. The stress, it seems, is getting to him. Natalie had told me that when she isn’t sleeping, Jennifer cries constantly and that Edward sits just staring out the window quite a lot. The horrible thought crosses my mind that this case has to end one way or another in order for anyone to resume a normal life. For Jennifer’s sake I want it to end with the Eliminator being caught. I decide to stay in the neighborhood for awhile. There’s a small trattoria a few blocks away where I can grab a quick, hot meal and hang around the area.

  Around eight o’clock that night, I take my last surveillance walk around Jennifer’s condo. I park a few blocks away and walk the streets four blocks in each direction from the condo building. Nothing unusual is happening and I certainly don’t
expect any surprises. This Eliminator is too professional to make stupid mistakes that will put him in someone’s radar. The night is warm and it feels pleasant to walk. I think about Jennifer and Edward stuck inside their building. It’s really not a good idea for them to venture out but I keep thinking that with Adrian’s crew, Will, and me, maybe going out to that local trattoria might not be too dangerous. It would certainly relieve some of the tension in that condo. Jennifer’s birthday isn’t for a few weeks yet and the hit, according to the contract, is supposed to be on that day or shortly after it. Except for the fact that the Eliminator is playing psychological games with his prey before the kill, I would say that she’s safe for the next few weeks. Sighing I head to my ride and go home.

  Back at my brownstone, I find I have a very welcome, unexpected visitor; Will’s back sitting in my living room, drinking a beer and watching a Yankees game. And I feel healthy enough and more than happy to see him. From the way he presses his body against mine, I know he’s happy to see me too. He turns off the TV and leads me to the bedroom.

  ๕๕๕

  “Baby girl, sweet, sweet Cate.” Will murmurs this into my hair while we’re lying in bed that night exhausted after our marathon of sexual encounters. After being separated for a few days sex with Will is like a dangerous and erotic electrical charge. I lay with my head snuggled

  GRAVE MISGIVINGS 78

  on his chest breathing in that heady male scent combo of sex, sweat, and body heat. His hands

  travel up and down my back and rest comfortably on my butt. I feel him press against me and

  know that in a few minutes he’ll be ready for another round of sexual activity. I’m relaxed and

  ready for action. When it comes to relieving tension, sex is pretty comparable to whacking tennis

  balls against a wall.

  ๕๕๕

  Six forty-five has Will and me rushing out the door of the brownstone together but headed to different places. The workday schedule has taken over. Will wants to get to the gym and then head home to shower before having to give a nine o’clock report on his conference. I have to get to my office by seven-thirty for a very important meeting. Through Adrian’s contacts, I’m meeting a man who used to be a very successful sniper for hire. Now in his late sixties, he’s retired and works as a paid consultant for security firms such as Sec.Co and even the CIA. I’m hoping he may be able to give us a few pointers on catching the Eliminator.

  At the outer door to my office building I see Adrian talking to a tall, tanned, well-built man with a shaved head. I am assuming this is the former sniper; he obviously works out and seems to take very good care of his body. He does not look like the stereotype of a sixty-ish male. His body looks rock-hard.

  I greet Adrian who introduces the man with him simply as Dave. Considering that he was a gun for hire, I’m quite sure that’s not his real name. So many aliases in the field of death and destruction. We all go single file up to my office where I unlock the deadbolt and we enter. Adrian has very thoughtfully brought three large containers of coffee.

  The man called Dave looks around my office with the practiced eyes of a true sniper; clear and concise, registering every detail. Then he turns his gaze on me and, despite the morning’s heat, I feel a chill. I offer my hand and after a brief moment he shakes it.

  “Cate, I’ve told Dave here about the problem and what’s been happening. He might be able to give us a head’s up on finding this guy.” Adrian is a former Navy Seal, sure of himself and confident. Still his voice and manner are completely respectful toward this former sniper, a man who has played God with human life.

  Dave walks over to the couch and I notice that he seats himself in a position of protection. His back is to the wall and he is facing the door. The windows are to his immediate left. He can see who or what is approaching him and, if he had to do so, could take out anyone coming from either direction quite easily. I’m pretty sure he’s got a gun somewhere on his body.

  “So you’re going after the Eliminator.” He says this as a fact. “You’re not going to see him coming, not with all the surveillance in the world. This is guy is a Coast to Coast.”

  He looks at Adrian when he says this as if I’m not part of the conversation. Adrian feels obliged to tell me what that means. “A Coast to Coast is a…”

  I stop him mid-sentence and say, “A hockey term for a player who carries the puck from his own net all the way to his opponent’s and scores. In layman’s terms this guy will get the job done no matter how many people try to stop him.” I smile at Dave. “That is what you meant, right, Dave?” Dave looks at me coldly. “Well, let’s hope he doesn’t deke.” I add, “That word

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  means a fake-out, gentlemen. Comes from the word ‘decoy’ but then being hockey fans you both

  would know that term.”

  Adrian muffles a laugh with a cough and I see him looking at me admiringly. I’m pretty pleased with myself too since hockey is not my type of game. I’m more comfortable with the terminology of baseball and tennis but I’ve learned to talk sports with certain types of men like Dave. This guy is pulling the male superiority crap that men of a certain age and temperament used years ago to dismiss women as inferior. I have no time for male-dominated bullshit and Adrian knows it.

  In the 1950s and ’60s it used to be a time-honored male mind-game strategy to form a camaraderie by talking sports in meetings where women were present. Since most women back then didn’t know a hell of a lot about teams and players, male colleagues did it to exclude women from important conversations. The sports talk formed a bond even between strangers who were male thus successfully cementing a possible business deal or other work-related actions. That their female counterparts may have been more knowledgeable about the actual business didn’t matter; other men were loyal to the “sports” guys.

  But those guys definitely underestimated the female mind and innate cunning. Women in formerly male dominated jobs such as law enforcement, medicine, and business quickly caught on and began learning and using the sports-lingo. Talking sports is fairly easy for me now. I’ll mention something, one little thing about any sport that’s in season or a player who’s in the news, and I immediately become an associate member of the boys’ club.

  “I’d watch my ass if I were you,” is Dave’s response. “This guy is no pussy.” I shake my head at this outright ploy to shock or embarrass me.

  Leaning forward I look directly at him and say, “Then that makes two of us, Dave. I’m no pussy either and I always watch my ass.”

  Now that I’ve got his attention, I tell him to give Adrian and me any strategies for finding the Eliminator. He looks from me to Adrian and mutters a coarse comment under his breath that I’m pretty sure is disparaging to females in general and to me in particular.

  “So far, what’s happening is good and protective. I agree with the surveillance of the victim; that’s a priority right now. But finding this ghost is not your biggest problem. Stopping him from completing the mission is. Now that might sound contradictory but it isn’t, not really. The ghost has to be taken out of the equation. You have to eliminate the eliminator.”

  “And how do we do that if we can’t find him?” I lean back in my chair still locking eyes with Dave.

  “I said finding him is not your biggest problem, honey. I didn’t say not to try. He’s been here; you know it. He’s playing cat-and-mouse with the woman. If his job is happening soon, you can bet that he’s close by. I say when the hit is supposed to take place, you bait the trap.”

  I stare at him for a moment before it hits me that he wants to bait the trap, as he says, with Jennifer Brooks-Warren. “You mean put my client out where he can kill her? I don’t believe that’s an option.”

  Dave looks at me with a smirk. “Let me tell you a story, little girl.” I let the intended insult go and he continues. “My grandfather was a shepherd in Romania. Stayed out all night,

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  rain, shitty weather, darkness as black as coal on cloudy nights, guarding flocks of sheep. Every so

  often, there was a hungry wolf, usually a lone wolf, who would make a meal outta one of the

  sheep who may have wandered a little way from the rest of the flock. Now, whether you sell a

  sheep for slaughter or shearing, you make money. But a dead one means a significant loss of profit

  to the shepherd. You got to get rid of the lone wolf.” He pauses and continues locking eyes with

  me. “You know how shepherds get rid of a scavenging wolf in the old world countries, little girl?

  When a shepherd wants to kill the killer, the wolf who’s been slaughtering his flock, he does two

  things. He cuts his own arm, the fleshy part just above the elbow where the blood will drip easily.

  Then he smears his own blood on a lamb and ties that lamb to a stake just outside the confines of

  where the flock stays at night. Now why a lamb? Lambs are babies and, when they’re taken away

  from the other sheep, they bleat for their mothers. They’ll cry all night long and the sound carries.

  Why human blood? Wolves track by scent and human blood is pungent. The sound of the bleating

  and the smell of the human blood sends the wolf into a frenzy and he zooms in for the kill. The