Love and Lies: A Jake Badger Mystery Thriller

by Glenn Rogers

  “That's good work, Alex.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “But where was he under cover?” I asked. “At Bailey’s or at the security company that employed him?”

  “Security Specialists.”

  “That's the company he worked for?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So where was he undercover?” I asked again.

  “That's what you have to find out,” Alex said.

  “Ah ha,” I said. “I knew there was something I was supposed to be doing.”

  “Speaking about what you're supposed to be doing,” he said, “did you talk to Hanson?”

  “I did.”

  “And?”

  “And he confirmed that the syndicate did have and still has an mole inside the agency.”

  Alex was silent for a moment.

  “You believe him?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Okay then,” he said, “we should get busy.”

  “Meet for lunch?” I asked.

  “Sure. Where?”

  “Isn't there a Thai place not far from you?” I asked.

  “Emporium?”

  “Yeah. Noon?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  When Mildred arrived at nine, I left Wilson with her and went to find Adam Clauson.

  Clauson lived in L.A. in a district known to some as Mid-City, just below the Mid-Wilshire district, where he worked as a securities representative and financial advisor. I called him while driving and he asked me to meet him at a Starbucks near his office. He was waiting for me when I arrived. Adam was in his later twenties. Brown hair, dark eyes. He was maybe five nine, one seventy-five. In his blue blazer, gray slacks, white shirt, and yellow and blue-striped tie, he looked like a fraternity brother dressed up for a special occasion. He had gotten himself a cup of coffee.

  I got myself tea and joined him at the table. Once we were set, I asked Adam to tell me his story. It took eight minutes for him to tell me the same basic story I'd read in Lucy's file.

  When he finished, I asked him why anyone should believe his version of what happened rather than Barbara's version. Clearly, he did not appreciate the question.

  “Because I'm telling the truth,” he said, impatiently. “And she's lying.”

  “Got any proof?”

  “What's going on here?” Adam growled. “You're supposed to be helping to prove my innocence, not questioning it.”

  I said, “I don't know who told you that ...”

  “My attorney told me that,” he said, way too aggressively.

  Hmm. Little bit of a temper there.

  “Well, then,” I said, the epitome of patience. “Lucy was mistaken. I'm an investigator. My job is to discover the truth. If you're telling me the truth, you can help prove your innocence by giving me something concrete to work with.”

  It was clear from Adam's sullen expression that he didn't like what I was saying.

  “How can your story be confirmed?” I asked. “Who can I talk to?”

  “I didn't break up with her in front of our friends,” he said, his manner laced with sarcasm.

  “Where were you?” I asked.

  “When we broke up?”

  “Yes.”

  “At her place,” he said.

  “Alone?”

  “Yes.”

  I paused to sip my tea.

  “How about character witnesses? Friends who can testify on your behalf?”

  “What good would that do?” Adam said. “If my friends testify what a great guy I am and that I would never do what she says I did, her friends will say the same thing about her. Stalemate.”

  “So how do you expect Lucy to prove your innocence?”

  “It's her job to prove my innocence. I expect her to do her job.”

  “Based on what evidence?”

  “Based on my testimony,” he said.

  “What about Barbara's testimony?”

  “That bitch is lying,” he said angrily, slapping the table as he did.

  Other customers turned and looked at us. Immediately he appeared to regret his outburst.

  I didn’t like Adam Clauson. But as calmly as I could, I said, “Adam, she went to the emergency room. Someone had slapped her around pretty good. Bloody nose, cut lip, bruises. If it wasn't you, who was it?”

  “I don't know,” he said, emphatically but quietly. “But it wasn't me.”

  He was almost whispering, but it was one of those yelling whispers.

  “Look,” he said, “that woman is a whack job. That's why I broke up with her. Every time we would go out, she'd end up making a scene about something. She even came to my office and made a scene ... at my office, in front of the people I work with.”

  He stopped for a moment, exasperated, and shook his head. Then he started up again. “It's no wonder somebody beat the crap out of her. She's an asshole. But it wasn't me. I didn’t do it.”

  I gave him one of my business cards. “That's got my email address on it. Send me a photo of you and Barbara. I also need a list of some of the places where you went and she made a scene. The bigger the scene the better. The approximate date it happened would also helpful. Can you do that?”

  “So you're going to help me?” he asked.

  “I'm going to find out what happened. If you're telling the truth, then what I discover will be helpful to you. If you’re lying, what I discover won't be helpful to you.”

  I left Adam sitting in Starbucks and went to find Barbara Sneed. She lived in Inglewood but worked in Culver City. I decided to try her house first. About half way to Inglewood, my phone rang.

  “Jake Badger.”

  “Mr. Badger, this is Lucy Esperanza.”

  Her formality suggested that we were not friends. But I don’t like formality, at least, not for the wrong reasons. So I said, “Hi Lucy. What's up?”

  I assumed that Adam had called her to complain about me and that she was calling to complain to me. I was wrong.

  “I just got a call from another attorney that Barbara Sneed's hired. She's going after Adam’s money.”

  “Adam has money?” I asked.

  “A sizable inheritance.”

  “So she's going to sue for emotional damages… or something like that?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Okay, well, I just met with Adam and I'm on my way to see Barbara.”

  “Very well. I am aware of your reputation.”

  “I have a reputation?”

  Ignoring me, she said, “I suggest you tread lightly.”

  I’ve always felt that humorous sarcasm was preferable to straight up sarcasm, so in my best John Wayne voice I said, “Treading lightly is not my way, little lady.”

  She disconnected.

  Barbara Sneed lived in an older apartment complex on a street of older apartment complexes. Her apartment was number one eleven.

  I knocked. In a moment, a thin, timid-looking but attractive young woman answered. She was not much over five foot tall and weighed maybe a hundred ten pounds.

  “Barbara Sneed?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  I handed her my card and explained who I was and that I was working for Badger, Reagan, and Ridley on the case involving her and Mr. Clauson.

  “Can I ask you a few questions?” I asked.

  She had the right to have her attorney present, but as far as I knew, I was not required to remind her of that option.

  “So you're working for him?” she asked.

  “I don't work for Adam. I work for the law firm that is representing him. My job is to discover what happened. I've heard his version of what happened. I'd like to hear your side of the story.”

  “Well,” she said, “I suppose that would be okay. I'm telling the truth. I've nothing to hide.”

  She stepped aside to let me in. The apartment was small, dim, and had a closed up feel and smell. As she led me to the living room, I glanced into the kitchen. Dirty dishes in the sink. She gestured toward the sofa and I
sat down. Barbara sat in a chair that sat at an angle to the sofa. The chair and sofa were not a matched set.

  Once we were both seated, I said, “So tell me what happened.”

  She nodded, took a moment to think, nodded again and said, “It was a Tuesday. I had told Adam that we needed to talk ...”

  As Barbara spoke, a woman that was an older version of Barbara came into the room from the hallway. She had a frown on her face, along with a couple of bruises.

  “Who's this?” she asked with a scowl.

  I stood, extended my hand, and introduced myself.

  Barbara said, “He's a private investigator, Mom. He want's to hear my side of the story.

  “A private ...” Rage contorted her face. “You stupid little ...” To me she said. “Get the hell out of my house.”

  I hesitated, searching her eyes. There was something there, something animal-like and cruel.

  “Out,” she demanded angrily, pointing toward the door. When her hand came up, I noticed there were bruises on her knuckles. I glanced at Barbara. When I did, her mother stepped in and took a swing at me. I blocked it with my right arm and with my left hand pushed her away. For an instant, it appeared as if she would lunge at me again, but she didn't.

  “Get out,” she growled.

  Chapter 13

  Based on the look in Mrs. Sneed's eyes, I decided it would not be prudent to turn my back on her, so I backed away until I bumped into the door, opened it and backed out, pulling the door shut as I stepped out of the apartment. The instant it was shut the yelling began. I stood for a moment and listened. Mrs. Sneed's language was as raw and abusive as I’d ever heard. And then the fight began.

  From the sound of it they were really going after each other. I could either walk away, minding my own business, or I could go back in there and try to break it up. Domestic violence was, after all, a crime. Whoever threw the first punch was guilty of assault. I suspected it was Mrs. Sneed.

  Walk away or jump in? I opened the door and went in.

  Mother and daughter were in the middle of the living room punching, kicking and pulling hair. Except for the pulling hair part, it looked like female cage fighting. I waded in to pull the two apart.

  I grabbed Mrs. Sneed by one shoulder and Barbara by the other, and said, “Okay, break it up.”

  At the same time, mother and daughter turned toward me and each threw a vicious punch at my face. I leaned back and took half a step back as well. Their punches came up short, but not by much. Mrs. Sneed's left shoulder was in my right hand. I gave her a good shove and she bounced off the wall and fell to her hands and knees. I picked Barbara up and sat her down hard in the chair she'd been sitting in a few minutes before. I bent toward her, our noses practically touching, and growled, “Stay.”

  When I released Barbara and turned back to Mrs. Sneed she was practically on me. The woman was fast. She took another haymaker swing at me. I moved enough so that the swing went on past. She had swung so hard that the momentum turned her to the left. I grabbed her right upper arm and kept her turning to the left until she was turned all the way around. Then I pushed her and pinned her against the wall, holding her there with my body weight.

  I said, “Stop it, Mrs. Sneed.”

  She struggled fiercely. “Let me go, you bastard,” she said, spitting the words from between gritted teeth.

  As I was trying restrain Mrs. Sneed, Barbara jumped on my back and began pummeling the sides of my face with her small boney fists. I could have knocked either of them out without much effort, but I didn't want to hurt them. I also didn't want them to hurt each other or me. What to do?

  I was determined not to hurt either of them … until Barbara bit me on the neck. With her teeth still in my flesh, I reached up behind me, grabbed a handful of hair, pulled her off my back and slammed her against the wall next to her mother, who was still struggling against my weight while verbally abusing me. Barbara hit the wall harder than I meant for her to and went limp. When Mrs. Sneed saw her daughter go limp, the same daughter out of whom she'd been beating the crap only moments before, she gasped and cried, “You killed her.”

  She stopped struggling against me and reached for her daughter. I stepped back, releasing Mrs. Sneed at the same time I let Barbara slide gently down onto the floor. Mrs. Sneed knelt beside her and began apologizing to Barbara, stroking her hair, and begging her to wake up.

  I took advantage of what I was sure would be only a temporary ceasefire to call 911. Mrs. Sneed continued to focus her attention on Barbara until Barbara came around. When she was sure her daughter was okay, she turned on me again.

  “You bastard,” she screamed as she lunged at me.

  I’d had enough. I caught her, lifted her off the floor and tossed her across the room. I was moving toward her as she hit the floor. I grabbed her by her shoulders, turned her face down, got her arms behind her and cuffed her. Barbara still looked a little dazed. I didn't think she was a threat.

  The police arrived in about three minutes. I met them just outside the front door, identified myself and explained that when I had stepped in to separate the two women who were fighting, they turned on me and I had to defend myself. The patrolmen were looking at the scratches and puffy red splotches on my face. I also suggested that they call Captain Frank McGarry. I didn't like playing the McGarry card, but I didn't have time to be arrested, which is what would happen if mother and daughter teamed up to accuse me of assault. Also, I had realized what had happened and needed access to Barbara.

  One of the patrolmen called McGarry. Frank must have told them to treat me well and help me out any way they could, because even though they were both older than me, they began calling me Sir, and granted three requests I had: to keep the two women separated, to have Barbara checked out at the emergency room, and to let me ride along with her in the ambulance.

  The patrolmen got mother and daughter separated. I stayed with Barbara, who was now sobbing quietly. The ambulance arrived and the EMTs loaded her onto the gurney and into the vehicle. I climbed in and sat on one side of her; one of the EMTs sat on the other side to monitor her.

  As we pulled away from the apartment complex, I said, “Adam didn't assault you, did he Barbara?”

  She looked at me for a second before averting her eyes.

  “It was your mother, wasn't it?”

  She began crying. “Barbara, it would be wrong for Adam to go to jail for something he didn't do. It wouldn't be right to ruin a man's life, even if he hurt you by breaking up with you.”

  She looked at me again, tears rolling down the side of her face, as she lay strapped to the gurney.

  She shook her head. “He didn't break up with me,” she said. “I broke up with him.”

  “Why did you break up with him?” I asked.

  “Because he's an arrogant ass. He thinks he’s better than everybody else because he's rich and is a securities rep who works on Wilshire Boulevard.”

  I thought about that for a moment. “And when you told your mom, she got angry and the two of you got into a fight.”

  Barbara nodded.

  “Barbara,” I said, “I need you to speak. Did you and you mother get into a fight because you told her you broke up with Adam?”

  “Yes.”

  “Because Adam is rich and your mom thought he might have been a source of money?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is that why you went to the emergency room? Because you and your mom didn't just have an argument, you actually fought each other?”

  “Yes.”

  I looked at the EMT. He nodded.

  “Okay, Barbara,” I said. “You rest. Everything's going to be okay.”

  Chapter 14

  While Barbara was being checked out in the emergency room, I gave my statement to the older of the two patrolmen. When he told me I could go, I called a cab to take me back to Barbara's apartment complex where my Jeep was parked. Then I drove to Santa Monica to meet with Lucy. She listened to my account of the morni
ng's events without interrupting. When I finished, she said, “And the paramedic will testify as to Barbara's confession?”

  “Yes.”

  She folded her hands primly and placed them delicately on the top of her desk. “Well, Mr. Badger, it appears that you stumbled into a hornet's nest. And though from the look of your face you got stung a little, it all worked out to your advantage. You discovered the truth you were seeking and it happened to prove my client's innocence.”

  I studied her for a moment and slowly shook my head.

  “What?” she said, rather adolescently, I thought. I didn’t like her.

  “My father usually hires caring, thoughtful people, full of passion for humanity,” I said. “It must have been one of the other partners who hired you.”

  If her eyes had been knives, I'd have bled to death before I got out of her office.

  Adam's office wasn't that far from where I was in Santa Monica, so before going to meet Alex for lunch I stopped by to see Adam. The investment firm he worked for had its offices on the fifth floor of an older twelve-story office complex on Wilshire Boulevard. Adam's office was small, one of a dozen functional workspaces where mostly young men worked the telephones trying to convince people to let him manage their money. Based on what I could see going on in the suite of offices, no one other than Adam thought he was important.

  He was on the phone when I walked into his office, closed the door and sat in one of his guest chairs. He said, “Okay, Mr. Gallway, give it some thought and get back to me. Or better yet, I’ll call you again next week.”

  He listened for a moment and then said, “Well, okay, if that's what you’d prefer.”

  He listened again and said, “Okay, then, Mr. Gallway. Thank you.”

  He hung up and said, “Asshole.”

  He looked at me and said, “I haven't had time yet. Okay? I'll send the stuff later today.”

  “That won't be necessary.”

  “Why not?” He looked confused.

  “Because I talked to Barbara and her mother. I know what happened.”

  “What did she tell you?”

  “I'll let Lucy fill you in on all the details, but among other things, she said she was the one who broke up with you.”