It was still more a relief than I wanted to admit when my office building came into view and was just as I’d left it last night, slightly shabby, paint starting to peel where the southern sun hit it the hardest, perfect in its New Orleans decadent glory.
My relief went away when I noticed the outer security door was open. Probably the space-cadet artist who rents the first floor, I told myself as I stuck my head in, sniffing the air for anything that might scream “light me with a match and I’ll show you a hot time.” But the air had a bouquet of stale beer, overlaid with hints of mold and gardenia, infused with traces of cayenne and crab boil. It said New Orleans more than fire trap.
Unless I know someone is coming I tend to lock the downstairs door, as do the other tenants in the building. For the obvious reasons, I didn’t want just anyone—especially anyone with less-than-kind intent—to be able to easily find me. And for the not-so-obvious reason that about a week ago a flyer about a missing pet python had appeared on the street corner.
But the artist’s inner door was shut and no light appeared in the crack. He had taken over the entire first floor on promises to the landlord he would paint the building. Completion of the painting would mean that he’d have to pay rent, so I didn’t see that happening anytime soon.
Maybe someone was moving into the second floor, vacant since Katrina. But no one was around up there, all the doors closed, the floors still dusty at the end of the hall, indicating no footsteps had been there in months. Plus if they were moving in, there should have been something glaringly obvious like a huge van or at least a big truck near the open door.
You’re spooked because someone threatened you, I told myself as I cautiously mounted the stairs to the third floor. Two days ago, I would have assumed it was the wind or humidity that had popped the door open—coupled with someone who forgot to securely lock it. Now I was about to pull my gun to start my workday.
The door to my office was closed. Everything was as it should be.
Okay, so I’m being paranoid, I told myself as I fumbled with my keys.
Just as I was about to insert the key in the lock, the door opened.
Someone had broken in.
Tomorrow, I would start my day with coffee and gun in hand.
I just had to get through today.
In the split second before I either fled down my stairs or starting throwing kicks and punches, I took in a scene of jarring normality.
Two people were sitting in the usual client chairs before my desk. Mr. Charles Williams had opened my door to me.
“What are you doing here?” I demanded. My adrenaline was still poised for flight or fight. Or both.
“I’m a locksmith. It was looking like rain, so we decided to wait up here for you.”
“You decided to break into my office?” I was still standing out on the landing and he was holding open the door, as if welcoming me.
“Nothing harmed, nothing broken. We just wanted to be warm. We even made coffee.”
Still not moving, I said, “I told you yesterday I couldn’t help you. What made you think it was a smart idea to come back?”
“I brought a paying customer.”
For some reason it brought to mind when my cat presents me with a palmetto bug as a present. The cat is very proud, but I don’t want it.
“I have a phone. Calling first is always a good idea.”
“This is important. It couldn’t wait. Why don’t you come in and we can talk about this?”
“Yeah, why don’t I come into my own office,” I muttered and brushed by him.
It was clear Mr. Williams had been sitting at my desk. I ignored the coffee cup there and claimed my space. I moved his cup as far away as I could.
For the first time, I looked at the two people in front of me. They seemed to be a couple. She had dull brown hair with split ends crying for attention, clothing of equally dull colors, a brown skirt and beige blouse that buttoned up to her neck. She was petite, maybe five-two or three at most, and her hunched shoulders made her seem even smaller. Her mouth was a little small, her nose too large, her chin a point. She had never been pretty, never the cheerleader or the homecoming queen, too plain and mousy for a starring role, even one on as small a stage as high school. He had on a loud Hawaiian shirt, trendy cargo shorts, and man sandals. His hair was a streaked blond that said either surf or dye, and given the paunch around his waist and how little muscle there seemed in his arms and legs, my money wasn’t on the beach. He was tall, had once been good-looking, but those looks had faded as he got older, the chin no longer firm, the jowls starting to sag, the hair thinning and combed forward in an attempt to hide the elongating forehead.
If they were indeed a romantic couple of any kind, it proved that opposites attracted.
A friend of mine described situations like this by saying, “There is not enough vodka or aspirin in the world.” I could feel the headache starting.
“You got an extra chair?” Mr. Williams asked.
I pointed to a folding chair in the corner. He had made himself at home, he could continue by finding his own chair.
The blond dude stuck out his hand. “I’m Fletcher McConkle.”
I dutifully shook his hand. He was older than he first looked, harsh lines around his eyes and his skin a leathery tan.
“And you are?” I asked the woman.
She glanced up, but looked at me only briefly. It was hard to read the expression in her eyes, timidity or annoyance—or some combination of the two.
“I’m Mrs. McConkle. Mrs. Donna McConkle,” she said. Her voice was high and soft with almost a lisp to it. She was younger than she had first looked, her conservative clothes aging her. I guessed a fifteen- to twenty-year age gap between the two of them.
“And you know who I am,” Mr. Charles Williams added.
“Yes, I do,” I said with no smile. To hurry this along, I asked, “Tell me why you might need the services of a private investigator.”
It was Fletcher, of course, who answered. “My aunt is being swindled. I need to put a stop to it.”
“Criminal acts are a matter for the police,” I said. “If someone is taking advantage of her, you should report it to them.”
“It’s more complicated than that,” he said.
Which usually meant that it wasn’t complicated at all, just massively unpleasant. I supplied the expected prompt. “Complicated how?”
“My aunt is elderly, suffers from a variety of ills, and is always looking for something that will fix those ills. Sometimes she doesn’t choose wisely. A young dude used his wiles to gain her confidence and sell her so-called natural remedies for which she is paying several hundred dollars a week.”
“Perhaps you should call elderly services,” I suggested. Fletcher spoke in an affected way, as if it made him smarter and more refined. In his Hawaiian shirt.
“Do you not want this case?” he asked. “This is the second time you’ve suggested I go elsewhere.”
“I recognize what I can and can’t do. If I feel there is a more appropriate place that can offer greater help, it’s only ethical I provide that referral,” I said calmly. However, maybe Fletcher had married Mrs. Fletch because she was an heiress and he had money to burn. I didn’t want to close out my options either. I’d be ethical and polite.
My answer seemed to satisfy him. “My aunt has all her faculties intact, and, alas, can decide for herself what she wants to do with her money.”
“If she’s spending money she doesn’t have on things she doesn’t need, then that might be an argument to intervene. Bad decisions about finances can be an early sign of dementia,” I said.
“She has the money,” Fletcher said. “If he sticks with only swindling her out of a few hundred a week, then she’ll be okay unless she lives to well over a hundred. My concern is it could escalate as he gains her confidence, and it’s not right she’s being taken advantage of even if she can afford it.”
“Not to mention you being her only livi
ng relative,” Mr. Williams chimed in.
Now his unease made sense. He might well have been worried about his aunt, but my read was that the real concern was his possible inheritance.
I pretended to ignore Mr. Williams’s very pertinent comment. “What do you think a private investigator could do to help you?”
“Expose this charlatan. Get the evidence he’s knowingly pushing useless pills and potions. Give me enough proof I can show her he’s not some nice boy who’s genuinely concerned about old ladies, but a con man. I need to know who this man is, who he works for, and most important, get proof he’s selling worthless nostrums.”
“There are no guarantees,” I said. Remembering my conversation with Cordelia, I told him, “For many of these so-called natural remedies, there is no proof whether they work or not—only anecdotal claims that can be hard to counter. Even if I get what most people would consider evidence, your aunt may not believe it. If he is a true snake oil salesman, he may have protected himself with shell companies, false names, and other subterfuges. In short, if I take the case, I may not be able to give you the results that you want.”
“I need to do something to help protect my aunt,” he said. Then the first break in his confident tone. “Alas, I’m not a wealthy man, so my resources are limited. However, once my aunt is no longer with us, I could probably—”
I cut him off. “You want me to wait until your aunt dies to get paid? I’m afraid that’s not possible. If I incur expenses now, I get paid now.”
He chewed his lip.
His wife finally spoke. “We can afford one thousand dollars. If you can help us for that amount, we can proceed. We’ll pay half up front and the other half at the end.”
My estimate of Fletcher went up. He was at least smart enough—or experienced enough—to understand the value of a wife who could handle money and the logistics of life.
“We’ll expect a report every day, of course,” he added, his bluster back.
“It’s an hourly expense, and daily reports can eat into that,” I pointed out. “When I’m about halfway through, I’ll give you a verbal report and you can see if what I’m finding is worth your while.”
This really wasn’t a very complicated case. People who sell things—legal things anyway—have to have a method of reaching the public. That meant they left a paper trail, or increasingly these days, an electronic one. It shouldn’t be too hard to get the information they were looking for.
Mrs. McConkle and I went over the paperwork while Fletcher and Mr. Williams discussed sports scores. I liked her a lot better than I liked him. She was still shy, but had a practical and no-nonsense side to her. She probably needed it as it seemed unlikely that her husband had much common sense under the bluster. She gave me what info there was to give, the name and address of the aunt, what days I was likely to find Mr. Snake Oil there. She’d even been smart enough to grab one of the empties out of the trash. It was a generic plastic bottle (not recyclable, I noticed) with a printed label pasted on. The label had nice graphics, so money was put into marketing. It was a swirling cascade of green into yellow and blue, so it looked like an abstract green field under a bright sun. Nature’s Beautiful Gift was the brand name.
It would be a fairly easy thousand—easy enough for me to take the case.
Fletcher and Mr. Williams seemed to have run out of sports scores just as we finished up.
I happily escorted them downstairs, noting that both men were breathing rather heavily by the time we reached the bottom.
Fletcher and his wife got in their car. Mr. Williams took another deep breath. I put my hand on his arm, letting them drive away.
“So,” I said, “I threw you out on your ear. Why bring me a client?”
He shrugged. “You were the only person who actually listened to me. At least you were honest and didn’t just treat me like I was a nobody. No scratch, no time.”
It took me a moment to remember that “scratch” was slang for “money.” “How’d you hook up with the McConkles?”
“Fate was good to us. I got the call to do a lock replacement at a house they were working on. They heard me talking.”
I didn’t point out that by now most of New Orleans had heard him talking.
“I was going on about my nephew and the crap he’s taking. And he mentioned his aunt and what was going on with her. They’re both taking that Nature’s Beautiful Gift crap. So, I thought if you looked into it for them, maybe you could find out stuff I could use as well.”
No scratch, no time, just good survival instincts. “What I find out is confidential, but they might be nice enough to share.”
“That’s what I’m hoping,” he said as he sauntered off.
“Hey, Charles?” I called after him. “No more breaking and entering, okay? Next time I might not be so nice.”
He waved an acknowledgment. I took it to mean he wouldn’t pick the locks unless he thought it was important.
It was back up three flights of stairs for me. I made sure the outer door was shut and the lock caught, then trudged up the steps.
Just as I entered my door, my office phone rang. Like it had been when Prejean threatened me. Could he know when I entered?
I debated not answering it, then let it ring long enough for the answering machine to kick in. This was an “innocent” way of recording the phone conversation.
“Knight Agency,” I said, easing down the message volume so I wasn’t speaking over myself.
“Micky, I tried your cell but you didn’t answer.” Cordelia.
“I was just walking some clients out and left my cell up here,” I explained. And reminded myself that I needed to have my cell phone with me at all times. What if I’d found Prejean downstairs about to light a match? “What’s up?” She rarely calls me during the day.
“I need to hit you up for a detective favor.”
“Okay,” I said cautiously.
“If you can do it,” she added.
I was relieved to hear that. Even sane and sensible people like Cordelia can have TV versions of private detectives.
“Tell me what it is and I’ll let you know.”
“Some patients have gone missing. Well, not really missing, but one in particular missed his last appointment and he needs to be closely monitored.”
“Can you give me his name and address?”
“Can you come up here and meet with us?”
Other than not wanting to bother with driving there—and finding parking—there was no reason not to. I did owe her a big favor for foisting Andy—and Torbin’s worry and anger—on her last night.
“Sure, where should I meet you?”
She gave me an office address on Prytania, up near Touro Infirmary. It was one of the few that hadn’t flooded.
So, time to go down the stairs again. I double-locked my door and set the alarm. Mr. Charles Williams was less likely to stay for coffee with a high-pitched whine ringing in his ears.
It took me almost half an hour to get there, much of the time taken by red lights and idiot drivers. I had to go through the CBD, Central Business District, with its heavy traffic and skim by the French Quarter with its tourists, drunks, and worst of all, drunken tourists jaywalking off the sidewalk—yes, cars will drive down these historic streets. No, worst of all was drunken tourists at eleven in the morning. Although to be fair, more than a few tourists have been known to be merrily drinking the night away waiting for last call to send them stumbling home only to notice a new light and realize it’s the sun coming up.
What, they don’t have a twenty-four-hour bar in Oshkosh?
There is a pay lot, but I’d discovered there is free parking on the street a few blocks away for anyone willing to walk those blocks.
The address was one of the older office buildings in the area. It had a creaky elevator that took me to the fifth floor, where her office was. Technically it wasn’t her office; she was on temporary assignment, covering for a doctor on maternity leave. That was a lot o
f what she did these days, floating from positions like this as if she was reluctant to obligate herself to something more permanent. At times I wondered what that said about her commitment to New Orleans, or being a doctor. Or to me. But I mostly let it be. It was her path to find.
I had to wander around two corners before finding the reception desk. It was in a cramped room with tall stacks of medical records against the walls.
I gave my name and asked for Cordelia. The phone rang and the receptionist pointed me to the waiting room.
You’re making me wait to do you a favor, I groused silently. It had been at least three minutes. She finally arrived after five minutes had passed.
“Hi, Micky, thanks for coming,” Cordelia said as she motioned me to get up and follow her.
She looked sexy in her white lab coat with a stethoscope slung around her neck. I have a thing for smart, competent women. She led me around another two corners and into a conference room, really a room with a table too big for it and chairs I had to squeeze by to get around the table.
“Let me get the other folks,” she said.
I politely moved to the far side of the table so others could easily sit. It was hard enough to get by the chairs when they were shoved in.
It was another five minutes before she reentered the room with three other people, two men and a woman.
“This is my partner, Micky,” Cordelia introduced me to them. “As I mentioned, she’s a private eye.” She edged around the chairs to the one next to me.
“You’re a woman?” the younger of the two men asked. He took the most convenient chair, forcing the others to maneuver around him. The woman gave an extra little shove to get past his chair. He seemed not to notice. His thick brown hair had been recently cut. I suspected it was cut on a regular basis to keep it as neat and conservatively short as it was now. He had regular features, not handsome especially, but pleasant enough. Clearly he worked out, but he was barely average height, a little stocky. A few years, children, a heavy work schedule and the paunch would quickly build. His tie was a boring navy strip, his shirt white, his lab coat white and starched. It was easy to imagine him voting Republican. His eyes were small, a narrow slit, gray or light brown, I couldn’t tell. The kind of guy who would assume that Micky/private eye had to equal male.
J.M. Redmann - Micky Knight Mystery 7 - I'll Will Page 5