“Where’d you get all that money?”
“Who the hell do you think you are? Somebody die and make you chief of the curious police?”
Silently, I pulled the laminated copy of my Private Investigator’s license out of my pocket, expertly covered the word ‘Private’ with my thumb and let the word “Investigator” and the gaudy Great Seal of Massachusetts work their silent magic.
He grabbed for his money and ran for the door, but I was ready for that. I simply stuck out my foot and tripped him, watched him lose his footing on the wet, freshly mopped floor and fall face down onto the damp boards. I put my foot casually on the back of his neck. When he struggled, I increased the pressure on his neck till he quit and lay quiet, and then I stood there looking down at him with an expression of extreme distaste.
“Well done! Well done!” Sergeant York applauded.
“Thank you, sir. Billie, would you please call the police station and ask my brother to come over if he’s there. If he’s not, anyone who’s free will do.” I remembered belatedly that my cell phone was in the car and that I had promised not to confront any Hispanic-looking strangers, so I rather hoped that Sonny might not be available right this moment.
I’m all too aware that crime is not age-specific anymore, but I had a hard time thinking this slightly built infant was armed and dangerous. But I also knew that could be a good way to get killed, so I checked his pockets and legs as best I could. He was apparently unarmed, so I removed most of the pressure from his neck.
What disturbed me was the money. It was scattered around him, all twenties it seemed, and looked like several hundred dollars. I tried again. “I will ask you once again, where’d you get the money? I want to know, and right now, Fast Track.”
“Fuck you, dyke.”
I kicked him gently in the head. Hey, I was wearing sneakers! “Mind your manners or I’ll pour this pail of mop water down your throat and you’ll die clutching your belly and moaning in agony. One more time, slime mouth. Where did you get all that money?”
“I earned it,” he muttered sullenly. “It’s mine.”
At that moment a police car screamed to a halt in the alley, no more than a foot from the door. Officer Mitchell strode in, pistol at the ready in his hand. I wondered briefly what on earth Billie must have said on the phone. He looked at the money spread around the floor and then at Billie. “What did he do, try to rob the place?”
Before she could answer, he turned to me. “Alex, are you okay?”
“She’s just fine, patrolman, she has landed and got the situation well in hand!” Sergeant York was gleeful.
I managed to get a word in for myself. “I’m okay, Mitch. No harm done. This fine specimen was trying to buy a drink with no ID and a lot of unexplained money he says is his.” I picked the bills up off the floor as Mitch holstered his 9mm Glock. “If he has any ID he’s not showing it, and he won’t say who he is or where he got this. Looks like he’s got about two hundred dollars here.”
I handed it to Mitch, who counted it and buttoned it into his jacket pocket. “I make it one-eighty.”
I asked him, “Did Sonny happen to mention to you that he was on the lookout for a slim, dark complected young man, maybe with a mustache? Somebody new in town, a stranger?”
“Yeah, he told us. Sonny’s in court this morning. But I never saw your fine specimen around town before. I’ll take him in and let Sonny talk to him later. He said he hoped to be back before noon. Come on, macho man, get up and put your hands behind your back.” The boy got reluctantly to his feet, and Mitch reached for his cuffs. As he started to handcuff the young man, we both noticed marks on the boy’s wrists. “What’s this,” Mitch asked, “You already been cuffed this morning? You’re a busy man.”
“It’s just a rash,” the boy muttered.
“Some rash! Looks like rope burns to me,” Mitch said. “I don’t want to cuff him, Alex. I could make his ‘rash’ worse and then he’d have a nice brutality complaint to file, which he’d love to do if I know his type. And regulations say I can’t be in the car alone with him if he isn’t cuffed. So now what do I do with him?”
The boy smiled sourly. “Damn right.”
“Put him in the car and I’ll ride down with you and walk back . . . oh, hell, I can’t. My dog’s with me.”
“My dog’s with me,” the kid mimicked. “You guys are such fuckups. Just let me go and I won’t sue you for almost breaking my neck.”
At that point I was quite ready to finish the job on his neck and might have fully lost my temper, when I heard a quiet ‘ahem’ and sensed someone standing behind me.
Sergeant York had walked over to us. “Let me ride along with the officer,” he suggested. “I’ll just sit in back with the boy. He won’t try to go anywhere with me in there with him.”
“That’s a great idea!” I nodded vigorously to cut off the ‘no’ I saw forming on Mitch’s lips. “Thank you, Sergeant, that’s the answer to our problem.”
The kid groaned. “Jeez, what kind of crazy town is this? First I get Babble Betty, then the Ditzy Dyke, then Officer Dimwit, now I got Grandad! Oh, dearie me, I’m just fucking-A scared to death!”
Mitch, Billie and I watched in smiling, silent admiration as the kid flew through the air from Sergeant York’s upper-cut to the chin. This time he landed on his back on the wet floor and looked up, winded, to find the old man standing over him, large booted foot resting lightly on his crotch. “Now, son, you got to quit usin’ those words in front of ladies! You just take it real easy there, and I’ll help you up.” York bent over and offered his enormous hand. The boy took it, and the next thing I knew, he was on his feet, turned around, his arm bent up somewhere near his shoulder blade and being frogmarched to the police car.
“Well, Mitch, I don’t think you’ll have any trouble between here and the station,” I couldn’t help but chuckle.
“I have a feeling we’ll manage.”
“Um. Say, Mitch, ask the old guy to stay for your coffee-anddoughnuts break. You know, make him feel important, like he’s really done something helpful.”
He stared at me for a moment, and then he understood and nodded seriously. “Yes. Good idea. My Dad says the Sergeant was quite a man in his time. And I’ll make sure word gets around to his family how much he ‘assisted us in our inquiries’, too.” I like Mitch. Sometimes I think there’s hope for men.
I turned back to Billie who was standing in the doorway. “Sorry for the commotion,” I apologized.
“Oh, no harm done.” She gave a raspy laugh. “Kinda did my heart good. Snotty kid like that and first he gets knocked down by a woman and then by an old man, like you’d think he’d learn, but you want to bet he won’t, as that type rarely does profit from a lesson until it’s too late nowadays if they do.”
“Right! Well, see you, Billie.”
I got to the car feeling pure of heart, and this time we made it home.
It was nearly ten and I wondered if Janet had called. The answer machine wasn’t blinking, so I figured she was sleeping in or deep into composing the next best seller. I heated up a cup of coffee in the microwave and went into the office to gather the photos of Ray Miller into chronological order and write up a report and a bill for his wife, Diane. I’d be glad to wrap it up. I felt half sorry for and half irritated with everyone involved.
As I waited for the computer to boot up, I thought about Marcia Robby and wondered what she saw in Ray. She was French-Canadian, and although her English was idiomatic and accent-free, somehow you knew it was not her first language. She was undoubtedly pushing fifty. Her black curly mane was beginning to grey, but her figure was good, her features clean-cut. Some of the Ptown biddies dubbed her a scarlet woman, but she really wasn’t. Some of the men who’d never spent five minutes alone with her called her an easy lay. She wasn’t, sensual aura not withstanding.
I had a feeling she dispensed more tea and sympathy than sex. And though I knew she wasn’t averse to a fling with a good-lo
oking guy, she obviously had no desire for permanence. I knew of several men who’d have happily married her, but she’d have none of them. I’d heard her mention a long-gone husband once or twice, but always accompanied by a little flick of the fingers, as if annoyed by something sticky and not quite nice.
Bottom line: I liked her and hoped Diane Miller wouldn’t cause her any discomfort or embarrassment. I’d have to try and make sure we avoided that, somehow.
As I finished pecking out my report, I figured I had been right about Diane. I still thought she was less interested in leaving Ray than in accumulating some relatively genteel blackmail as insurance to keep him from leaving her. At that moment Fargo ran to the door with a kind of half-bark, as if he weren’t quite sure what he was supposed to do. There was a ‘shave-and-a-haircut’ knock on the door, which indicated that Sonny had arrived.
“Come on in,” I yelled. “I’m in the office.”
But, surprisingly, it was Janet who entered, and I jumped up to give her an enthusiastic kiss. Fargo seemed more interested in a bag she held at her side. “Pastries,” she said, as she lifted it away from his nose. “I thought breakfast might be in order. And I thought those doughnuts from yesterday would qualify as antiques by this morning.” She smiled impishly.
“Replacements are long overdue!” I kissed her again with the fleeting hope that my nose wasn’t suddenly wet and quivering in concert with Fargo’s. “Let’s make some fresh coffee and eat.”
“What’s all this?” Janet had noticed the photographs of Ray Miller spread across the table and was now staring at the computer.
“Damn! I shouldn’t have left all this stuff out. It’s supposed to be confidential. I would have put it away, but I thought you were going to give me a call before you came over.”
“I was,” she said. “I went up to the corner to the pay phone—I’ve really got to get a phone in my apartment, don’t I?—but someone was gabbing away, so I just started walking to find another phone. Then I stopped and picked up the pastry, and by then I was halfway here, so I just came along. But what is all this? What do you mean it’s confidential? I thought you were a nature photographer.”
She caught herself up short. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry. It just surprised me. Forget I said that . . . it’s not my business. I’m sorry I didn’t call. I didn’t know it would matter.” She turned away, flustered.
“It’s not your fault at all. It’s mine.” As I rattled on, flustered myself, I hurriedly shoved the photos and report into my briefcase. “I guess it’s confession time. I do take a lot of nature photos and sell them, but that’s not my primary livelihood by a long shot. Actually, I’m a P.I.—a private investigator. You see, I don’t usually tell people right off because sometimes they think it’s some kind of joke or else they seem to feel somewhat . . .”
I realized I was talking to myself. Janet had walked on into the kitchen and was sitting at the table with her head in her hands, laughing almost hysterically, as if she’d never stop.
I was angry, hurt, surprised. I hadn’t expected this reaction from her. Somehow I had just assumed she would understand. “I don’t see what’s so goddam funny,” I said harshly. “It’s a perfectly legitimate job.” I pulled her hands away from her face and glared down at her. “God knows it’s no flakier than deciding to write a novel just because you broke up with somebody and have nothing else to do, or having some damn fool restaurant where you only serve Sole Veronique or scallops!” In my anger I didn’t realize I was mixing fact with last night’s dream.
Cheeks still wet with tears, she looked up at me with a rueful grin.
“What the hell have I gotten myself into? Your brother is a cop. You’re a P.I. What’s your mother, the district attorney?”
Chapter 8
Well, I had to admit, she had a point there. My anger quickly faded and I couldn’t help grinning back at her, as I answered, “No my mother’s not the DA. In fact, you might say she works the other side of the street. She’s just a nice protestant lady who works part time in the office at the local Catholic Church.”
“I don’t care. It’s still law enforcement.” Janet’s smile turned grumpy. “The cop tells you what you can’t do. If you do it anyway, you are punished. What’s the difference in him and a priest?”
“I guess it is somewhat the same, maybe a little more gently phrased . . . or sometimes maybe not.” I laughed, and that earned me a quavery smile. “Hey, I’m sorry if I jumped all over you. It’s just that I’m kind of sensitive on the subject of my profession, I guess. It doesn’t have to be pure sleaze and peering into bedroom windows, you know. In fact, most of being a P.I. is kind of interesting—at least I think so.”
I ticked off items on my fingers. “Some fraud, or tracking down missing relatives or people named in a will, investigating potential employees, finding runaway kids. It’s by no means confined to following errant spouses around town. But add my touch of paranoia to the really crazy morning I’ve already had, and maybe you’ll forgive me for being just a tad prickly today.”
We settled down with fresh coffee and the big cranberry-walnut scones. They tasted wonderful. As we ate, I told her of my earlier adventures.
“Do you think this kid could be part of that robber gang?” Janet was dubious. “He wanted to get away badly enough, but he doesn’t quite seem to fit the picture.”
“It’s hard to believe he’s old enough or savvy enough, but he’s obviously no boy scout. Tough little bastard and street-smart. I don’t know. He’s awfully young, but that doesn’t mean much anymore.”
“I know. It’s awful. I heard on the news this morning about a thirteen-year-old-boy who murdered a little six-year-old-girl for not forking over her lunch money. It’s scary, isn’t it? Whoever thought you’d have to be afraid of grammar-school kids? But anyway, back to the beginning. Do I dare ask how you ever ended up as a private investigator in a small town like this? Somehow you think of private investigators as being in Boston or New York.”
“It’s simple enough,” I told her. “I wanted to be a lawyer when I was a kid, but my father’s untimely demise put an end to that possibility.” I told her of my father’s death, and she reacted with predictable horror. I continued with my tale.
“Well, it sure put the kibosh on four years of college plus law school. We were actually in pretty dire straits for a few years there. I don’t really know how Mom held it together as well as she did. I did manage to get a student loan and get to the community college up in Hyannis. I lived at home and that helped.”
Janet broke a scone in half and put it on her plate. I got up and poured us more coffee, and then snagged the half-pastry she had left on the platter.
“I suppose if I had been truly dedicated, I could have gotten a job in Boston and lived in some dreary little room and gone to night school. But truth to tell, I just didn’t have that kind of ambition. I didn’t want to be a poverty-ridden drudge in a big city for ten years until I could get my law degree. I didn’t want to be starting my legal career when most of my peer group would be already well established at some good firm. I’m where I want to be. A large percentage of the time I enjoy what I’m doing. Financially I’m really pretty much okay.”
I reached down and rubbed a silky ear. “And here in Ptown I can have Fargo and take him most anywhere I go. So, I guess the bottom line is—no regrets.”
Janet cocked her head. “Really no regrets? Don’t you feel that your father and mother pretty much let you down?”
“Let me down? I really doubt that my father, for all his myriad faults, picked up a ten-thousand-volt electric line just so he would-n’t feel he had to help me with my college tuition!” I heard my voice rise and made an effort to calm down.
“For several years Mom was hard-put to hang onto the house and get us through high school. And for my two years in Community she wouldn’t take a cent of rent or board. She helped me out with every dollar she could. That’s what really made it possible for me. No, Ja
net, I’d hardly call that letting me down!”
“Well, if you say so.” She didn’t sound terribly convinced. “I didn’t get to college at all, and it was no more my fault than it was yours. I was really counting on my high school advisor to help me get a scholarship, hopefully to Cornell. I wanted desperately to major in cooking and restaurant management and a Cornell degree gets you an immediate entree most anywhere in that field. My high school grades were quite good and I had a part-time job at Burger King, not that it was any great restaurant, of course, but it showed interest and willingness to work hard. But strangely, it turned out that kids with lower grades and any old kind of job at all got the scholarships.”
Her voice was bitter and harsh. I couldn’t understand what she was getting at. “So, no Cornell? What happened?”
“No Cornell.” Janet nodded. “Strangely, my high school counselor seems to have successfully blocked that. On the surface it appeared that she tried very hard for me. Her recommendations were all glowing with statements like ‘she is deeply dedicated . . . ’ or ‘she works every spare moment . . . ’ or ‘she lets nothing stand in the way of . . . ’ or ‘she will make painful sacrifices to obtain . . . ’ She made me sound like some sort of fixated lunatic.”
I didn’t understand. “Why would she do that?”
“She may have been incompetent or may have just disliked me. But I heard she was one of those radical evangelical people. Maybe she found out I was a lesbian and made sure there’d be no scholarships for this sinful kid. In any event, there were none.”
We looked at each other and shrugged. Homophobia could be a bitch. “So you joined the Coasties?”
She stuck her tongue out at me for using the nickname but grinned her forgiveness. “Well, not immediately. I still had hopes of getting into some college. I started trying to get student loans for colleges that were within commuting distance. I figured if I could live at home for nothing, and work part time, with a loan I could probably swing it.”
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