The Deadliest Game

by H E Joyce

  ‘Yes, I think so. Yes, I do.’

  ‘Right, well I’ll obviously need some details. First, can I have your name?’

  ‘Peterson, Laura Peterson, and my husband is Michael.’

  ‘I’ll just need a contact number, and then shall we get the matter of the cost out of the way?

  Laura gave her cell phone number. ‘I’m sure it’ll be fine, I just need some answers.’

  ‘Yes, of course you do. But just to let you know, my fee is sixty-five dollars an hour, plus seventy-five cents per mile, plus any other expenses incurred. Is that okay?’

  ‘Yes that’s fine, when can you start?’

  ‘Well, I’ll need you to come into my office with some details on your husband, your address, where he works, an up to date photograph or two, that sort of thing. Once you’ve done that, I could start straight away.’

  ‘In that case, could I come over to see you this morning, would that be okay.’

  ‘Yes, that would be fine, I’ll be in the office all morning, Mrs Peterson.’

  ‘Alright, I’ll see you in about an hour. Goodbye Mr Doyle.’

  ‘Look forward to meeting you, Mrs Peterson. Goodbye.’

  Laura scanned a couple of photographs that were still in their frames. They were both shots taken on their wedding day and both included her. It wasn’t until then she realised she had no photographs of him on his own. Within an hour from her phone call, she found herself entering Frank Doyle’s rather dingy office.

  She wondered if she had made the right choice, he had no secretary, the place was grubby and he didn’t seem overworked, which she thought might indicate he was not much good as a detective. He was, as she suspected, not a young man, in his early fifties she guessed. He discarded his newspaper and stood as she entered the office. He was a large man, over six feet tall with thin greying hair, and a little overweight, his stomach overhanging his beltline by a good few inches, yet somehow she instantly warmed to him.

  ‘You must be Mrs Peterson,’ he said with a broad friendly smile.

  ‘Yes, that’s right, nice to meet you.’ They shook hands.

  ‘Well please, take a seat. Coffee?’

  ‘No, not for me thanks. I’ve brought some photographs as you asked,’ she said, laying them on his desk.

  He picked them up and studied them, as if imprinting a snapshot of Michael in his brain. ‘Nice looking fella, how long you been married?’

  ‘About three months. And yes, I realise how that sounds, wanting to spy on my husband after such a short time.’

  ‘Oh, I’m not here to judge, Mrs Peterson, I’m sure you have your reasons.’

  Laura folded her hands in her lap in an attempt to stop the shaking. ‘Well, it might be nothing of course. It’s just that his behaviour is…’

  ‘Strange? Different?’ he asked.

  She nodded. ‘Both, I guess.’

  ‘What does he do for a living?’

  ‘He’s a lawyer in Brooksville. That’s the address of his office,’ she said, handing him a business card.

  ‘And what about you, Mrs Peterson, do you work?’

  ‘I work from home, I’m a psychotherapist.’

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘Oh, a psychotherapist, eh? Right,’ he said with a slight chuckle.

  ‘Sorry, did I say something amusing?’

  ‘No, no, of course not, I’m sorry, it’s just that… well, it just crossed my mind that maybe someone in your profession might just…’

  ‘You mean you think I’m imagining things?’

  ‘I wasn’t going to say that, no, but maybe you’re more likely to analyse things a little more than most people, that’s all.’

  She paused for a moment, considering the man’s observation. ‘You may be right, Mr Doyle, who knows, but I’d still like it looked into. Do you want the job?’

  ‘Yes, I’ll certainly look into it for you, Mrs Peterson; in fact I’ll start immediately. Is there anything else you can think of that might help in my investigation? I mean, is there anyone in particular you think he might be seeing?’

  ‘No, I’m sorry, nothing. I realise you don’t have a lot to go on, but… No, wait, there is something, no, it’s silly, if anything, it’s a police matter.’

  ‘No please! If there is anything, anything at all, no matter how silly you may think it is, then please tell me, any little thing could help.’

  ‘Well, as I said, it’s probably not connected; it’s just that there was someone, an intruder on my land the other night. The only reason I mention it is because nothing like it has ever happened before, and with Michael acting so strangely, well, it’s just a little odd. I’m sure the two aren’t related, so don’t worry about it.’

  ‘Well, leave it with me and we’ll see. By the way, I noticed you said on your land. Does the property belong to you personally, I mean is it in your name?’

  ‘Yes it is, why?’

  ‘Oh nothing really, just want to have a clear picture of the setup. Now don’t worry, I’ll start working on it and if and when I have anything to report, I’ll be in touch, okay?’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Doyle, you will be discreet won’t you?’

  ‘I was a cop for twenty-five years, Mrs Peterson,’ he said, leaning forward on the table. I’ll be invisible, I can assure you.’

  There was a warmth in his voice; a sincerity. Laura knew she could trust him. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘No problem, it was nice meeting you. You take care now,’ he said, opening the door for her.

  ‘Goodbye, and thank you, oh, and call me Laura, by the way.’

  ‘Okay, Laura, and likewise, call me Frank. I’ll be in touch.’

  *

  During the drive home, Laura began to have doubts about whether she was doing the right thing. There was no evidence to show that Michael was having an affair, and why would he? It made little sense that after only a few months of them being married, he would embark on something like that – they had been so in love. Or at least, she thought they had. She thought back to the first night they met, when Blanche had made it all happen. Surely, she would not have done so if she had known that he was a womaniser, and particularly not to someone she had come to regard as a friend.

  A feeling of profound guilt washed over her at hiring a private investigator to spy on her husband. She wondered how she would feel if Michael did the same to her. But of course, she already knew how it felt to be investigated, not by a private investigator, but by the police. Nothing could be worse than being questioned for hours in the interview room of a police station, especially when you are guilty of nothing but self-defence. She wondered if her past experience had coloured her judgement regarding men in general, had sewn a deep mistrust. But there was no doubt in her mind that Michael had, for whatever reason, changed, not just in the past week, but very gradually over the last couple of months.

  As her mind wandered back to the night they met, something she had completely forgotten, something she had never once thought about, sprang into her mind from nowhere it seemed. She remembered how Michael had caught her eye long before Blanche decided to intervene and introduce them, and the woman in fancy dress at the Halloween ball who had been speaking to him. She recalled how during that tiny instant in time, she had assumed by the woman’s manner that they were somehow close, yet around the time had never thought to ask Michael who she was, and had not thought about it again until now. To ask him about it now though, would appear suspicious; too much time had elapsed.

  So what if he had been seeing someone else at the time they met, she thought. Was that so terrible? Of course not. Just because she had not been seeing anyone, it did not mean he shouldn’t, at the time he was free to do as he pleased, and why shouldn’t he? Were all of these nagging doubts nothing more than her deep insecurity and paranoia? What if Michael was completely innocent? And if that were the case, what if he should discover that she had hired an investigator to snoop on him? Then, she thought, if he were innocent he would be deeply hurt, it might even b
e the end for them, and who could blame him.

  Her mind was spinning. She doubted Michael’s faithfulness, and yet she was also beginning to doubt her own judgement. She was only a few miles away from Brooksville, when she pulled in at the side of the road to think. It was a densely wooded area, and normally a place she would find quite beautiful, yet in her current mood it seemed dark, shadowy, and oppressive. She turned off the engine and fumbled through her bag for her cigarettes. The pack only contained three; she placed one between her lips, lit it, and inhaled the smoke deep into her lungs. She sat there for a while trying to clear her mind of all thoughts as she smoked one cigarette after another until the pack was empty. The weather started to turn, heavy droplets of rain began to hit the windscreen, and all of a sudden it began to feel much colder. She started the car and headed for home, though decided that on the way she would stop off in town for another pack of cigarettes.

  Ten minutes later she pulled up outside the Merryweather’s store, and by now the rain was lashing down and it had become suddenly quite dark. So much so, that all the shops along the street were lit up, as were the navigation lights of the small fishing boats in the harbour and out on the sea. A mile or so across the bay, the lights of houses dotted around the cliffs also flickered in the darkness that had so quickly fallen. She made a dash for the liquor store two doors away from Merryweather’s. She knew it was silly, but although Merryweather’s stocked cigarettes, Laura always bought them elsewhere, she knew Blanche didn’t really approve of smoking, and somehow it mattered.

  Before getting back in the car and driving home, she had considered dropping by on Michael, but decided against it, and instead went into Merryweather’s for a cup of Blanche’s famous hot chocolate and a chat. She didn’t want to go home. Now, more than the whole time she had lived at Brooksville, she cherished Blanche’s friendship, and although all the locals had welcomed her, she was her only true friend. Michael and her had occasionally gone out with people, or had them over to the house for dinner, but they were all people Michael had known for years, they were his friends, not hers.

  There were a few elderly women, some with their husbands, but mostly with friends, sitting at the small tables in the shop, drinking tea or hot chocolate and eating cakes, making it last until the weather passed by. Blanche was sitting with two of them, herself drinking a cup of coffee, whilst George was busy behind the counter stocking up shelves. She was engrossed in conversation so much that at first she didn’t notice Laura walk in. It wasn’t until George greeted Laura that she looked up with her usual warm smile.

  ‘Hello Laura, how are you today? What awful weather.’

  ‘Hello, Blanche, yes, I guess this is just the start.’

  ‘Oh, not even that, I don’t think. This is nothing to what we can expect next week, dear.’ She called over to her husband. ‘George! Fetch a cup of hot chocolate over for Laura, would you, there’s a dear.’ He looked at Blanche and grunted.

  ‘Sit down my dear, you know Maude and Grace, don’t you?’ Blanche said.

  ‘Yes, of course. Hi there, but please, I don’t want to disturb you ladies.’

  ‘Nonsense! You won’t be disturbing anyone, sit yourself down.’

  ‘So, how are things at the old Coopers place, Laura?’ asked Maude.

  ‘Oh fine, I guess.’

  ‘Must need an awful lot of upkeep,’ said Grace, almost indiscernibly. She was a quiet, timid type, not at all like her friends.

  ‘Yes, quite a bit, still, I manage.’

  ‘And how’s that husband of yours?’ asked Maude.

  ‘Oh, he’s fine too, thanks.’

  ‘I must say, I never thought I’d see the day he got married,’ continued Maude.

  ‘Oh, and why’s that?’

  ‘Oh, you know, he just never seemed the settling down type. Isn’t that right, Blanche?’

  ‘I’m sure I wouldn’t know about that, I believe he was just waiting for the right girl to come along, that’s all.’

  ‘Oh, why yes, of course, nevertheless, all the girls he went around with, he never showed any sign of being serious with any of them. Most of them quite pretty too, still…’

  ‘Like I said, Maude, he was waiting for the right girl, and that’s all there is to it,’ Blanche said, with a disapproving tone.

  ‘So, he had a lot of girlfriends, huh?’ asked Laura.

  Maude glanced at Blanche for a moment. ‘Oh, well, I wouldn’t say a lot, dear, certainly no more than you’d expect a good looking young man to have. Still, as Blanche said, he’s clearly found the right one in you. You should take that as a compliment.’

  Laura nodded and feigned a smile at the woman, as George Merryweather arrived at the table with her hot chocolate.

  ‘There you go, young lady. What are these old busybodies ranting on about now?’

  ‘Never you mind, George Merryweather, just you carry on with what you’re doing,’ Blanche said, waving him away. He raised an eyebrow at Laura, and then shuffled off, muttering and cursing under his breath.

  ‘Of course, there was one girl he was quite keen on,’ Maude said, pausing as she took a sip of her tea. She was about to continue when Blanche interjected.

  ‘So, what are you doing for Thanksgiving, Laura. Are you having your family to stay?’

  ‘Actually, my sister’s coming up to us for a couple of days. How about you?’

  ‘Oh, it’ll just be George and me, same as it has been for years.’

  ‘Well, you could always come to us, it would be lovely to have you.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you, dear,’ Blanche said, reaching out to pat Laura’s arm, ‘but we’ll be fine. We’re both a little set in our ways these days you know. And besides, you don’t want a couple of old fogies like us around at Thanksgiving.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Blanche, we’d love to have you.’

  ‘You’re very sweet, Laura. I’ll have a word with George and let you know, if that’s okay.’

  ‘Oh, okay, no problem.’ She took two final mouthfuls of hot chocolate and stood up. ‘I guess I’d better be going. Thanks for the drink. Goodbye ladies, bye, Blanche, bye, George.’

  ‘Goodbye dear,’ said Blanche and Grace, but not Maude, who looked thoroughly disappointed that Blanche had cut her short, not allowing her to continue with the tittle-tattle she had been enjoying so much.

  As Laura drove home, she had mixed feelings. On one hand she was happy to have been rescued from the woman’s obvious maliciousness, yet on the other, part of her would liked to have heard more about the girl whom Maude intimated Michael’s relationship with had been more than simply casual. She wondered whether Frank Doyle would be able to dig anything up on the mystery woman. That was of course, if there was anything to dig up. It was quite possible that it was merely spiteful gossip on Maude’s part, and nothing more.

  There was always someone it seemed, that was willing and able to cause mischief, even in a friendly town like Brooksville.

  Eight

  Frank Doyle, true to his word, began a file on Laura’s husband immediately after she had left, perhaps because he had no other pressing cases on his books. Firstly, he Googled Michael’s name and found his corporate website, followed by other online resources, such as credit checks, which he had access to. It seemed to him that his client’s husband had, on the whole, led a pretty clean life, apart from a speeding ticket a couple of years before in upstate New York, along with a couple of unpaid parking tickets. But apart from that there was nothing out of the ordinary. He was basically a law-abiding citizen who had never been in trouble, and had never been married before.

  There was something though that interested him. It appeared that Michael’s business was in trouble financially, and far from making a profit, he was in debt to the tune of twenty thousand dollars. He was paying it off slowly, in small payments to his creditors, although as near as Frank could work out, at the rate he was repaying it, it would take around fifteen years to clear the debt. Not that it was relev
ant to the case, but he wondered if Laura knew of the debt, or if it was even worth mentioning to her at this stage.

  What was certainly of interest was how a lawyer could be in financial trouble; nevertheless, he decided that for now he would keep it to himself, there was little to gain by troubling Laura. If she didn’t know already, telling her about it now would only cause her distress; that was not what Frank was all about. Frank was an old-fashioned detective, with old-fashioned ideas of what was right and wrong, he was not in the business of making people miserable if there was no cause. More often than not, of course, he ultimately ended up delivering painful information to his clients, but not until he had to, and never before he had all the indisputable facts.

  As was his routine, he ran the same background checks on Laura as well. It was a helpful tool to know things about the very people on whose behalf he was working. Very often there were issues that clients left out about themselves, and on this occasion the information that appeared on the screen came as a shock. Naturally, the information on Laura was in the form of factual reports, cold hard facts that gave nothing away about her as a person.

  Although the shooting of her former husband had occurred in Chicago some years before, he had a vague recollection of hearing about it at the time, and as the police report concluded, she was acquitted; the verdict was justifiable homicide on the grounds of self-defence.

  Having met her, and liked her, he could only conclude that the verdict had been correct. But what if she was an intensely jealous woman. What if the police, and the court had got it wrong? Their meeting had only been a brief one, but he prided himself on being a good judge of character and he did not see Laura as a cold-blooded murderer that would kill in a fit of jealous rage. It was, nevertheless, an interesting revelation and certainly food for thought.

  Frank Doyle was an ex New York cop, and luckily had a few friends who still worked there. He lit a cigar, picked up the phone and dialled out the number for his old precinct. The operator on the switchboard answered.