Night Moves

by DJ Steele

  The client’s name was Kat Lejeune. Kat told Julia not to call her, she would call Julia when her husband wasn't around. While Julia was packing up to leave the office at six last night, her phone rang.

  Kat was not happy to learn there were no photos of her husband leaving with the woman. Julia slumped in her chair, certain the wife would want her to continue surveillance on the husband.

  A pause.

  Then Kat asked for the photos she had taken and agreed to pay the remainder of the fee. She informed Kat that she needed the money first before she released the photos. She wasn’t going to be duped out of her fee. They agreed to meet today in her office at five. She’d have the photos printed by the time they met.

  * * *

  The morning without interruptions at the office was a welcome relief. Julia was able to get a lot of work done. How the deceased owner managed to keep the business afloat baffled her. She asked the bakery owner below her office if she'd known the previous owner of the investigative business she had bought.

  The woman appeared confused by the name Fly. It took a moment before she said she knew him by Mr. Nightingale. According to her he was a nice man who kept to himself. The only other thing she added was that he traveled a lot.

  Julia had only known him for two weeks before he died. Fly’s real name was Brailsford Troup Nightingale Jr. He had worked with her grandmother when they were with the Central Intelligence Agency. Her grandmother, Elke, was a field officer and Fly worked in the CIA’s analytic arm of the agency. Both long since retired. If spooks really did retire.

  He was nicknamed Fly because he could find out things without people realizing he was listening—like a fly on the wall. Julia was with Fly at the D.C. park helping Elke uncover a Russian mole when things went awry. That was the day Fly was gunned down. The Russian wielded a gun. Julia had a shot but hesitated. Fly died. Julia promised herself never to hesitate again when she had a clean shot.

  After going through Fly’s business files, she discovered that organization wasn’t his strong suit. There was no rhyme or reason to his filing system. He offered services ranging from marital infidelity, tracing missing persons, to criminal cases.

  She spent most of the morning color coding folders according to type of service and alphabetizing them. Next she tried to create a website to help advertise her new business.

  Shifting in the faux leather chair, she felt an odd sense of comfort sitting behind the desk in what used to be Fly’s office. It was Julia's company now. She was a business owner. And the office had potential. The best part were the aromas radiating up from the bakery located directly below.

  The walls of the office were painted a drab olive and lined with bookshelves full of legal books, photography books and an assortment of travel books. A shelf with old cameras from different eras decorated the top shelf. On the side wall near the door was a dented metal three-drawer file cabinet.

  When she cleaned out the office, the cameras and books stayed. Seemed appropriate for a detective agency. Fly had very few personal items. A precaution he no doubt learned from his CIA days. There was no sign on the door or website to advertise the business. She wasn’t sure how Fly got his clients. Maybe by word of mouth, but they damn sure weren’t beating her door down.

  Julia didn’t realize how late Laquita was for work until her stomach reminded her. The mounting headache and irritability let her know she needed to eat. Low blood sugar—her curse. She opened her lower desk drawer and scanned the assortment of snacks. Trail mix, granola bars, almonds and something yucky which had turned into a science experiment that she subsequently tossed in the garbage can. She saw nothing she wanted right now. In the small fridge in the corner of the office, she found leftovers from the other night. Food would improve her mood.

  She had only taken a few bites of the leftover pasta dish when the door to the office swung open. It bounced against the file cabinet as Laquita stormed in. "Holy shit Julia. Why didn’ you answer my calls this mornin’?"

  "You’re the one who called me at 7:15? It showed as an unknown number. I have your phone number listed. How come it didn’t show up?"

  "I lost my phone and had to get a new one." Laquita paused a moment, then added, "My friend, Max heard there’d been a double murder at the motel we staked out yesterday. I like to had a heart attack."

  Julia had planned to say, "You’re fired, things are not working out," yet her curiosity kicked in. "A double murder isn’t that uncommon in D.C., Laquita. And that motel is in a part of town that's a breeding ground for crime. Besides, why would you need to call me so early this morning?" Julia’s eyes bored into Laquita demanding an explanation.

  "Ya know, I thought 'bout quittin’ when Max told me, but…" Laquita shook her head. "I knew you done gone and bit off mor’n you could chew. Fly woulda wanted me to help ya out."

  Julia arched back in her chair and countered, "Excuse me. You help me?" Julia crossed her arms and gave Laquita a withering look. "I might have taken on more than I realized at first with this business, but I will figure it out."

  Now was the time to tell the woman in front of her she was terminated.

  She started to speak but wasn’t fast enough.

  "That husband and woman are dead," Laquita spouted.

  "Wait." It took her a second to process what she heard. "What?"

  "We’re screwed."

  The muscles in her back contracted. Julia sat rigid as her brain tried to analyze the situation. This didn’t make sense.

  "We saw him enter the hotel room. We saw him leave." Saying out loud what had happened seemed to be the best way to understand what Laquita told her.

  "Where did this double homicide happen? Maybe, your friend is confused about what he heard. We know what we saw."

  "When he told me it was at that motel where we were doing our surveillance, I asked Max if he knew the room number and that’s when I 'bout shit myself."

  "Why would your friend Max think you’d be interested in this crime?" Julia’s voice became staccato.

  Laquita began twirling strands of hair with her fingers with one hand and let the other hand rest on her hip. "Said he saw us parked on the street yesterday. That’s his territory."

  "His territory?"

  "Omigod girl. Whatya been doin’ all your life? Didn’t your parents never let ya outside?"

  "My parents died in a car accident when I was very young. And I did not lead a sheltered life." If only Laquita knew, how unsheltered her life had been. Her grandmother who raised her traveled a lot with her job. Julia never knew where that woman was most of the time. It was not a Leave It to Beaver kind of life.

  Laquita began to chew on her bottom lip. "Let’s just say my friend ain’t exactly an upstandin’ citizen, if ya know what I mean."

  Julia let the things Laquita said roll around in her head. Is she making this up? What’s her angle?

  She picked up her cell phone from her desk.

  Before her thumbs could begin to type, Laquita dropped her hands on the desk and leaned toward her. "What? Ya don’t believe me?" she snapped. "I could’a just lit outta town when I heard ‘bout them murders. I’m probably a damn fool." Laquita straightened. She added in a calm voice, "I already checked the internet. Ain’t nothin’ on it."

  Julia stared a beat at the screen on her phone and then put it in her purse.

  "Okay, Laquita. For argument sake, let’s just say your criminal friend is right. I don’t think he is, but like I said, that is a high crime area." Julia swiveled the chair staring out the window behind her. With her back to Laquita she continued, "We have to make sure what this guy told you is correct."

  Julia stood, grabbed a sweater hanging on the back of her chair and faced Laquita. "We need to go see for ourselves. We’ve got plenty of time before I meet with Kat Lejeune to collect the rest of the payment."

  "We can’t go back there," Laquita protested. "Cops will be swarmin’ all over that place."

  "We’ll just drive by and if that i
s indeed a crime scene, then the area will be taped off." Julia headed out the office door and started down the hall. She stopped, threw a quick glance over her shoulder. "You coming or not?"

  Laquita placed both hands on her curvy hips.

  "You one crazy white girl. Ya know that?"

  Laquita ran to catch up to her.

  Chapter Three

  The heavy clunk of boots on the hardwood floor startled the elderly man who was dozing in the chair by the window. He grabbed his walking cane and pointed it toward the man in the cowboy boots.

  "Don’t you knock anymore?" the old man bellowed.

  "I did."

  "Damn good thing, cause people should knock before they scare the bejesus out of an ol’ man."

  "Might be a good idea to lock your door."

  "Might be a good idea to mind your own damn business."

  "Yep." The man smiled. "Good to see you Dad."

  Mike Shockley was never sure what mood his father might be in when he visited. The old man had good days and bad days. Lately, it seemed mostly bad. His health had deteriorated in the past five years.

  "Have you eaten today, Dad?"

  The old man snapped, "I eat every day."

  Bad day.

  This visit wasn’t going to be easy. Shockley checked the kitchen. No visible mess. Meaning the old man had not eaten.

  "I’m hungry." Shockley tried to sound convincing even though he had eaten a cold piece of leftover pizza before he left his townhouse. "How 'bout we go grab a bite at Kozmo’s down the street?"

  "Hell no. Last time you took me there, they put pickles on my sandwich."

  Shockley remembered. He tried to remove the pickles from his dad’s sandwich, but that just made things worse. His dad came from the no excuse generation. You tell somebody something then it sure as hell better get done the way you told them. Or just don’t do it at all. That was why his dad didn't want to pull off the damn pickles from his sandwich. He told the waiter no pickles and that was that. Take back the sandwich and do it right. Something so trivial as pickles could set the man off.

  "I’ll make sure there’re no pickles on your sandwich."

  His father grumbled some incoherent sounds as he pushed his 6’2" frame up from the chair with the help of his cane. The old man had lost a lot of his bulk, but still had strong forearms. Walking was slow. He had been shot in the leg during his service in Vietnam and then had a knee replacement a year ago. Age was catching up with his father.

  He remembered his father's decline had already started when his mother died five years ago. Or maybe that’s when the old man just gave up trying. After the funeral, the stalwart man refused to leave the grave of his mother. Shockley went back to the grave site that evening and found his father crumpled over the fresh mound of dirt sobbing like a child. That sight impacted him. He had never seen his old man cry. Another generational thing. Men don’t cry. Just women and pussies. When he tried to pull his father up, the howls of misery worsened. The grief from that loss had devastated this strong man. Shockley went back to his car and waited. He leaned his back against the car. He could hear his mother’s dying words, "Take care of your dad." She knew.

  The house was his mother’s idea. She wanted to downsize from the Texas ranch he grew up on. Besides, her elderly mother lived in the D.C. suburbs and she longed to be near her mom. And near him.

  There were plenty of fights about moving. In the end, his mother won. When she found this home, it was love at first sight. The historic home was in need of updating. He spent weekends, when he had them off, knocking down walls and helping rebuild new ones.

  His mother loved having family around. She always used her southern cooking to bribe him to visit. Now the home was as cold as the inside of a medieval castle. After the funeral, he waited to give his father time to grieve. Then two months later, he made the mistake of trying to pack away some of his mother’s personal items—clothes, toiletries, and the knitted afghan she would wrap around her frail dying body to keep warm. His father got upset and ordered him to leave.

  It was too soon.

  Five years later, it still seemed too soon. His father refused to move on. The old man longed to join her in what he called Heaven. His father and he might look alike, but they did not have the same beliefs. Shockley was a light switch kind of guy. Life was the on switch. Death was the off. End of story. As much as he wanted to believe when his aunt told him God needed another angel, meaning his mother, he couldn’t buy into it. His mother suffered too much.

  * * *

  Kozmo's Cafe was jammed with office workers and commuters. At this time of day, the atmosphere was utter chaos. It took more time for his father to put on his shoes and walk to Shockley’s car parked in front of the garage door than the drive to Kozmo's. At least that was the way he felt.

  "Seat yourself," a short girl with bright blue hair at the register instructed.

  They found a table in the corner of the plain cafe. The tables and chairs probably came from Ikea. Nothing fancy. Just fast service and food.

  Within a few minutes, a gangly young man dressed in jeans and a tucked in t-shirt took their order. Shockley wanted to make sure the waiter knew the importance of not putting pickles on his father's sandwich. He grabbed the waiter’s arm before he could dart off.

  "What does this man not want on his sandwich?" Shockley kept a firm grip on the man’s arm while he answered.

  "No pickles, I got it. He told me like 3 times," replied the high school looking waiter.

  "Actually, he told you 5 times, so no pickles, got it?" Shockley grinned and arched his eyebrows.

  The waiter gave a sharp nod, pivoted on his heels and walked as quickly as he could back to the kitchen.

  His father let out a chuckle. "You should have shown him your gun, sonny."

  "Next time, Dad."

  Across the small table, Shockley noticed his father still showed no signs of losing his thick mop of silver hair. People always told him he favored his father. He did have his father’s hair only his was more dark-brown than gray. Lately though, he noticed graying at the temples and in his usual five o’clock shadow.

  His father interrupted his reflective thoughts, "You need to shave."

  Shockley’s long fingers stroked his stubble. "Women like it."

  "So, you got yourself a girlfriend?"

  "No, I don’t." Shockley knew where this was going.

  "Then I suspect it ain’t working. A real woman likes a man with a smooth face."

  Real woman. His father was referring to his late mother. She always hated facial hair.

  Still rubbing his stubble, he nodded. "Maybe so."

  "It’s time for you to find a nice girl, like your mom. You’re gettin’ on up there. I was married and had two kids by the time I was your age."

  "You might be right, Dad. I’m thirty-five and over-the-hill," he said sarcastically.

  "Yeah, and still a smart-ass."

  His father was right about that. He was a smart-ass. The teacher had taught him well.

  Growing up on a ranch in Texas, his father made sure his only son could handle anything thrown at him. Taught him to ride a horse almost before he could walk. Chores started when the rooster crowed. No excuses. He helped brand, feed and move cattle from pasture to pasture, fix fences, haul manure, bale hay and everything else that goes with ranching. Coyotes on a cattle ranch were a ruthless adversary. They were creatures of instinct and opportunity making them an incessant problem for ranchers. At ten years old, he hunted coyotes with a lightweight bolt action Ruger. His accuracy impressed his father. And the man was not one to hand out praise without merit.

  Not an easy life by any stretch.

  They didn’t own a TV. No cell phones and the car was used only for emergencies or church. His father had done three tours in Vietnam. To help heal from the trauma of the Vietnam war, the old man lived his life in the past. His mother once told him his father was never quite the same when he returned from the war. Shockley
only knew the after Vietnam man.

  As a teenager he asked his father what it was like in Vietnam. The question was never answered. The guerrilla war was not won. The world had changed by the time his father came home. There was massive unemployment, a half-assed GI Bill and communities that did not seem to care about veterans.

  "Heard from your sister?" his father asked.

  "No. She’s busy with the twins."

  "Don’t take much time to peck out hello on that damn phone," the old man hissed.

  Shockley did not want to go down this road. Again. Trying to have a civil conversation with the old man was like trying to stand in a tornado and not get blown away.

  "I’ve been thinking, Dad," Shockley’s voice steady.

  "You think too much," his father interrupted.

  He pretended not to hear and continued, "I could move in with you. Help you out for a while."

  "Once you jump off a bridge, son, you can’t change your mind."

  He knew his father was still bitter that at seventeen Shockley could not get far enough away from the ranch despite the old man's pleas to stay.

  Shockley folded his arms tightly across his chest. He finally broke the edgy silence, "Mom hated the ranch. She was going to leave you if you didn’t sell. Me leaving didn’t make you move."

  More edgy silence.

  The high school looking waiter brought lunch to their table. In a boastful tone he said, "No pickles on your sandwich, sir."

  "Good," snapped his old man. "Now my son won’t have to shoot you."

  The waiter’s eyes froze open for a second while he tried to understand what he just heard.

  "He’s joking." Shockley grinned. "I'm a cop."

  The waiter headed back to the kitchen mumbling, "Not funny, man. Not funny."

  "Dad, you could get us in trouble. You need to be careful what you say."

  Shockley felt the vibration inside the pocket of his jacket. He slipped his hand inside, retrieved his phone, and placed it against his ear. "Shockley."