by Ben Rehder
Chief Creely folded my I.D. and handed it back to me. “All right,” he said. “You’re a private detective. That simplifies things. Now, I’m going to ask you some questions and you better have the right answers. Before I do, let me help you out a little. Now Frank Ramsey—that’s the owner of the motel, the guy who checked you in last night when you signed the name Alan Parker—he says you made a big deal about trying to get unit six or eight. It was only when they turned out to be rented you settled for unit twelve. Now with that to jog your memory, perhaps you could tell us what you were doing at that motel.”
“I’m a private detective. I was hired to follow someone.”
“Who?”
“You know who. The woman in unit seven.” After a pause I added, “The dead woman.”
Creely raised his eyebrows. “The dead woman. Did you hear that, Davis?”
“Yeah. I heard that.”
“So,” Creely said. “The dead woman. Now how did you know the woman was dead?”
“Give me a break,” I said. “I get woken up by cops knocking on my door. The parking lot’s full of police cars. I get hustled down here to answer questions, and when we leave there’s a meat wagon pulling up to unit seven. If I didn’t think the woman was dead, I’d be the dumbest private detective ever lived.”
“That’s entirely possible,” Creely said. “It doesn’t answer the question.”
“Is she dead?” I said.
Creely chuckled. “Good ploy. Asking the question as if you didn’t know the answer. But I’m afraid it’s too little too late. You know damn well she’s dead. Dead as a doorknob.”
I must say that was a relief. Not that I wanted Monica Dorlander dead, but if she was, I wanted to know it.
See, by now my brain was starting to clear out, and I was starting to make some hard decisions, which it was necessary for me to do, seeing as how I’d gotten myself in a pretty precarious spot. And one of the decisions I’d made was, any information I had, these guys were welcome to it.
Now, I know that blows my image. A private detective’s supposed to hold out on the cops, protect his client, and solve the case himself. But that’s TV, where some writer has carefully constructed the plot, where if the client wasn’t innocent to begin with there wouldn’t be any story, so of course he is, and if the detective told the police what he knew the show would be over, so naturally he doesn’t, and so on and so forth.
Real life’s a little different. Here’s how I figured: if Monica Dorlander was dead, my job was over. If she was dead, then Marvin Nickleson wasn’t going to get her back, and there was nothing I could do for him. So it couldn’t hurt for me to tell my story to the cops.
Unless of course Marvin Nickleson was the one who killed her. In that case it would hurt a lot. But in that case I didn’t care. Because if he killed her, he was a rotten son of a bitch who deserved what he got. Now maybe that’s an attitude unbefitting a private detective, but I never was any great shakes at it anyway, and the way my first case was turning out, it seemed unlikely I was ever gonna have a second.
And there was another thing. And that was my ace in the hole. If these guys were suspecting me of anything at all—which seemed entirely likely—well, what all of them seemed to have lost sight of was the fact that none of them had ever read me my rights. Which meant I could tell ’em anything I wanted, and nothing I said could ever be used against me. Not that there was any reason why it should. But then I wasn’t familiar enough with the laws about obstructing justice and accessory to murder to be able to know for sure just what sort of trouble I might be in. So knowing I was legally safe to talk had to feel kind of good.
I frowned. “I see,” I said. “Well, that simplifies things.”
“How is that?” Creely said.
“I was hired to follow this woman. If she’s dead, my job’s over.”
“Uh-huh,” Creely said. “And who hired you?”
In for a penny, in for a pound. “Marvin Nickleson.”
“Marvin Nickleson? And who is that?”
“Her husband. Her estranged husband, rather. They’re separated but not divorced.”
Creely nodded. “And that’s where you come in. You were looking for evidence for the divorce.”
“Actually, he was hoping for a reconciliation.”
“Yeah, well he ain’t gonna get it.”
A police radio on a desk by the wall squawked.
Creely grunted, walked over there, plugged in a headset, slipped it on, and pushed the button on the mike. “Creely here. Talk to me.” He listened for some time, said, “Got it. Keep me posted.” He unplugged the headset, plopped it on the desk and strolled back over.
“Well now,” he said. “Mr. Hastings, is it? We’re identifying the woman. The dead woman. The one you were following for her husband.”
“Oh?” I said.
“Yeah. And we got the same problem with her that we had with you. A coincidence I’m sure, but there you are.”
“What do you mean?”
“With regard to her name, of course. Now your name is Hastings, but you registered under the name of Parker. Now in her case, she registered as Judy Felson. Now we went through the contents of her purse. According to her I.D., her name’s not Felson.”
“Right,” I said. “It’s Dorlander.”
He shook his head. “No.”
“Oh,” I said. “Then it’s Nickleson.”
“No, it’s Steinmetz.”
“What?!”
“That’s right. Julie Steinmetz. Does that name mean anything to you?”
Nothing at all. Nothing except I’m totally fucked. Nothing except all my finespun rationalization had just flown out the window. Jesus Christ. It had never occurred to me the dead woman could be anyone other than Monica Dorlander. I knew she’d had one visitor last night, and one more potential visitor this morning, what with the car with the license plate POP. So why couldn’t she have had a third? Actually, she must have had a third, since someone wound up dead. And if that third visitor was a woman, she could have just as well wound up dead as Monica Dorlander.
Except for the car. Monica Dorlander’s car was still in front of the unit. So that would point to her being the corpse. Unless she took the dead woman’s car instead and left hers there. But why should she do that?
How the hell should I know?
All I knew was, if Monica Dorlander wasn’t dead, I’d already spilled my guts to the cops. Including giving them Marvin Nickleson’s name. Which would probably lay me wide open for a lawsuit on the one hand, and fulfill my prophesy of being the world’s dumbest detective on the other.
I blinked. “That’s gotta be wrong. The dead woman is Monica Dorlander. She lives on East 83rd Street. She works at Artiflex Cosmetics on Third Avenue.”
Creely squinted at me through his glasses. “Is that so?”
“Yeah, that’s so,” I said. “If there’s any question about the matter of identity, maybe I’d better see the body.”
“Oh yeah?” Creely said. “Hey, Davis, listen to this guy. Maybe he ought to see the body. Well for your information, the body’s on its way to the morgue, and you’re not. In point of fact, you’re not going anywhere. Monica Dorlander, huh? You come in here with your two names, and then you start telling us fairy stories, and the next thing I know you’re telling me how to do my job.
“Davis,” he barked.
“Yes sir.”
“I’m getting a little sick of this cocksucker. Take him in the back room and chain him to the pipe.”
Davis took me in the back room and chained me to the pipe. Not the most pleasant thing in the world, but not the worst either. At least I knew the routine. The boys from Major Crimes in Atlantic City had done the same thing to me when I was down there. Apparently in law enforcement, holding cells are a luxury.
Davis chained me to the pipe with handcuffs, went out and closed the door, so as I wouldn’t be able to hear the conversation in the next room.
Great.
The pipe I was chained to was a metal pipe running from the floor to the ceiling. It might have been a water pipe of some kind. If so, I sure hoped it was the cold one. If the thing started heating up I was in a lot of trouble.
Since there was no chair I had two choices: I could stand up or sit on the floor. Sitting on the floor in my suit and topcoat would be rather undignified. I stood there, waiting to see if Davis would come back. He didn’t.
As time stretched on, dignity became somewhat less of a priority. Fuck it. I’m exhausted. I’m sitting down.
Small problem. The pipe had a metal support piece attached to the wall about waist level. The handcuff around the pipe was above that. I could sit on the floor, but only with my right arm raised up in the air.
Since I didn’t have a watch, I don’t know how long this further indignity delayed my decision to sit. It could have been fifteen minutes. It could have been half an hour. Time’s a funny thing when you’re chained to the wall. At any rate, I finally gave in. I eased slowly down the wall, not wanting to rip my arm out of my socket. It was a big relief when my ass hit the floor. Thank god. My right arm was extended far enough for it to be a slight strain, but at least I wasn’t hanging on it.
I sat there and pondered my fate. I could see a lot of things happening, most of them bad. My best-case scenario had Davis coming in and unlocking the handcuffs, Creely bawling me out and sending me home, me calling Marvin Nickleson and telling him there was no charge and I was washing my hands of the whole affair, and then me eating my expenses, cutting my losses, learning my lesson and vowing never to take on another client again.
My worst-case scenario had some nosy kid from a Boy Scout troop on a field trip to the local police station poking his head in the storeroom door and discovering the bleached bones of a private detective’s skeleton chained to the wall.
It had been a long enough time that my worst-case scenario had begun to seem likely when, sudden reversal, my best-case scenario began to come true. The door opened and Davis came in and unlocked the handcuffs.
What a relief. Except my right arm was completely numb and moving it was agony. But under the circumstances, that seemed a small inconvenience. I screamed slightly when the arm dropped to my side, but that was about it. I flopped onto my knees, pushed up with my left hand, and struggled to my feet.
“Let’s go,” Davis said.
I went. No argument there. I didn’t know where we were going, but I sure as hell wanted to be out of that storage closet.
Davis led me back to the front room. Chief Creely was there. So was Chuck. So was another cop, somewhere in between Chuck and Davis’s age.
There was a woman with them. She was fortyish, plump, with glasses and rather frizzy dark hair.
Davis marched me up to them.
Creely turned to the woman. “All right. Take a good look. You ever seen him before?”
I gulped. Jesus Christ. They’re identifying me already. For what?
The woman squinted at me through her glasses.
“Well, what about it? You ever seen him before?”
I didn’t think so. I hadn’t seen her before, as far as I knew. But then I’m terrible with faces. She was looking at me kind of funny.
“I’m not sure,” she said. “The face is familiar, but I can’t place it.”
“Think. It’s important.”
“Well, I should hope so. Dragging me up here.”
“Please, ma’am. Just look at him.”
“I’m looking at him.”
“Davis, we’re just getting full face here. Show her the profile. Walk him around some.”
Davis turned me back and forth, led me in a circle. As we walked back to them I saw her eyes widen through her glasses.
“That’s it. That’s it,” she said. “That’s the guy.”
“What guy?” Creely said.
“I saw him in the street.”
“Where?”
“Outside my office building. A couple of times. I wouldn’t have thought anything of it, but I saw him again outside my apartment house.”
My head was spinning. Office building? Apartment house? What the hell was she talking about? I assumed she was from the motel. I hadn’t been to any office or apartment building up here. She must mean New York, and—
It slammed me in the face. My stomach suddenly felt hollow.
I looked at the woman. “Who are you?” I croaked.
She said nothing.
I turned to Creely. “Who is she?” I said, though in my heart of hearts I already knew the answer.
Creely snorted. “As if you didn’t know. She’s Monica Dorlander, of course.”
15.
MY HEAD WAS SPINNING. It was as if layer upon layer of reality were being stripped away. First Monica Dorlander was dead. Then Monica Dorlander wasn’t dead. Then Monica Dorlander wasn’t Monica Dorlander.
Chief Creely prodded me in the arm. “What about you? You ever seen this woman before?”
“No.”
“Oh, is that right? Monica Dorlander. The woman you were following. The woman who spotted you following her. You’ve never seen her before?”
“That’s not the woman I was following.”
“Oh really? You told us she was.”
“I was wrong.”
“Is that right? Let me see if I’ve got this straight. You told us you were following Monica Dorlander. You staked out her home. You staked out her office. But you weren’t following her.”
I took a breath. “Let me get something straight.” I turned to the woman. “Your name is Monica Dorlander?”
She said nothing.
I turned to Creely. “Could you tell her to answer me?”
“Go ahead and answer him.”
“Your name’s Monica Dorlander?” I repeated.
“Yes.”
“You live on East 83rd Street?”
“Yes.”
“You work at Artiflex Cosmetics on Third Avenue?”
“That’s right.”
I looked at Chief Creely and shrugged helplessly. “I’ve been had.”
“So you say,” he said. “All right ma’am. Let me ask you this. You ever been here before?”
“Here?”
“This neck of the woods.”
“No.”
“Ever stay at the Pine Hills Motel?”
“No.”
“What about yesterday? Last night. Did you drive up here from New York and register at the Pine Hills Motel?”
“No, I did not.”
“You didn’t register there under an assumed name?”
“An assumed name. Say, what is this?”
“You didn’t register there under the name Judy Felson?”
“I most certainly did not.”
“The name Judy Felson mean anything to you?”
“Not a thing.”
Creely nodded. “I didn’t think it would. Then let me ask you this. Do you know a Julie Steinmetz?”
She frowned. “I don’t think so.”
“You don’t think so?”
“The name doesn’t ring a bell.”
“Too bad,” Creely said. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but I’m going to have to ask you to do something slightly unpleasant. Davis?”
“Sir.”
“Take Miss Dorlander down to the morgue. Have her look at the body.”
The woman’s face paled. Her jaw dropped open. “Body!”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry, but we’re going to have to see if you can identify the body.”
“Body!” she said again. “You mean …” She stole a glance at me. “You mean … he killed someone?”
“Well now, ma’am—”
Her eyes were growing wider and wider. “And you let me stand here talking to him? You let him question me?”
She st
arted backing away during this. Davis was right at her elbow.
“You let him see my face!” she said in horror.
Davis piloted her smoothly out the door.
Creely turned back to me. “That woman doesn’t like you.”
I took a breath. “You all but told her I was a murderer.”
“Did I now? Now that’s real unfortunate. I don’t know where she got that impression.
“Now let’s talk about you. Let’s talk about the bullshit you’ve been spewing out ever since you walked in this door.”
“It’s not bullshit.”
“Then what is it?”
“I told you. I’ve been had. Suckered. Played for a dope.”
Creely chuckled. “Gee, how could anyone do that?” His face hardened. “Now look. I want some answers, and this time I want ’em straight. You don’t know the woman who was just here?”
“No.”
“You weren’t following her?”
“No.”
“Then who were you following?”
“Another woman.”
“Who?”
“Probably the woman that’s dead.”
“Julie Steinmetz?”
“If that’s her name.”
“So why were you following her?”
“I thought she was Monica Dorlander.”
“How could you make that mistake?”
“I didn’t make that mistake.”
Creely frowned. “What?”
“I didn’t make a mistake. I followed the woman I was supposed to—”
I broke off, remembering something any competent detective would have remembered hours ago.
Creely said, “What is it?”
“Look, Chief,” I said. “If I were to reach in my hip pocket real slow and take out my wallet, could you tell these guys not to shoot me?”
Creely glanced at Chuck and the other officer. “I could make the suggestion. If they disregard it, there’s not much I can do.”
“Great.”
I reached in my back pocket and took out my wallet. I opened it, riffled through some papers, and pulled out the picture of Monica Dorlander. I handed it to Creely.