Someone to Watch Over Me
Chapter 8Jeff could see his mother grimace as he pulled up in front of the office building. "It's not that bad, Mom," he told her, and put the car in park.
"No, it's not that bad. It's worse," she replied. What was he doing in a place like this? He'd traded in the clean, modern private office for . . . what? This thing? This building that looked like it should have been torn down twenty years ago? What was he thinking?
"It'll have to do. It's all I could afford."
"Does it have an elevator?" Dorothy asked as she stared at the four-story building.
"It does. I'm on the third floor," Jeff announced proudly.
They rode upstairs in relative silence. The elevator creaked and moaned all the way up, and his mother looked like she was in fear for her life. Both of them breathed a sigh of relief when the doors opened on the third floor.
Jeff led his mother down the hall to Suite 315. A sign posted on the wall next to the door announced 'Jeff Spencer, Private Investigator.' The proprietor unlocked the door and led his mother inside. "It's awfully small," she remarked.
"It suits my needs. Remember, it was all I could afford."
Dorothy looked around, trying to put a good face on things. It looked awfully old; the furniture was worn and faded, but at least the place was clean. "You need another coffee pot."
"I'm going to bring the one from home. I'll be spending a lot of time here, and I think here is where it will get the most use." Jeff saw the look on his mother's face and sat down behind the desk. "Look, Mom, I know it's not the greatest place in the world; it's not big and beautiful, but it's mine. I can start here, and see just how I can put that law degree to use – without having to lick the shoes of the man running the place. That's important to me."
His mother smiled at him, the first time she'd done so since seeing the building. "I just want you to be happy, Jefferson. That's what's important to me. If you think this will make you happy, then so be it. But I'm still going to buy you another coffee pot."
Jeff laughed, knowing that he'd won his mother over – for now.
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Jeff sat behind his desk and tried to think of ways to drum up business. He put an ad in the local paper and, when that didn't seem to do anything, he put one in the L.A. Times. One day the phone rang and when he answered it "Jeff Spencer," there was nothing but silence on the other end. He repeated his name and still heard nothing, so he hung up. In less than a minute the phone rang again. "Jeff Spencer," he answered once again, and this time a very young voice asked him a question.
"You a private vestigator?"
"I am. Who do I have the pleasure of speaking with?"
"This is Bobby. You look for things that are lost?"
Jeff almost laughed. This must be some kind of a joke, right? Alright, he'd play along with it. "What have you lost, Bobby?"
"My daddy. Can you find him for me?" There was noise on the phone that Jeff couldn't figure out, then finally a female voice assumed the phone call. "Mr. Spencer, this is Bobby's mother. I'm sorry that he bothered you."
"Wait, Bobby's mother. Is Bobby's daddy really missing?"
"Well . . . yes, sort of. My name is Mary Winchester, by the way."
"What do you mean, sort of?"
"Mr. Spencer, Bobby shouldn't have called you. We were looking through the paper and he saw your ad behind the page the comics were on. I'm sorry he bothered you."
"Mrs. Winchester, how old is Bobby?"
"He's five, Mr. Spencer, but he . . . "
"And what did you mean, your husband is missing 'sort of'?" Jeff persisted. There was something so sad in Bobby's voice that Jeff wanted to know more. Besides, all he was doing was the crossword puzzle, and he was stuck on 18 across, 'Cleopatra biter.'
"You really don't want to hear this, Mr. Spencer. Besides, I can't afford to pay you your normal fee. And Bobby has no money, either," Mary gave a little laugh. Her voice was pleasant sounding, and he wondered why anyone would try to disappear on her and their son.
"Let's not worry about that right now. Is Mr. Winchester missing or not?" Right now Jeff had no normal fee. And he was bored. He'd never been good at crossword puzzles, and his change of profession hadn't helped him any.
"Yes and no. Scott Winchester and I are divorced, and Scott owes us child support. So he has simply vanished into thin air. Bobby, of course, just wants to see his daddy."
"I think I can help you, Mrs. Winchester."
"Mary, please. And why would you do that, Mr. Spencer?" There was a tone in her voice that hadn't been there before – a tone of hope.
"Please, Mary. Call me Jeff. Let's say I don't want to disappoint Bobby."
"I . . . I don't know what to say," she finally managed.
"Give me your address." Jeff wrote down the address she gave him – 697 Mulberry Road. It was in Lynwood, just a few minutes away. "I'll be there shortly." He hung up the phone and stood up, grabbing his jacket and slipping it on as he went out the office door. He locked the door behind him and hurried to the elevator, which took its sweet time arriving.
Traffic wasn't heavy, and he got to Lynwood in less than thirty minutes. It took him a while to find Mulberry, and when he pulled up he parked on the street. It was a neat looking house; sky blue with white shutters and a beautifully mown lawn. There was a mulberry tree in the front yard, and Jeff laughed as he walked up the sidewalk. A mulberry tree on Mulberry Road. Well, why not? He knocked on the front door and a pretty redhead opened it for him. "Mr. Spencer?" she asked.
"Mrs. Winchester. And it's Jeff, remember." A small pair of blue eyes peeked out from behind Mary Winchester, and Jeff bent down to address the eyes. "Hello, Bobby, I'm Jeff. I've come to see if I can help find your daddy."
"Really?" the child asked as he stepped out from behind his mother.
"Really," Jeff answered. Jeff took Bobby's hand and walked with him into the house. It was neat and clean, but the furniture looked to be from the same century as Jeff's office furniture. It was a lot older than it should be, for such a modern little house.
"Won't you have a seat, Mr. – uh, Jeff?"
"Thank you, Mary. Bobby, I'm here to see if I can find your daddy, but I need to talk to your mommy in private. Can you wait in your room for a few minutes?"
"Promise you'll help?" the little boy asked.
"I promise." Jeff was determined to do what he could to help, whether Mary Winchester could pay him or not. It would be good experience for him, and it would give him something to do besides sit in his office and work on crossword puzzles, or his second choice, read true crime novels.
Bobby gave Jeff the biggest smile he'd ever seen and ran off to play in his room. As soon as he was gone Jeff took out a small pad and a pen. "What's your husband's full name?"
"Scott Wilson Winchester. His family is old money. That's why I don't understand . . . Bobby is our child. Why won't Scott support him?"
"How long ago did you divorce?"
"Late last year," Mary replied. "At first he came around every week to see Bobby, who adores his father. Then it became every other week. Then it slid to once a month. Now it's been three months, and that's how long it's been since he paid child support. If it was just me, Jeff, it wouldn't make any difference. "But it's not . . . Bobby asks me all the time when he's going to see his daddy. And there are things that Bobby needs . . . that I can't afford. My child needs his father." Up until now, Mary had been stoic while she explained the situation to Jeff. By the time she finished, there were tears in her eyes – tears more for her little boy than anything else.
"Where does he work?"
"He was working for Davey Construction in Compton, but he's not there anymore. They don't know where he went when he left there."
Jeff was writing furiously. "And do you have his last address and phone number?"
"Just a minute." She got up and went to her address book, sitting next to the phone. "781 Carrie Avenue, Nickerson Gardens. Chester 3-2781. It's the same thing, though – he moved and left no forwarding address. And the phone, it's just disconnected."
"What's your phone number here?"
"Harris 6-3286. I work three days a week, Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday. Bobby stays with Mrs. Manning next door. I'm usually home by four. My number at work is Harris 9-4862. Anything else you need, Jeff?"
"Do you have a picture of Scott? And lastly, where do his parents live?"
"They live in Huntington Park, somewhere on Cedar Street. I was only there once or twice and I can't remember the address. It's a big white house with magnolia trees in the front yard. Here," Mary handed Jeff a photo. "That's Scott with Bobby. It was taken right before the divorce." She sat back down. "Can I ask you a question, Jeff?"
"Sure," was his quick reply.
"Why are you doing this? I've already told you I can't pay you. What's in it for you?"
Jeff hesitated before answering. "To tell you the truth, Mary, I don't really know. I just know when I heard Bobby on the phone, wanting me to find his daddy, that I needed to help him. And don't worry about paying me. We'll work something out."
Bobby crept out of the hallway, back into the living room. "You going to help, Mr. Spencer? Help me find my daddy?"
Jeff looked at the little boy standing anxiously in front of him. "Yes, Bobby, I'm going to help you find your daddy."
