Chapter 52: A New Development
The private investigator sits at his desk, twirling a nickel with his thick left fingers, a glass of whiskey in his right hand. He waits as the clock in his office ticks away the seconds… the minutes… the hours… he's waiting…waiting for the just the right moment. It's after 7 o'clock in the evening, but the streets are quite lively, many people going to Times Square for the 4th of July fireworks or to bars to toast the evening. This PI, however, had other plans.
The lights outside his office go out, indicating the last of the PIs are going to the bar for a drink or home to their wives and families, but he is not. He's waiting. He has some work to do.
He's been biding his time over the past couple of days, going through the employee files, looking for someone… he came across the file he was looking for, under the recently hired section and under sketch artist.
J. Dawson
Now, of course, this could mean nothing… Jack and Dawson were very common names and it could be a mere coincidence. For all this investigator knew, J. Dawson was a middle-aged man, with horn-rimmed glasses and beard, who's been married for twelve years, with two children and have nothing to do with the case. Still, ever since his encounter with the two young blonde men on the street, his mind has been reeling in suspicion and thought, like a well-oiled machine. The gears in his head had not stopped whirring, not even for a moment. He knew that Mr. Hockley and Mrs. DeWitt Bukater were getting anxious and he was a man who would get the job done. He worked what he earned, no matter what the consequence.
Once the sounds of the last private investigator leaving his office, locking it up tight and then his footsteps fading down the stairs, the PI makes his move. He downs the rest of his whiskey and expertly flips the nickel into the glass. He stands up with the employee folder and reaches for his coat by the door. He shuts the door and locks it with his keys. He goes to the end of the hall and takes the stairs to the floor below him, where the more "main" law activities went on. Where officers hired by the city conversed and conducted investigations on the streets of New York. Those who did not have a private practice. There are interrogation rooms, a photo dark room, a fingerprint facility, a barracks for the officers on the night shift and the sketch artist studio.
The PI walks to the end of the hallway, to the room where this J. Dawson most likely works. The door is unlocked with one of his keys; any detectives or investigators had access to the entire station, no matter what.
The room was musty, the shades were drawn and the place was a mess. It definitely looked like an artist's studio; piles of paper were stacked high on the desk and on chairs, the wastebasket filled with a dozen more crumpled sheets. Pencils of all shapes, sizes, and colours were in a coffee cup on the desk and beside an artist's easel. There was an ashtray with some cigarette butts in it and a chair placed in front of the desk for witnesses to sit. The shades were drawn on the windows and the PI noticed that the entire office had a small layer of dust on it. The man moves carefully to the desk. He begins rummaging through the papers, looking for any important evidence that would be of interest to him. When that is fruitless, he goes for the desk drawers.
When opening the second drawer, the investigator sees a face staring up at him. He's almost surprised for a moment, but not the way one might expect.
The picture looking up at him had high cheekbones, green eyes, demure lips and curly red hair. The man has seen this picture before, on that is hanging on his wall, one that looked like a younger, much calmer version of the anxious woman in a large hat and carrying a handkerchief, weeping in his office upstairs.
The PI smiles inwardly and removes the picture from the drawer. He looks the sheet up and down thoroughly, not wanting to jump to any irrational conclusions.
His doubts are soon put to rest.
Down at the bottom of this picture was the signature of the artist himself, Jack Dawson.
"Bingo," the investigator says to himself, a smile forming on his face.
…
The investigator comes in the following morning and asks the secretary for some information.
"Mr. Jack Dawson?"
"Yes," the private investigator says, blowing out some smoke. "I may need to have his help in sketching a missing person for a case I'm working on."
The lie was small, the investigator often had to lie in order to gain information, whether they were suspects or not. He felt no guilt as he must do what his clients ask him to, no matter what.
"Alright…" the woman says hesitantly. It's early in the morning and the station is relatively quiet, mostly due to many of the individuals being called out for public intoxication or some sort of disturbances, or the lucky few who had the night to themselves, nursing hangovers. The secretary herself looks particularly exhausted, perhaps she drank too much, dark circles under her eyes and the PI noticed that her blouse was on backward.
The secretary pulls out a more detailed version of employee records.
"Dawson…Dawson," she mumbles to herself. "Oh here it is," she pulls out a cream coloured folder.
"You may have to wait for him Sir, Mr. Dawson is out of town for the next few days."
"What a shame…" the PI says. "Do you know where he is currently staying so I might leave a message?"
The secretary bites her lip and then looks through the file.
"Uh, in Upper Manhattan, 224 Westmont Avenue, which is currently under the name of the Carson family. I heard Mr. Anderson mention that he was living with friends at the moment."
"Thank you…" the PI says. He writes down the address on a scrap of paper and then heads towards the door.
Again the name Carson had come up, he was aware of the Carson law firm had some form of significance. He decides that it would be better to visit the place of work first, before making a stop at the home.
It was time, that he paid a visit to this law firm.
…
"Hello," the secretary says, looking up at the man from behind her dark rounded glasses and her typewriter. "How may I help you?"
"I'm here to see the manager of Carson Law Firm."
"Yes sir, are you a potential client?"
"Of sorts…" the man says, blowing out more smoke from his cigar, causing the secretary to cough a little bit. "I need to speak with the managing partner with about a case I'm working on."
"Are you from the police department?" the secretary asks.
The man opens up his coat, which the secretary thought was odd since it was the fifth of July and the windows of the office were open to let any sort of breeze in. He shows her his badge. The secretary swallows hard and struggles to get the intercom working to call into the office.
"Yes ma' me, sorry to bother you, but there's a man from the police department."
There is a pause as the secretary listens to what the person says.
The secretary hangs up.
"Go right in," the secretary nods.
The PI walks to the hard oak doors at the end of the room. Politely he knocks and then opens the door.
To his surprise, there is a woman behind the desk, a very young woman, perhaps just entering adulthood. Her long hair is pulled back to keep it out of her eyes and her bright blue eyes look up to take in her guest. The investigator immediately figures out who this is.
"Ms. Carson?" the man says with some surprise, but not much.
"Yes, that's me, how can I help you?"
Emma looks at the man in surprise. He had a thick cloud of smoke around his head from his large cigar in his hand, concealing his facial features completely. It was very unsettling and made her a bit nervous.
The investigator smiles to himself, another piece of the puzzle falls into place. Looks like Hockley was wrong and the young girl did survive.
The investigator reaches into his pocket and brings out a business card. He places it on the desk in front of Emma. Emma's eyes go wide. Her mind races as to why this investigator would be here. She does run a law firm, so maybe he wanted them to write a report or briefing for a criminal, but this man was an investigator, they usually worked on their own, to find people.
"How can I help you Detective?" she asks.
"I'm here to talk about this woman…" the investigator pulls out the newspaper photo of Rose and Caledon and slides it across the table. "Rose DeWitt Bukater, I've been told that you knew her. Have you seen her?"
Emma's eyes go wide as she is now up to speed. Clearly, Cal would hire someone to find Rose, but someone more undercover to avoid scandal. She wonders what the man wants to know. Did he think that they kidnapped Rose? Were they harbouring a fugitive? Was he here to arrest her? Her heart pounds in her chest and she feels herself start to sweat. Should she tell the truth? She can't sell Rose out to Cal, especially when she and Jack were going to come back from Santa Monica engaged to be married! But she knew she couldn't lie to a man of the law, that would be obstruction of justice and she'd have a hard time defending herself in court.
Emma decides to play this a little differently.
"What do you intend to do once you find her?"
"A question with a question…" the investigator says, inhaling his cigar. "You certainly are a lawyer."
"I've been taught some tricks," Emma says. "But I do have a right to know what you want with Rose as talking about her to you could put her very life in danger."
"How might that be?"
Emma pulls out the picture of Peter she has on her desk. She points to him.
"My fiancé was shot in the leg on the deck of the Titanic, by Mr. Hockley himself, seen by multiple witnesses. He nearly bled to death and was on a crutch for more than two months. He may never walk properly again. And that is what happened when you helped his fiancé escape from him and get in the middle of his personal issues."
"What makes you think I'm working for Mr. Hockley?"
Emma wasn't finished, she completely ignores his question. She holds up the picture of Sybil.
"My sister had been abducted by Mr. Hockley previously in order to lure his fiancé, her true love, and my family into a trap. And the man who Rose truly loves was framed and arrested for a crime he did not commit and handcuffed to a pipe, while the ship was sinking."
The investigator looks at the girl through the cloud of smoke that surrounds his head, slightly surprised. He had assumed that Mr. Hockley was possessive and quite possibly abusive, but never had the thought that the man would abduct an innocent child and shoot and man to get what he wanted. He blew out a round of smoke.
"They were also shot at by Mr. Hockley while the Grand Staircase was filling with water…"
Emma leans back. "So you see I have a lot of rights to know if the information I give you will bring harm to my friend or her child, or her loved ones."
The investigator was silent for a few moments. The girl had certainly had a lot to say and it seemed very justified that she didn't have to say anything to him for the fear of her friends' safety and now apparently a child... Mr. Dawson's no doubt.
"You're right," the man says. "You are absolutely right; I have no business asking you questions to give information to my clients if you believe that one of these clients is a danger to Ms. Bukater and her child. I am the man of the law after all and I do not want to bring harm to anyone."
"Exactly," Emma says, leaning back in her chair, glad that they were on a similar playing field.
"However, I do have a grieving mother who is desperate to find her child. A woman who has had many sleepless nights since her daughter disappeared. A woman who has lost a lot of weight due to the anxiety and nervousness she feels inside. A woman who calls me every day for details. She believes that her daughter has been kidnapped, being starved and imprisoned by some maniac. I'm sure you can imagine how painful it is not to know where someone you love is?"
Emma's taken aback for a moment. From what Rose had told her, Ruth seemed like a vain and selfish woman who didn't give two hoots about other's feelings, she was forcing Rose into a loveless and abusive marriage, and merely for money and to keep the family status. Putting so -much weight on her seventeen-year-old daughter's shoulders. But here the investigator was telling her that Ruth had feelings, she was weeping and starving herself out of grief. When she had heard that Rose had escaped from her first class life, Emma had encouraged it and cheered her on, happy she was on the right path to freedom, but now she was seeing how much grief it was causing someone else. Not realizing that running away was a double-edged sword.
She swallows. She knew from personal experience what it was like to not know where her loved ones were, the stress she experienced, the tears she cried, the sleepless nights she endured. She wouldn't wish it on anyone.
Emma merely nods and bites her lip. Her stomach churned with guilt.
"But I suppose if what you have said about Mr. Hockley is true, I have grounds to drop him from my caseload for criminal behaviour and leave them in the dark. Thank you for your time." The investigator gets up to leave.
"However…" Emma says, a smile coming to her face. "Your job is just to find her, you never actually agreed to bring her to anyone did you?"
The private investigator stops, hand on the doorknob and a similar smile comes to his face.
"Yes…" he says. "That is very true."
"You never had to disclose a location either. If I tell you that Rose is safe and happy, would that be enough to calm down Mrs. Bukater?"
The investigator nods from behind a thick cloud of smoke.
"I assume that you can keep thing anonymous as well?" Emma asks. "For the safety of my own family?"
The man nods again.
"I will tell Rose that her mother is searching for her, but it should be within her rights to decide whether she wants to contact her or not."
"I understand," the PI says, blowing out another round of smoke.
"And we also might have to work up a restraining order to prevent Mr. Hockley from ever coming near her or anyone close to her."
"I'm sure you can arrange that," the investigator says, very impressed with this girl's skills. "You are obviously a very bright young woman."
"Thank you," Emma says. She stands up from her desk and walks to shake the man's hand.
"You have my card. Hopefully, you won't hear from me again."
"Thank you," Emma repeats.
For a moment, through the smoke, she thinks she can see the man smile before he shuts the door and is gone in a final puff of smoke