Chapter three
The next morning, I got up early and let the coffee brew while I got dressed into my dark grey suit and a white shirt and red tie. The newspaper was waiting outside my front door. I glanced over it while whisking some eggs, then fried some bacon. I sat with my breakfast and a cup of coffee and looked through the paper. Senator McGowen certainly wasn't camera shy. He was able to mourn his fiancé who died in a tragic accident and make sure the press got his good side. He knew how to play politics. As he stood next to his fiancé's parents in the photo, they were clearly grieving while he was lapping up the attention. The apartment building I lived in was on Emerson Street, only a few minutes' drive from my office. It had a garage on the ground floor. I took the stairs as I was only two floors up, got into my car and drove to Dr Longmore's house. The picture of Randolph Haynes that Longmore painted was very different from the one I got from his friends and colleagues; Two different portraits of a man and of the events surrounding him. Like a Venn diagram, they overlapped, and the truth lay somewhere in the middle. The trouble was the stories were incomplete, so the truth was out of focus.
Either they were expecting me, or Eric just happened to be passing the door. It opened straight away.
"Dr Longmore will be with you soon." Eric informed me; his eyebrows giving a familiar performance. I thanked him and lit a cigarette while I waited. Eric saw me do this and asked me to smoke outside. When I finished my smoke, I stepped back through the front door which Eric was kind enough to leave open for me. I saw Dr Longmore walking down the stairs. He wore a red silk house coat over a salmon pink shirt and pale grey pants.
"Sorry to have kept you, Mr Pearson." He greeted, quite casually. I doubted he was really sorry.
"No problem." We sat down at his dining table. Longmore ate a hearty breakfast and offered me coffee. I drank while updating him on my progress. I told him about Charles McKenzie's office and Randolph Haynes' apartment both being searched.
"Have you found the glove?" He asked, seemingly not hearing me.
"Not yet." I answered. "Whoever ransacked the place, I got a description from a neighbour. Chances are, they either have the glove or they have an idea who does." He didn't seem concerned about Haynes, only his precious glove, so the chances were, he wouldn't be interested in my predecessor either. I decided to test the water with another matter.
"After Dr Haynes came back with the glove, when did he give it to you?" I asked. Dr Longmore thought for a while.
"I don't recall. It hardly seems relevant." He dismissed the importance with a wave of his hand.
"The impression I'm getting from his colleagues is that he never gave it to you. That it belongs to the university." Longmore wasn't being straight with me and the soft approach wasn't working.
"Dr Haynes told me about the strange glove while he was still in Egypt. He sent me pictures of it. I made it clear to him I wanted it for my collection. He agreed to hand it over once he returned. So, you see, Mr Pearson, it was as good as mine until he reneged on our agreement." I leaned back in my chair and lit a cigarette. This didn't seem to bother Longmore, but I looked around for his butler, in case he would send me outside again.
"As good as yours isn't the same thing as actually yours, Dr Longmore." He kept his voice calm and quiet, but I could see in his eyes that he wasn't.
"That is inconsequential. I hired you to retrieve the item, and that is what I expect you to do. I am willing to pay you well above your rates. How does ten thousand dollars sound?" I needed to gather my thoughts before telling him how it sounded.
"Okay, Dr Longmore. Ten thousand dollars. But I want no more secrets. You need to be on the level with me." I told my client that I still had some leads. We said goodbye and I got up to leave before pausing.
"How much does your wife know, Dr Longmore?" I asked. He seemed taken aback but then smiled. There was almost a laugh.
"Did she ask you why I hired you?" The smile gave into a laugh, and the laugh became a cough. "She thinks I hired you to follow her, I suppose. She wants a divorce and knows that if I prove she had an affair, she gets nothing in the settlement. I know she's having an affair, and I don't care. But I'll be damned if she gets her hands on one cent." He shrugged. "Maybe when you've finished this business, I'll keep you on to help with the divorce."
"As much as I appreciate the offer, I don't do divorce cases. Good morning, Dr Longmore." With that, I walked out and to my car. I drove back to my office and went through my morning ritual of making the coffee and looking through the mail. I glanced over at the answering machine but there were no messages. Somewhere in the office, I heard a fly. I could have opened a window for him, but I decided I liked the company. I drained and refilled my coffee and was about to start making some more phone calls when there was a knock at the door.
The couple sat across from me were Mr and Mrs Grey. The computer monitor was tilted so we could all see it. They wanted me to see the funeral of their daughter, Charlotte. I had already seen it. Charlotte Grey was the fiancé of Senator McGowen. He was devastated when she slipped and fell from the balcony of his Downtown mansion. The funeral was covered by all the major networks. In fact, for the week that followed, it was all you could find on the news. The senator shed tears and embraced the parents of his fiancé. Although word of their engagement only spread after her death had made the headlines. The coroner ruled it as an accidental death. The senator was in his study and didn't see a thing, and a united states senator could always be taken at his word. Especially one who has been involved in such great work and improved so many lives. The video played through to the end, and we sat in silence before I dared to break it.
"How can I help you, Mr and Mrs Grey?" I asked them.
"I want to know… We need to know what happened." It was Mr Grey who spoke. It seemed to cause him physical pain to meet my eyes. Mrs Grey seemed unable to speak. She stared at a pen on my desk. It was insignificant, yet she couldn't look away.
"You don't believe she fell?" I offered them a stiff drink. Mr Grey declined. Mrs Grey didn't hear me.
"The police wouldn't tell us anything." I could see that he was using all his strength to keep the emotion out of his voice. "We want you to look into it the way they were supposed to."
"If I look into it, there's a chance I'll reach the same conclusion." I told them. I didn't want to take their money and give them nothing but false hope and disappointment in return.
"She didn't fall." A hint of anger showed itself for a brief moment before Mr Grey regained control. I told them my rates and promised to give them regular updates. They thanked me and then left. It was lunchtime and I was hungry. After they left, I made my way to the door and paused. I walked across my office to the filing cabinet. I reached in the very back of the top drawer and pulled out my Colt .45 pistol and shoulder holster. I had a conceal carry licence, but didn't always carry a gun. This business isn't always as exciting as people might think, but something about this Longmore case made me uneasy. I took off my jacket and put on the shoulder holster. I checked to see if the gun was loaded, and safety was on and put it away. When I opened the door, the fly saw his opportunity to explore new surroundings.
I hadn't decided where to have lunch, so I just drove around until inspiration struck. I spotted the tail pretty quickly. A grey Taurus was trying to stay at least two car lengths behind me. I decided on a diner I had passed a few times but never been to. I let my tail stay with me while I drove, but they struggled to keep up. I slowed down to catch a red light and make it a bit easier for them. While I waited for the lights to change, I had a look in the rear-view mirror. I could make out that my new friend was a woman, but she was too far back for me to notice anything else. After a few minutes of this, I reached my destination and pulled over. There was only enough room for one car to fit, but she managed to find a space over the road. I got out and walked straight over to the other car and rested my hand on the roof as I leaned down to the driver's window.
"How's it going?" I asked with my best smile. The driver turned to look at me. She wasn't smiling. The window came down and I got a better look without the light reflected on the glass. She looked to be in her thirties, younger than me by a few years. Her long blonde hair wasn't tied back, just a hair clip to keep it at bay. She wore a black trouser suit and white blouse with a few more open buttons than was entirely necessary. Her skin was lightly freckled. She didn't speak. Perhaps she didn't expect a confrontation like this.
"Don't feel bad." I tried to reassure her. "I'm a detective. I'm good at spotting tails. Let me buy you a coffee." She nodded and stepped out of the car. I opened the door for her as we entered Mick's Diner, always the gentleman. We sat in a booth by the window that faced our cars. The diner was busy. I watched the young waitress dance between tables, expertly avoiding bumping into the many patrons. The chairs and tables were close together, so she showed great skill. She made her way over to us and filled the cups already on the table with coffee as she spoke.
"Welcome to Mick's Diner. I'm Sally, I'll be your server today. Would you like to know our specials?" She spoke her lines like an actress who had repeated the same words until they lost all meaning. "Mick makes a mean chilli cheeseburger." We both opted for pie which came with a generous helping of cream on the side. Sally the waitress gave a smile and danced her way to the kitchen. I heard a dozen conversations bleed into each other and could make out some of them. Some tourists were deciding where to head next, the Washington monument or the Smithsonian. Eventually they settled on a bus tour. A businessman in a suit was talking on his cell and felt it necessary for the people around him to feel included in his conversation. One brave soul had ordered the chilli cheeseburger and was pleading for someone to put out the fire in his mouth. I turned my attention to the woman sat across from me.
"So, who are you and why are you following me?" I cut right to the chase.
"My name is Sophie Steen and I'm an investigative journalist." She showed me her press badge.
"Pleased to meet you, Sophie Steen." I said, in the same friendly voice as before. We were getting along famously.
"I got wind of a story. I went to interview some old PI, but he wasn't there. I overheard you talking to the accountant, so I looked you up." I was impressed. She clearly worked fast.
"I'm flattered." I replied. "But that doesn't explain why you're following me."
"I figured you're working on something. I need a story. My editor is up my ass wanting me to bring him something." She looked desperate.
"Sorry to disappoint, but I'm not exactly looking for the Maltese Falcon. Most private detective work is pretty dull." Our pies arrived. They were good. Mick knew what he was doing. Sophie kept pushing but I wouldn't give. "In my business, Miss Steen, if word gets out that you talked, you get a reputation. Clients expect discretion. If I spoke to you about any of the cases I've worked, I can forget about being a private eye." I finished my pie and drained the coffee. "Enjoy your pie." I said as I got up to leave. I took some bills out of my wallet and left them on the table. I sat in my car and thought for a while. The university made sense as my next destination. It sounded like that's where the glove ended up when it first arrived in the states. If it had moved since, I hoped I could pick up its trail. But first, I wanted to see what I could find out about Charlotte Grey.
The Bullhorn started out as a dive bar back in the sixties and was owned by a lowlife called Happy. It was a nickname steeped in irony. He barely had two words for the people he liked, and he only tolerated the regulars for their money. He would watch them come and go, drink to temporarily forget their troubles, and he would ignore them as best he could. If ever someone tried to strike up a conversation with their favourite bar's owner, it was something they only tried once. The barman he hired, along with tending bar, was in charge of all social interactions and deliveries so Happy didn't have to talk to anyone. He would sit in the corner of the bar, drinking the cheapest rye in stock. One might question the wisdom of opening a bar, given his disposition. Misfortune, or fortune, depending on how you look at it, had led to the death of his parents, but also a large sum of money in the form of inheritance. He had enough sense not to waste it, but he lacked the imagination and forward thinking required for any other forms of investment. Alas, opening a bar was the only option that he could see in front of him. He was a big, middle-aged man whose dress-sense could just about be forgiven on someone half his age. He was bald by the time he was thirty and had a permanent 5 o'clock shadow by the time he hit puberty. As is often the case with people and their pets, his bar looked much like its owner. He thought that with a fresh coat of paint and some fancy barstools no one would notice the bloodstains and boarded up windows. The Bullhorn was the type of establishment that needed to nail down its barstools to prevent them being used as weapons, for the people drawn to the Bullhorn were much like Happy, only more so. One evening, a young man called James Hart decided to have one too many drinks. He had convinced himself that taking down the owner of a bar with the kind of reputation the Bullhorn enjoyed, would earn him the respect and admiration of his fellow drinkers. The encounter didn't end the way he had imagined and Happy found himself in front of a judge with a murder rap hanging over him. He sold his bar to pay for adequate legal representation, so he didn't have to rely on the free lawyer that would be appointed. But despite this and his lawyer's best efforts, he was given a dime stretch in Atwater, which was the closest he ever came to a sunny Californian vacation. When he got out, he had no friends to turn to and no roof over his head. He ended up sleeping on the streets and was found dead one morning by a dog walker.
The Bullhorn was bought by an ex-cop who took early retirement after losing an argument with a .44. Having an ex-cop as the new owner was enough to discourage most of the old clientele from returning. Any stragglers who were too stubborn to give up their familiar territory quickly had a change of heart when serving police officers started to patronize the Bullhorn. The place has been a cop bar ever since. Even after leaving the force, I was still welcomed. Those who didn't approve of my presence there kept their heads down and didn't argue. For Bobby Dupree, a man who had taken down some of the biggest and baddest criminals in D.C., was not a man with whom to argue. He decides who drinks in his bar.
Business was slow when I walked in. Two old men sat at one end of the bar, telling competing war stories that got more and more outlandish as time moved on. Some locals who were listening in eventually saw the need to call bullshit when one of the old timers claimed to have single handedly thwarted a bank robbery, shooting two culprits and tackling a third. A few more patrons were spread out across the bar watching baseball. Bobby always had baseball on and never allowed any other sport in his bar. I saw Bobby walking the floor, picking up glasses as he went. He saw me and smiled.
"Hiya Jack." He called over. I returned his greeting and we both made our way to opposite sides of the bar. He poured me a beer without needing to ask what I wanted, and I smiled. We talked for a while. Small talk. His family, the weather, my lack of any sort of love life.
"Eddie around?" I asked. Eddie Russell was my partner when I first made detective. He was still a good friend now.
"He's sat in the booth on the end, by the jukebox." Bobby told me. I thanked him and bought another beer for Eddie. I didn't want to meet him empty handed.
On a cold November morning in 2002, I turned up for my shift at V Street Station. Detective Eddie Russell was stood by the coffee machine when I entered the bullpen. He gave me a smile when he saw me. His face was slightly red from shaving with a cheap razor, and there were bags under his eyes. He was on his second divorce, and was working all the overtime he could get to keep up with all the payments.
"Morning Jack, ready to get out there?" I said I was. We got in his car and started driving. "B over on Hamlin Street." We talked for a while. Nothing deep. Eddie always kept people at arm's length. Conversations usually revolved around The Washington Nationals, food, and crime. The few times I tried to steer the conversation somewhere else, I was met with a raised eyebrow and silence, before he carried on with whatever he was talking about before.
We pulled up outside a house on Hamlin Street and made our way past the yellow tape. A few uniforms were making themselves look busy while another was stood next to a couple. I figured them to be the victims.
"Morning Sid." Eddie greeted one of the uniforms who walked over to us. Sid Vaughn was a young, fresh faced kid with pale skin and an athletic build. "What've you got for us?" Sid gestured to the couple.
"Nate Whelan and Samantha Drummond. Came home from a trip to LA. Came home in the early hours of the morning to find the place burgled Front door was still locked, looks like they got in round the back." Eddie looked up and down the street.
"None of the neighbours see anything? Take a couple of guys and canvas the area." Sid nodded and got to work. "Come on Jack, let's go and talk to the vics." We walked over and introduced ourselves. Eddie flashed his badge with practiced smoothness. We asked what was missing. It was the usual things, games consoles, jewellery, television. Eddie told them we would dust for prints, so we'd need theirs for elimination purposes. After getting as much as we could from the victims, we headed into the house. The front door opened onto a small hallway. Staircase in front, but a few feet away. A door to the left took us to the living room and kitchen/diner. Not much looked out of place. The house had been emptied of all but the furniture. Nothing had been knocked over, so the perpetrator, or perpetrators, likely knew the house would be empty for days, allowing them to take their time. I shared these thoughts with Eddie, who nodded encouragingly.
"Not bad insights, kid." He would often call me "kid". It was his joke, as despite being only a few years younger, I had only recently made detective. We kept walking and found a rock in the kitchen, and hole in the window. Broken glass glistened on the floor. As Sid had informed us, this was how the perps got in. We checked the rest of the house, but it was the same story in every room.
Sid and the other officers came back from canvassing. No one saw anything, but one neighbour remembered hearing glass breaking, but didn't want to get involved in case it was a domestic. We left the crime scene investigators to do their job and went to interview the neighbour who didn't want to get involved.
"Detective Russell and this is Detective Pearson." Eddie introduced us.
"Benny Hurst." The neighbour said. He was an older, white-haired man wearing a sleeveless vest. His eyes were magnified by a pair of thick-rimmed glasses and his nose was flat with prominent blue veins. His vest was white, but stained brown in places, and he wore a pair of grey sweatpants.
"So, you heard a noise that sounded like glass breaking." Eddie started.
"That's right, it was a couple of nights ago. I didn't think anything of it at the time." He was looking at the floor when he spoke.
"Where were you when you heard it?"
"I was sitting in the garden, having a smoke. The wife doesn't like me smoking in the house."
"What time was this?"
"Maybe a little after two. I was having trouble sleeping. I looked at the clock and went outside for a few."
"You didn't hear any other noises? No talking, nothing?" He shook his head. We thanked him and moved on.
We got a match for the fingerprints; Marcus Cook, twenty-one years old. Two stretches inside for burglary which meant he was on his third strike. We had an address for him. 12th Street, south of Lincoln Park. We were about to knock on his door when we saw him walking towards us, along the sidewalk. He stopped when he saw us and pulled a gun. We both went for ours. We shouted warnings, but he raised his gun arm. I took the shot. Eddie ran over to him and kicked the gun away. He stopped suddenly, took a handkerchief out of his pocket and used it to pick up the gun. I walked over to him.
"It's plastic." Eddie told me. "A toy." I felt sick. We later found out the guy I shot wasn't Marcus Cook; it was his seventeen-year-old brother. Even though I was cleared by an IA investigation, I didn't feel any better about it. Eddie told me if I didn't take the shot, he would have. That if someone points a gun at you, you don't wait to see if it's real or not. That was the beginning of the end for me.
Six months later, Officer Jacobi was walking his beat when he called for back-up. We were only around the corner, so we took it. A kid who was maybe nineteen at most was waving a gun. All I could think about was that seventeen-year-old boy I killed. I didn't want to repeat history. My gun was drawn, but I couldn't shoot. I wanted to talk him down instead. My fellow officers never let me forget about Eli Jacobi, his widow, and their two children. Eddie and a few others stayed with me, but the rest of the department turned their backs. I put in my papers and walked away from the job. 12 months later, Eddie earned himself a promotion to Sergeant and a transfer to Major Crimes.
"How's it going, Eddie?" I said, placing a fresh beer in front of him. He looked at the beer and smiled.
"As well as anybody, I suppose." He finished the beer he already had and reached for the new one. "How's the private game treating you?"
"Good days and bad." I slid into the bench opposite. His eyes went back to his crossword. I watched him scratch his chin for a while. He had light brown hair parted at the side. His clean-shaven face was covered in scars from having acne as a child. His charcoal grey suit was cheap and worn. The shirt used to be white, but after years of wear, was closer to a greyish brown. The detective business doesn't pay too well whether you're working for the state or for yourself. Plus, he was paying alimony for more ex-wives than Rod Stewart. I leaned across the table to see what he was stuck on. He sensed me looking.
"Supporter of art. Five letters, second letter A." I thought for a moment.
"Easel." I finally said. Eddie gave me his thoughtful face followed by a nod.
"Easel." He repeated before writing it down. He put the pencil down and leaned back in his seat. "I assume you didn't come here to deprive me of the joy of completing a crossword all by myself, have you? What's up?"
"What do you know about the Charlotte Grey death?" I asked him back. He looked at me with a furrowed brow. He lifted his glass and took another drink.
"Why are asking about the Grey girl?" He stared hard at me, hoping I would give something away. The crossword far from his mind now.
"Her parents came to see me. They don't think her death was an accident." Eddie sighed and stared down at his glass, twisting it on the table. He raised it to his lips and poured more beer into his mouth.
"Charlotte Grey fell from her balcony, and trying to prove otherwise would be a career ending move, Jack. I know you always do your own thing, but my advice would be to leave this one alone." He reached for his cigarettes and handed me one before lighting his own.
"Who did the case go to?" I asked, pretending not to hear his warning. He sighed again and there was a long pause while he weighed his options. Help me or block me.
"It went to Captain Shaw of Homicide. M.E.'s report confirmed cause of death, there's one witness, saw the whole thing. Case closed."
"What witness?" I kept going.
"Window across the street. By chance someone happened to be looking in her direction and saw her stumble and fall." I could hear the doubt in his voice. We talked a little more and Eddie ordered another round of drinks. I wrote down the details he had given me in my notebook while it was still fresh.