Cullen and Black PI: Service with Bite!
Chapter One: The New Client
On a back street of a grimy block in the farthest reaches of Brooklyn, there was a staircase leading to an inconspicuous second-floor door bearing the legend 'Cullen & Black PI' and in much smaller letters 'Service with bite!'.
Edward always sighed inwardly when he saw it. Jacob had been allowed to choose that part.
He banged his way through the door that January afternoon, brushing show from his coat. The air was thick with cruel ice – not a problem for someone like himself (helpful, in fact; the sun hadn't shone since Christmas), but discouraging for clients.
There was someone sitting in one of the comfortable saloon chairs of the waiting room, however – a solid-looking man with the furtive look worn by those with a particular problem. Edward hesitated, then allowed himself a quiet peep into the other man's mind – he was right. Sighing, he hung his coat on the stand by the door, straightened his tie (for the look of the thing, though he had grown quite used to wearing it) and walked over to the little desk at the far end of the small room.
"Is Mr. Black anywhere abouts, Lynette?" he asked.
Lynette – a very competent, very discreet and entirely unflappable secretary – shook her head. "He went out about lunch-time, Mr. Cullen. He had a visit with a young lady this morning."
Edward raised his eyebrows.
"Okay then. Say what time he'd be back?"
Lynette shook her head, shuffling though the papers beside her little desktop computer. "That gentleman over there is a Mr.… Maynard. Shall I send him in a moment?"
"Yes please." Edward made his way into the little office – bare walls, a few shelves here and there with lop-sided books and ornaments, the rickety little desk with its run-down laptop eternally plugged to the mains and a dusty lamp and papers, papers everywhere – and sank into the wheezing spin-chair. He wasn't used to living like this, "in squalor" his old thoughts told him, but many things had changed. His old life seemed so far away…
There was a knocking at the door. Edward could see the calculating face of Mr. Maynard behind the mirror-written "nelluC .E .rM" and called "Come in."
Watching Mr. Maynard enter the room gave Edward further insights into his character that were nothing to do with mind-reading. He wore a suit, badly – though it was not a cheap one, and he sidled rather than walked. His guilt was writ so large in his very body language that it was the first thing to leap out at you. His watch was gold, but a bit too spangly, and he wore a strange lapel-pin, a little silver moon and star on a shiny black oval.
All in all… Edward refrained from wrinkling his nose. The man had a distinctly chemical smell about him.
"Mr. Maynard," he said, not revealing a single hint of his disgust as they shook hands. "Please sit down."
Mr. Maynard did exactly that, glancing about his surroundings.
"What is it you came to us for?" asked Edward when the other man did not start the conversation. "We're capable of all sorts, Mr. Maynard. We can run background checks on your daughter's lovers, find that co-worker's dismissable secrets, follow that girl you've had your eye on, a word in the right ear, greasing the right palm… with our help, Mr. Maynard, the city is your oyster. Or any mollusk of your choice."
Mr. Maynard took a deep breath. "Mr. Cullen, is it?" He had a slight south-western accent. "May I ask you, Mr. Cullen, have you ever been in love?"
Edward raised his eyebrows again. "Not that I can say," he answered truthfully. Love, and all the trappings that came with it, was something you avoided in his line of living. Or un-living, as the case may be.
Mr. Maynard said, "You look very young. I suppose you'd be the junior partner?"
"I still get carded, but I'm coming up on my thirties." Edward lied. "I promise you, Mr. Maynard, that you will receive the best care from Cullen and Black. I have as much experience as any detective does in this city. Being young, I pack more in."
Mr. Maynard didn't smile. "The reason I ask as to whether you've been in love, is due to my particular problem. Love hurts, Mr. Cullen."
"We shall do everything we can to alleviate your pain," said Edward. And then, feigning ignorance: "What aspect of love specifically ails you?"
"My wife." Mr. Maynard fiddled at his fingers. "I'm completely in love with her, and have been since we met four years ago in Arizona. She's a beauty, you'll agree –" He began to pull from his suitcase papers and photographs. A very pale brunette young woman smiled up Edward from a college graduation photograph – ASU blazed on her gown – in a group with friends, across several birthday cakes and candles, in a wedding dress with Mr. Maynard beside her. She looked… happy enough, Edward thought. Pretty enough.
"We married the fall before last, we had our anniversary this November gone," Mr. Maynard went on. "We moved with my business – copper piping – and got an apartment in Manhattan. Overlooking the park. Everything she could want."
"Perhaps not everything,' mused Edward. He pulled the wedding photo closer. "I think I can tell where this is going."
Mr. Maynard looked pained. "I just want to make certain… She's been out odd hours, claims it's for her work…"
"What does she do?"
"Something to do with art. Drags me to an exhibition every few months. If I'm honest…" Mr. Maynard turned a group photo around, pointing to a grinning black guy wearing a purple bow tie on his head. "It's this guy I'm worried about. She says she's busy with his exhibition but I don't know what could take up all her time. And, you see, my work keeps me out of the house for most of every day, and with the business trips I have to take – sometimes I barely see Izzie for a week together."
"I see," said Edward, switching the ancient laptop computer on. It took an age to warm up. "Well, if you're committed to this idea, you'll be looking at two standard background checks, and would you like this man followed as well as your wife?"
"Is that wise?"
"We would advise it, at least for the early investigation. We can compile daily or weekly reports via email, help you set up an anonymous account…" He counted out the tariffs and chores on his fingers until the computer let him enter them onto a spreadsheet. When he finally gave Mr. Maynard the price, the man nodded.
"This figure represents the hours of work, and this is the shadowing price per day," Edward pointed out. "Is that satisfactory?"
"I'll give you her details," said Mr. Maynard.
Edward saved the price spreadsheet and opened another form.
"Your full name and address, please? Date of birth, state of birth, city of birth, email addresses…"
Mr. Maynard – Allan Maynard, as it turned out – dutifully gave Edward every last fact.
"And for your wife. Name?"
"Izzie – sorry, that's just my pet name for her; Isabella Marie Maynard."
"Née?"
"Swan."
"Date of birth?"
"Oh nine, thirteen, eighty-seven."
They trawled through the entire list, and then as much as Mr. Maynard knew about Izzie's supposed lover, 'Marcus Benoit', and her work friends, and both of their families, until it was becoming dark outside. Edward could have lifted the details from the other man's mind in mere moments, but that sort of thing was… not done.
By the time Mr. Maynard left, Edward was feeling unpleasantly hungry. He flexed his fingers, saved the files on Isabella and Allan and wandered out to where Lynette was packing her things for the night.
"No sign of Jacob, then, Lynette?"
"Not a peep," Lynette said, straitening her purse and lifting it over one shoulder. She was in her late thirties, perhaps, and lived only a few streets away. Her hair was a little silvery here and there, though she wore it in uniform cornrows. Edward had allowed himself a little check into her general happiness (in his own specific manner) and found that she much preferred working in their poky little office than the waitressing she had grown too tired for, that she still loved her ex-husband but didn't let it get her down, and that nothing made her happier than tucking her kids in at night. She also thought he looked too young and needed feeding up. Her thoughts on Jacob were a lot less maternal, however.
"I suppose he'll be out for the night," he said.
Lynette paused in the doorway. "Strike a deal with the gentleman this afternoon?"
"Typical case. Can't discuss, of course…"
Lynette smiled indulgently. "Have a good evening, Mr. Cullen. See you don't forget to have your dinner, okay?"
"Try not to, Lynette,'" Edward said as she shut the door behind her. And then – and then it was just him. It was always better when it was just him, no humans cluttering the place with their thoughts, reminding him of all the ways they differed from him. Though if there was one thing to say for the private eye trade, it had shattered any illusions he had of human innocence versus his own monstrosity – sometimes they were so much worse than vampires could hope to be, and they brought it all on themselves.
And as for love… he ruminated on the issue as he brought up again the file on Isabella Maynard, née Swan, with the scanned wedding photo. The couple were laughing, but her eyes… her eyes were elsewhere.
Love! You could keep it. The whole sordid, messy thing. The way people behaved – quite ridiculously – the hurtful things they said and did, the so-called grand passions so often reduced to complaints and disillusions and furtive glances and men like Mr. Maynard lurking in poky offices requesting spying and intrusion… Edward hated the whole damn thing.
He sipped at a mug of pig's blood (he kept his supply cool in a hidden refrigerator in his office, so Lynette could never find it while cleaning) and began setting up the office's crazy-slow dial-up connection. He had a long night of investigating ahead of him.
End of Chapter One