by Marja McGraw
The Bogey Man
A Sandi Webster Mystery
by
Marja McGraw
The Bogey Man, A Sandi Webster Mystery, Copyright 2009, 2013 Marja McGraw
All rights reserved. Published in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, in writing from the author, except in the case of brief quotations used in critical articles and reviews. For information, email address: [email protected].
First Edition, 2009
Second Edition, 2013
Cover Design by Marja McGraw
Editing by Marja McGraw
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual person living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Dedication
For Al, my husband and best friend.
Acknowledgements
Thank you to Dorothy Bodoin, H. Susan Shaw, and my friends at the Las Vegas-Clark County Library (Laughlin Branch – Mindy, Bonnie, April and Brian) for all of their help and support, and to Jill, my daughter, who listens and always rewards me with honesty and refreshing candor. And most of all, thanks for the memories of Humphrey Bogart who inspired Chris Cross.
Chapter One
Surveillance can be so boring. I glanced at my watch. Two o’clock in the morning. I was parked in a lot across the street from a party, but it was the motel on my side of the street that held my attention.
The “happy couple” I was watching had checked in an hour earlier. I managed to photograph them checking in and entering their room, but they’d pulled the drapes closed tightly. It didn’t look like they’d be leaving anytime soon, so it was time to pack up my toys and go home. There was no point in watching closed drapes.
I hadn’t wanted to take a domestic case to begin with, but Mrs. Simms had talked me into it. I turned my attention back to Room 8, where the errant husband was meeting with his sweetie.
Glancing in my rearview mirror, I saw a man standing under a streetlight wearing a coat and hat. Two o’clock must be a witching hour. This was the second time I’d seen this man, and the first occasion had been at the same hour, but on a different surveillance.
I turned to get a better look, worried about what he might be up to, when I heard a car pull into the motel parking lot. I glanced up. Mrs. Simms! How had she found us? I could only guess she’d followed me, gone home and stewed about her husband, and decided to come back and confront him.
The brakes screeched as she came to a stop and threw open her car door. Jumping out, she slammed it behind her. She approached my car in an angry hurry. I turned the key so I could open my window.
“Which room is that son-of-a-bitch in?” she asked, not bothering to keep her voice low.
I involuntarily glanced at Number 8. I knew better. Big mistake.
Mrs. Simms took a deep breath before turning and stomping off in the direction of her husband’s room. She pounded on the door, which seemed to rattle with each blow. “Open the damn door, you jerk!”
I watched as the door flew open, started to climb out of the car and thought better of it. I decided not to get involved unless I had to. She was so angry that I looked to see if she had a weapon. I couldn’t tell, but reached for my cell phone, just in case. And I couldn’t make out what they were saying because everyone was talking, yelling, at the same time. Ms. Sweetie had joined them at the door.
Mrs. Simms turned and pointed at me. I sighed. She’d given me away and this was one husband who might come after me. As the thought crossed my mind, he glared and shoved his wife out of the way, heading in my direction at a dead run.
I reached for the keys to start the engine, but somehow knocked them out of the ignition. Uh oh. I had automatic everything and couldn’t close the window. The errant hubby was crossing in front of my car, intent on reaching me, murder in his eyes.
It was about that time that I saw the man from the streetlight approaching Simms. The man said something to Simms and then knocked him down. Sweet and simple.
Even while my mouth hung open, I took advantage of the moment and picked up my keys, shoved them in the ignition and started the car. I slammed into Drive and closed the window, pulling out of the parking lot.
I saw the Good Samaritan head for an old green Chevy and jump in. He followed me for a while, again, and finally turned off.
Had I heard him right? Could he have said…
~*~
The phone rang. Without glancing up, I reached over and picked up the receiver.
“Webster Investigations. This is Sandi Webster. May I help you?”
“Sorry, wrong number.” The caller hung up.
Before turning back to the report I was writing, I glanced out of the office window and sucked in my breath.
It had been a week, and there he was again, walking right by my office just like he belonged on my street. Maybe he did. After all, this was Los Angeles.
He was wearing a tan trench coat and a brown Fedora with a black band, just like the other night. A cigarette hung out of the right side of his mouth, although it didn’t look like it was lit.
My jaw dropped and I blinked several times. My imagination must be working overtime. No! I knew what I’d seen. Jumping out of my seat, I ran to the door and yanked it open. He was gone. I’d waited too long.
An old green 1940’s vintage Chevy was heading down the street. Was it the one I’d seen before? Did the driver have on a Fedora? I was too far away to see the license number, but what did it matter anyway?
My partner, Peter Goldberg, walked around the corner of the building from the parking lot. “What are you looking for?” He turned his head and followed my gaze.
“I, uh, saw someone walking by the office.”
“Yeah? So who was it?” Pete would never understand. I avoided looking up into his big brown eyes.
“Just… Someone.”
“Who?” Pete asked impatiently.
“It doesn’t matter. He’s gone now anyway.”
“Sandi, it does matter. You look like you saw a ghost.”
I sighed, my one big talent in life. “I think I did.” Turning, I walked back into the office.
Pete followed behind, placing his hand on my arm and stopping me. I turned around, still not looking up at him. I knew him well. I knew that at five foot three, I’d have to look up to meet his five foot eleven height. I knew I’d see dark brown, almost black hair with streaks of gray at the temples, and I’d see the little scar by the right side of his mouth. I knew each crease and line on his dark-complexioned face. Peter Goldberg was, after all, the man who’d recently asked me to marry him. And don’t let the name fool you. He’s Italian.
I didn’t want to tell him whom I’d seen. Why should he believe me? I didn’t believe me.
“Sandi? What is it? Who did you see?”
When I’d opened Webster Investigations, the first thing I did was hang a picture of Humphrey Bogart near my desk. I stared at the picture. Same trench coat. Same Fedora. Same face. My hero.
I pointed at the photo.
“What? You’re trying to tell me you actually saw the Boogey Man? A ghost?” Pete didn’t get it.
“No, but you’re close. I guess you’d have to say I saw the Bogey Man, not the boogey man.” Sighing again, I sat down at my desk. This is why I hadn’t wanted to tell him. He’d make light of it and try to convince me I’d simply seen someone who resembled Humphrey Bogart.
“You saw someone who looks something like Bogart, right?”
Did I know Pete or what? “Nope. I saw him. And it wasn’t the first time.” I rubbed my blue, and now probably bloodshot
eyes, knowing this was going to be a fruitless conversation. I’d been working a lot of hours and I guessed he’d chalk this up to fatigue. Turning, I once again stared at Bogey’s photo. Pete was right. It couldn’t have been Bogey.
He walked over to my desk, obviously waiting to see if I’d elaborate. I didn’t.
“Sandi, look at me. You know that wasn’t Humphrey Bogart. He died in the late 1950’s.”
“It was 1957.” I continued to stare at the photo. Bogey held a cigarette in his right hand in the publicity shot. He stopped short of grinning, looking to the side of the camera.
“Yeah, okay.” Pete placed his hand on my shoulder. “So you saw Humphrey Bogart walking past this office. And I suppose you’re going to tell me he had on a hat and trench coat.”
I was right again – he didn’t believe me.
I finally looked up into his eyes. He was watching me intently, waiting for my reaction to his comment.
I ran my hands through my long, dark brown hair, stalling for only a moment. “I’m not joking. This is the third time I’ve seen him.”
“Explain. Please.” His eyes had darkened, and he had a concerned expression on his face. One time he could brush off, but three meant I’d probably actually seen the man. Or at least someone who looked exactly like him.
“I’m not losing my mind. The first time was about a week ago, around two o’clock in the morning. I was coming off a surveillance, and he was standing under a streetlight, watching me.”
“Two o’clock in the morning. You were tired. You saw someone who looked like Bogey, but who couldn’t have been. This is an actor who’s been gone a very long time, Sandi.”
Ignoring him, I went on with my story. “As I pulled out of the parking lot I looked in my rearview mirror and saw the man climb into an old car. When we drove under the streetlights, I could see that the car was light green. He followed me for about a mile and then turned off.”
Pete’s expression changed. “The car you were watching when I got here was an old green car.”
“Yeah.”
“So what about the second time you saw him?” He sounded like he might be taking my story a little more seriously. He’d seen the old green Chevy. It was something solid that he could see and touch if it came close enough.
“The second time. That’s a story in itself. You know I hate taking domestic cases, but I took the Simms case anyway. You know, the woman who thought her husband was cheating on her? Anyway, Mrs. Simms followed me to the motel where – ”
Pete stiffened. “You didn’t tell me about Mrs. Simms following you. As partners we should be sharing information.”
“I know, but you were out on another case and by the time I saw you, two days later, it didn’t seem like it would make any difference.”
“It does make a difference.”
“Oh, Pete. Sometimes you’re way too protective. Have I ever told you it gets on my nerves?” I wanted him to be quiet and listen to me.
The small scar by the corner of his mouth turned white as his lips tightened. “Just get on with the story.”
“Anyway, Mrs. Simms apparently followed me to the motel where her husband was meeting his lover. She seemed so meek when we met her that I didn’t expect her to do anything like that. When she saw which room I was watching, she stormed up to the door and confronted her husband. I could see her pointing at me, letting him know he was being watched. Before I could so much as sneeze, he came flying at my car. He was out for blood, and I couldn’t close the window and start the car at the same time. I knocked the key out of the ignition.”
I made a twisting motion with my fingers, as though trying to start the engine.
“Out of nowhere comes this trench-coated man wearing a Fedora who says, and I quote, ‘Get outta here before I drill ya.’ And then he belted Mr. Simms and knocked him down.”
Pete started to chuckle, but cleared his throat instead.
“I’m not kidding. That’s what he said, and that’s what he did, while I started the engine and drove for my life.” It suddenly struck me funny, too, and I began to giggle.
“Then what happened?” Pete snorted, trying not to laugh out loud.
“Like I said, I started the engine and hauled my little self out of there.”
“‘Get outta here before I drill ya?’” He finally started laughing. “Oh, Sandi. You get yourself into some of the weirdest situations.”
My giggle grew louder. He was taking me seriously and making me laugh in the process. “Can you believe it?”
The door to the office opened and Stanley Hawks, a greeting card verse writer turned Webster Investigations researcher and friend, walked in.
“Get outta here before I drill ya,” Pete said, and laughed harder.
Initially surprised, Stanley glanced from me to Pete and back again. Laughter is contagious, and he grinned. “What’s going on here? Do you really want me to leave?”
That made Pete howl.
“Nooooo,” I said, now holding my side. “He’s not really gonna drill ya.”
I sobered when I glanced up and saw an old green Chevy drive slowly past the office.
“Uh oh. Don’t look now, but there he is again.” I pointed out the window.
Pete and Stanley, who preferred to be called Stan, rushed to the door. I watched as they each reached for the door handle, stopped and let go, and then bumped into each other when they tried to get through the door. I grinned, but stifled the giggle that was building up in me again. Nerves?
By the time they managed to reach the sidewalk, the green Chevy was a memory.
They returned to the office, all signs of humor gone.
“You said you’d seen this guy three times,” Pete reminded me. “Tell me about the third time.”
“Who is this gentleman?” Stanley asked.
“She thinks Humphrey Bogart is following her.”
Pete’s explanation showed me he still didn’t quite believe me. Of course I knew he was right. It couldn’t be Bogey. But he looked like him, he sounded like him, and he dressed like him. What’s that old saying about, If it quacks like a duck and walks like a duck, then it must be a duck? Who on earth was he?
“What about the third time you saw him?” Pete asked again.
Stanley pulled a chair up to my desk and sat down, waiting to hear the next part of the story.
“Actually, the third time was when Bubba almost knocked him down.”
Chapter Two
“Bubba? Your dog had a confrontation with Humphrey Bogart?” Stanley leaned forward, patting his thinning brown hair, making sure it was in place.
I still hadn’t gotten used to his new look. He’d gone from a slender five foot seven inch nerd with thick glasses to a stylishly dressed gentleman with contact lenses, thanks to a new girlfriend and Pete. The girlfriend hadn’t changed him; he’d changed himself because of her, and Pete had helped him pick out a new wardrobe.
“Yoo hoo, Sandi, what about Bubba?” Pete was waiting expectantly.
I turned to our friend. “Sorry, I was thinking about how much you’ve changed, Stan.”
“For the better, I hope.” He appeared to be taking what I’d said as a compliment and sat up a bit straighter.
“Okay, enough,” Pete said. “Stan the Man is a handsome stud. Now what happened with Bubba?”
“Last night I took the trash out to the back yard and Bubba followed me outside. The gate was open, and he wandered out to the front yard. When I heard him run across the street I hurried out to see what he was after. You know how he always snorts when he’s after something, and he was snorting like a pig. Bogey was standing across the street from my house, watching it. Watching me. Whatever. Anyway, Bubba stopped too suddenly and slid into the Bogey Man, nearly knocking him over.”
“I can’t believe that big monster dog didn’t knock him over,” Stanley said.
Bubba is half wolf and half Golden Retriever. He’s absolutely huge, and maybe a little scary looking.
&n
bsp; “Well, Bogey was leaning against the light post, and Bubba sort of squashed him against it. When the dog gave him some breathing room, he moved away and ran for his car. Bubba started to follow him, but when I saw this guy reaching into his pocket, I called the dog back. Guess I’ve seen too many Humphrey Bogart movies. I thought he was reaching for a gun to protect himself from my canine cutie, but it turned out he was only pulling out his keys.”
“So Bubba was trying to protect you?” Stanley figured that was my dog’s purpose in life.
“No, he didn’t seem to dislike the man, but he was quite interested in him. I don’t know why.”
Pete squinted at me. “Why are people always following you?”
I shrugged.
“No, I mean it. You’ve been followed by everyone from thugs to little old ladies. Why is that?” Pete was studying me while he waited for my answer.
“How should I know? Maybe I’m just easy to follow.”
“I think I know why people follow Sandi,” Stanley said.
Pete and I both turned to him expectantly.
“It’s because of the type of work you do. And it seems that you’re frequently in the wrong place at the wrong time. For instance, well… Never mind. It’s simply something that comes with your job.”
“And you’re saying Humphrey Bogart is following me because I’m a private eye?”
“There she goes again.” Pete rolled his eyes. “Private eye. She just loves those words.” He walked toward his desk, but I could hear him mumbling to himself. “Private eye, shamus, flatfoot, gumshoe…” His ramblings were actually entertaining. “And some dirty rat is gonna get drilled. The Bogey Man. In this day and age.”
Pete stopped and turned to face me. “Humphrey Bogart died in 1957. We’ve established that. Consequently, Bogey is not, I repeat not, following you. And the fact that Bubba could have knocked him over confirms that he’s not a ghost.”