One Stiletto in the Grave

by Jason Krumbine

  Brooke pats him on the shoulder. “Only by about five years. Don’t worry about it.”

  Ricky looks at the photo again. “How old is she in this picture?”

  Brooke shrugs. “I don’t know. Somewhere between eighteen and twenty, I think.”

  Ricky makes a few adjustments. “That brings us down to thirty Kristen Jones’ to choose from.”

  “Okay, well, I should warn you that several private investigators before us have tried to find this woman and failed miserably,” Brooke says. “So, it’s possible that none of these Kristen Jones’ are the one I’m looking for.”

  Ricky sighs and shakes his head. “It would be easier if you had mentioned all of this at the beginning.”

  “Well, that’s life for you,” Brooke nods at the screen. “Can you get pictures for any of these Kristens?”

  “Only the ones that have pictures available.” Ricky types a few commands into the computer and a second later twenty or so pictures pop up. He scrolls through them.

  Brooke shakes her head. “None of them are her.”

  Ricky gives a polite cough. “Maybe you should give me a few more details to go on.”

  Brooke sits back in her chair. “Well, she disappeared about five years ago. Her father was Daniel Jones.”

  “Was?” Ricky echoes, turning around to face her.

  “He died this morning from a heart attack,” Brooke clarifies.

  Ricky nods. “That would have been helpful to know.”

  Brooke studies the nervous man for a second. “I can’t tell if you’re being sarcastic or not.”

  Ricky turns back to the computer. “I can cross-reference the search between Daniel Jones and Kristen Jones from five years ago.”

  “I don’t understand anything you just said,” Brooke admits.

  Ricky types as he talks. “I mean, I can find Daniel Jones,” an obituary picture pops up on the monitor, “and then backtrack to his family members,” two more pictures pop up on the monitor. One’s of Kristen and the other is of an older woman that has the same red hair as Kristen. “Kristen Samantha Jones. Daughter of Daniel and Sharon Jones. Huh.”

  “What?” Brooke asks, trying to read over Ricky’s shoulder.

  “Daniel and Sharon Jones were the creators of MatchMaker dot com,” Ricky says.

  “Which is…?”

  Ricky looks over his shoulder at Brooke. “It’s a website for matchmaking.”

  Brooke flicks her finger into the side of Ricky’s face. “I know that, idiot. Why does it matter, is what I meant.”

  Ricky turns back to his computer, rubbing at the red spot on his cheek. “It was one of the earliest and most successful matchmaking websites. They eventually sold it for an undisclosed sum of money, but it was rumored to be in the tens of millions. It made the headlines of all the tech papers.”

  “Well, that explains it,” Brooke says. “I’m not a shut-in nerd.” She points to the computer. “Go on.”

  Ricky scrolls through a few different screens. “Oh, this is interesting.”

  Brooke waits, but Ricky doesn’t clarify.

  “Hey, Ricky?”

  “Hmm?”

  “I can’t read your mind,” Brooke says.

  “Sorry,” Ricky says. He points to the screen. He’s found an old newspaper article. “It says here that Sharon Jones died shortly after they sold the website.”

  “What’s so weird about that?” Brooke asks.

  “Her cause of death was inconclusive.”

  Brooke pushes Ricky to the side and pulls her chair up to the desk. “Inconclusive?”

  “About six months after they sold the company Sharon dropped dead,” Ricky says, skimming the article. “It was assumed she died from some kind of preexisting health problem, but no autopsy was ever done. So, officially, cause of death was inconclusive.”

  “Why wasn’t there an autopsy?” Brooke asks.

  “I’m not sure,” Ricky says. “You’re kind of in my way.” He points to the mouse that Brooke’s blocking.

  Brooke pushes back from the desk.

  Ricky scrolls down, reading. Finally, he says, “Nobody wanted one.”

  “The lady just dropped dead,” Brooke says. “Nobody wanted to know why?”

  “Apparently not,” Ricky says. “There’s reference to a family history of diabetes.”

  “Diabetes doesn’t make you just drop dead,” Brooke says.

  “My uncle died of diabetes,” Ricky says.

  “Did he just drop dead one day?”

  Ricky thinks about it. “No, it was a protracted process.”

  “Exactly.” She nods at the screen. “What about their daughter?”

  Ricky falls silent as he goes through a few more screens. He types something out and scrolls down a couple of times.

  “There’s a clear line up until about five years ago,” he says. “Credit cards, driver’s license, apartment, even a couple of speeding tickets. Then she just disappears.”

  Brooke blows a raspberry. “Can you check the Jane Doe’s that were reported dead about five years ago?”

  “I could,” he says. “But that would take a little time. Why are you jumping straight to death?”

  “Because, Ricky, when somebody drops off the face of the planet like that, they’re usually dead.”

  “Or,” Ricky carefully says after a minute, turning to face Brooke, “it’s because they’ve completely changed their identity.”

  Brooke rolls her eyes. “And why would she change her identity?”

  Ricky shrugs. “Honestly, I don’t know. I don’t even know why you’re looking for her. But I do know that her mother died under what could be considered mysterious circumstances.”

  Brooke looks at the monitor. She thinks about it.

  “Okay,” she says. “Can you pull up her history for the six months before she disappeared? Like credit card activity and that kind of stuff?”

  Ricky just stares at her.

  “What?”

  “I’m not sure you understand what I do here,” Ricky says.

  “I know I don’t understand what you do here,” Brooke replies.

  Ricky shakes his head. “I don’t have the time or the resources to get that kind of data, Ms. Graves.”

  “Brooke,” she corrects him.

  “I’m not even sure I can get you a comprehensive list of Jane Does that died back then,” Ricky admits.

  “You’re too hard on yourself, Ricky,” Brooke says, getting to her feet.

  “I am?”

  “Yes,” Brooke says. “I don’t need a comprehensive list. I just need to know whether or not Kristen Jones matches any of those Jane Does.”

  “Oh, well.” Ricky rolls his eyes. “In that case.”

  “You know, I don’t think I like the person this life coach of yours is turning you into,” Brooke says. “Too much attitude.”

  Ricky turns back to the computer, ignoring the jab, but the odor of rotting cheese that fills the cubicle tells another story. “You just need to know what happened to her.”

  “Avery had it in her head something about college,” Brooke says, trying to wave the smell out of the cubicle.

  Ricky’s head bobs up and down as he starts typing. “That’s something I could do.”

  “It is?” Brooke asks.

  Ricky’s fingers fly over the keyboard. “You might not know this, but nothing’s ever thrown out these days.”

  “These days I believe it,” Brooke says. “But we’re talking about five years ago.”

  “Nothing was ever thrown out back then, either,” Ricky says. “I can easily ping the databases of the local colleges to see if Kristen Jones applied to any of them five years ago.”

  “Ping?”

  Ricky looks at her over his glasses. “I was oversimplifying the process for your benefit.”

  “Should I be offended?” Brooke says.

  There’s a beep on the computer. Ricky turns back to the monitor. “There were three Kristen Jones who enrolle
d in college five years ago.” The screen populates with the three photos. One of them was a match for Daniel Jones’ daughter.

  “That’s her,” Brooke says.

  “Henderson College,” Ricky says. “She enrolled, but didn’t declare a major. She signed up for three classes: English One-oh-One, Algebra and History. She failed all three classes.”

  “My kind of girl,” Brooke says.

  “She could have failed the classes due to absenteeism,” Ricky says.

  “Really? They can fail you for that?”

  Ricky looks back at her. “Have you ever gone to college?”

  “Well, I’ve been on a college campus,” Brooke says. “And I’ve slept with a college professor or two. Does that count?”

  Ricky sighs. “Ms. Graves-”

  “Brooke,” she corrects him.

  “-I don’t think there’s much else I can do for you right now,” Ricky finishes.

  “You can find out whether or not she was enrolled in school, but you can’t find out if she matches any of the Jane Does?” Brooke asks dubiously.

  “I don’t have to hack into college databases to get that information,” Ricky says, staring at the floor.

  The cubicle starts to stink again.

  “Right,” Brooke pulls out an extra fifty and drops it on Ricky’s desk. “Gimme a call if you find anything on the Jane Does.”

  seventeen

  Avery traces Ralph Mason down to the city docks. It takes about twenty minutes of asking around and six people with really dumbfounded stares, before Avery finds someone who knows who Ralph Mason is, and, even then, all Avery really got was a finger pointing to a blue office building.

  “Hello?” Avery asks as she pokes her head through the open door.

  Turns out the blue office building is really just a single, rectangular shaped office. It takes all of three seconds for Avery to survey the entire office and discover it’s empty.

  From the doorway, she pulls out the spectral analysis device and flips the switch. The red light comes on immediately. Flipping the device off, Avery slips it back into her jacket pocket.

  Avery looks over her shoulder, but there’s no one there.

  “Is it breaking and entering if the door was already unlocked?” Avery asks out loud. She follows it up with, “What if I don’t plan on stealing anything?”

  Naturally, there’s no answer.

  Avery decides to live dangerously and step inside. The door swings shut behind her.

  The walls are covered in cheap wood paneling and the floor is an even cheaper shag carpet. There’s a desk and a couple of filing cabinets. It ranks at least number ten in the top twenty most boring offices Avery’s been in.

  “Okay, what else have we got here?” she says to herself, walking around the desk. It’s cluttered with shipping papers and work schedules. Avery randomly flips through a few papers but doesn’t find anything interesting. There’s a picture on the desk of three men. She recognizes Ben and Brian Mason. The one in the middle looks like an older version of Brian Mason. “Nice to meet you, Ralph.”

  Avery’s phone rings and she jumps.

  “Yeah?” Avery answers.

  It’s Brooke. “You okay?”

  “I’m fine,” Avery says, setting the picture back down.

  “You sound a little startled,” Brooke says.

  “That’s because you startled me,” Avery replies. She tries the desk drawers, but they’re locked.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Poking around an empty office,” Avery says. “Is there a reason you called?”

  “Couple of reasons,” Brooke says. “First, I’ve got some juicy nuggets on Danny the Dead Guy.”

  Avery frowns, pulling open one of the file cabinets. “We’re grim reapers, not gossip girls.”

  Brooke ignores her sister’s chastising tone. “Danny the Dead Guy’s wife? The first one? Turns out she died six months after they sold their little matchmaker website for a crap load of money,” Brooke says.

  “What did she die from?”

  “Nobody knows,” Brooke says. “It’s assumed that it was diabetes related, but the family refused an autopsy.”

  Avery doesn’t find anything in the filling cabinet. “That’s interesting,” she says.

  “Especially given Daniel’s behavior right before he died,” Brooke adds.

  “Yeah,” Avery agrees. “What about Kristen?”

  “Well, like the dead guy says, she disappeared five years ago,” Brooke says. She burps loudly over the phone. Avery’s pretty sure she could smell it through the receiver. “Ricky says he can cross-reference her against all the dead Jane Does from back then, but it’s going to take some time. He was able to find out that she enrolled in Henderson College, but she failed all her classes. Hey, did you know you can fail a college course by just not showing up?”

  “Yes, I actually knew that,” Avery says. “And you would have too, had you actually gone to college.”

  “Hey, college boys are hot,” Brooke says, “but I don’t need an excuse to pick them up, if you know what I mean.”

  “I don’t and I’m glad of it.” Avery rubs her jaw. “What else?”

  “I got a weird text from Steven the bartender.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Why would I lie about getting a text from him?” Brooke asks.

  “Why would you bring it up now?” Avery replies.

  “Well, let me read you the text and I think you’ll understand.”

  “No,” Avery cuts her off. “I’m kind of in the middle of being a trespasser here and I really don’t want to hear what Steven the bartender texted you.”

  “You wouldn’t be saying that if you knew what he texted me,” Brooke says.

  Avery rolls her eyes. “Please. We’re not horny teenagers.”

  “Well, you’re right about the teenager part,” Brooke concedes. “What are you doing?”

  “I tracked down Brian’s other brother.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Ralph Mason,” Avery says. “Runs some sort of import/export thing down by the docks.”

  “You find anything?”

  “A butt load of nothing.”

  Brooke doesn’t say anything for a minute. “What are you thinking?”

  Avery scratches her nose. “I’m thinking there are plenty of legitimate businesses down here by the docks.”

  “That’s an odd thought.”

  “Maybe not so odd when you think about what an ass Brian’s other brother was yesterday.”

  “Okay,” Brooke replies. “I think I see. Speaking of seeing, I really need to read you this text message.”

  “What are you doing next?” Avery asks her.

  “Depends on your thoughts about this text message.”

  “And what if you don’t read me that text message?”

  “I was thinking about getting lunch.”

  “Are you going to the college?”

  “I wasn’t planning to,” Brooke replies.

  “Well, start,” Avery says.

  “Come on,” Brooke whines. “Not cool.”

  “We don’t get paid to be cool.”

  “We don’t get paid if we don’t turn over the dead souls,” Brooke shoots back. She fumes on the other end the line. “I hate you.”

  “You’ll hate me less after you get that fuzzy feeling from doing something good,” Avery says.

  “Yeah, that's a problem because the only fuzzy feelings I get that are good, either come with either a crap load of money or from a fantastic orgasm,” Brooke says.

  “There’s a first time for everything,” Avery says.

  The office door opens.

  “Okay, I have to go now,” Avery says suddenly and hangs up as Ralph Mason walks into the office. Avery gives him a little wave. “Hi.”

  eighteen

  Ralph is almost a spitting image of his younger brother, at least, based on the few pictures Avery’s seen of Brian. He’s got a full head of hair and heav
y sideburns. His face is a little pinched and he stands about a head taller than Avery. He’s dressed in slacks and a button down shirt, though the outfit seems awkward on him.

  Ralph doesn’t seem particularly surprised to see Avery.

  “Hi,” Avery says again.

  “You’re the grim reaper,” Ralph says finally, setting his briefcase down.

  Avery nods, hooking her thumbs through the belt loops on her pants. “So you’ve spoken to your brother.”

  Ralph walks around to the other side of his desk. “Which one?”

  That catches Avery off guard. “I beg your pardon.”

  Ralph laughs to himself, but it’s devoid of any humor. “Brian called me this morning.”

  Avery pauses, tilting her head to her side. “We are talking about your dead brother, right?”

  He settles back in his chair. “Yeah, it came as a shock to me, too.”

  Ralph doesn’t offer anything else and Avery stands there awkwardly for a moment.

  “This isn’t normally how these things go,” she says finally.

  “How do they normally go?”

  “Well, for starters, normally the family of the deceased is a little more broken up. You know, what with the death of their loved ones,” she admits.

  Ralph shrugs. “Sorry. We had a complicated relationship with Brian.”

  “So I’m learning,” Avery replies. “So, what did Brian say?”

  “You know, I’m not so sure I should tell you that,” Ralph replies. “Ben didn’t have a very high opinion of you.”

  “I got the impression that Ben doesn’t have a very high opinion of anyone,” Avery says.

  “That’s true,” Ralph agrees. “But in our line of work it’s hard to think too highly of anyone. You get jaded fast.”

  “And what line of work is that exactly?”

  Ralph shakes his head. “I’m pretty sure I’m not supposed to tell you that.”

  Avery pulls out her grim reaper badge. “I may have a badge, but I’m not law enforcement.”

  “Maybe you should reconsider the badge, then,” Ralph suggests. “I think it puts people on edge.”

  She pockets the badge. “I just want what’s best for your brother and his wife.”

  Ralph nods his head. “Well, that’s an unfortunate choice of words. You see, that particular phrase has been thrown around Brian his entire life. I guess it’s only appropriate to use it in his death, too.”