Space Ring - Part 1 - Stolen!

I got a call on Friday from a woman who said that someone was trying to kill her. She later came into my office to talk briefly with me about the case. As I was busy at the time, I recommended that she take her situation to a colleague of mine who has a more open schedule, but she was reluctant. Since then, I haven’t heard from her, and I can’t seem to get in touch with her.

Then I did some research today, and I’m glad I didn’t readily agree to taking the case. Let’s just say that this woman is friends with people she shouldn’t be friends with, and if they want to make her disappear, she’s more gone than carbs in America. Bottom line is that when this particular crowd is involved, there’s nothing I can do except get myself in trouble, which I’m not a fan of. So that’s the end of that.

Today, a man we’ll call Todd came into my office looking to hire me. Todd works for an insurance company, and deals with investigating claims that are suspected to be fraudulent. Some insurance companies have their own investigation branches (as Todd’s does), while others go to the government to help them ascertain whether or not their client is lying his or her ass off. Todd knows I’m good, and he’s hired me as an independent contractor on several occasions to deal with cases he says he doesn’t have time for (in other words, cases that are too difficult for him). I’ve been very successful in the past, and Todd is a generous employer.

Last week, a valuable ring was stolen from a very wealthy family on the Upper East Side. A few months ago, Mr. Southern, husband and father of two, gave his wife a very unique and very large ring on their 25th wedding anniversary. Made of 24 carat gold, the face is covered in small, extremely expensive jewels surrounding a single black hunk of polished stone in the center. The stone has been fashioned from a meteorite. Mr. Southern considered it incredibly romantic to give his wife an object that had flown billions of lightyears across the galaxy, only to end up on his wife's fat finger. It goes without saying that the ring is incredibly hideous to look at. However, I’ve read recently that this is somewhat popular – do a search, and you’ll find plenty of companies offering such rings.

Despite its ugliness (as confirmed by the pictures Todd gave me), the ring is highly valued, and Southern insured it well. Then, last week, the ring disappeared from their home. The Southerns had been out for the evening, and returned to find the door to their apartment unlocked. They were sure they had locked it on leaving, and went in to see if anything had been stolen. At first, it seemed as if everything was in place. The Southerns live at a very expensive address on Park Avenue, and their furnishings reflect this, yet everything seemed to be in place. It was only when Mr. Southern entered his bedroom that he discovered the meteorite ring had been stolen.

Todd was very skeptical of the whole situation, if for no better reason than because the Southerns have many possessions worth far more than the ring. Very strange that the only item stolen was the ring, which had been insured relatively recently. With so many other more valuable choices, it seems trivial to even have bothered with it. The police had conducted a full investigation, and claim to have a few leads they are checking up on. Standard response when nothing more definite is available.

Todd is hiring me to investigate the case for him and find out if the ring really was stolen. He gave me a bit of background on the Southern family. Quick rundown from Todd:

Mr. Southern is at the point in his financial career where he refers to himself as a philanthropist before stating his true profession, which is in banking. Bald, big moustache, always dressed in suits. Hard to bargain with.

Molly Southern, his wife, is the complete opposite of the type of arm candy a man like Southern should be entitled to. Molly is large, with curly hair and a self-obsessed attitude.

Southern and Molly have two children, an 18 year-old bitch of a daughter named Cassandra (the type of girl who’s hot and uses it to her advantage), and a 20 year-old overweight ass of a son named Greg (I will confirm these descriptions soon). A maid comes once a day to clean. A dog walker comes around noon to take out their dog.

Todd just left, and I’ll be meeting the fam tomorrow. Generally, I hate working for rich clients, because there is simply no way to satisfy them. However, in this case, my client is Todd, not the Southern family, meaning I only need to answer to him. Much more preferable, and it means I can play with the Southerns in whatever manner I decide. Exactly how I like it.

Angelina's Problem - Part 3 - Double Trouble

[Originally posted on Rance's site here]

My friend the detective called me at about 8 AM the following morning. One of the reasons I quit the force all those years ago is because the hours just killed me.

"Found the girl's body. Pretty ugly, looks like someone dumped her off the pier, but she got tangled up in some rope or tackle or something. She was caught on the dock when we found her. Neighbors came down and identified her. Stop by the jazz club last night?"

"Yeah."

"See the ex-boyfriend?"

"No comment."

"Come on now, Dick, lying to a cop is a crime. Think he did it?"

"Not sure."

"Well, we're out looking for him now."

"What do you know about the girl?" I asked.

"Not much. She's here legally on a work visa. We know where she came from, some stuff about her life in New York, but that's it as of now."

"Anyone else in her life? Family, friends?"

"Not sure. We're checking up on that now."

We talked a bit longer, then hung up.

Billy had told a good story the other night, but rotting corpses speak louder than words. Still, I wanted to believe him. The only missing piece to it all was the sister. I was still kicking myself for not asking Billy for her address, though I assume her apartment was his first stop after running out of the club.

After getting myself out of bed and through a cup of coffee, I noticed the envelope of picture shreddings I had taken from Angelina's apartment, and a thought occurred to me. It was a long shot, but if there was any validity to Billy's story, it would probably mean two things: 1) that Angelina had been tearing up any photos that had to do with her relationship, and 2) that would include not only pictures of Billy, but also of her sister. Maybe a picture of the sister would jog someone's memory--the band, Angelina's neighbors, whoever. Get people talking.

I took out the envelope and dumped the photo scraps on my desk. Like I said, most of the pictures looked as if they had been taken in Central Park near Belvedere Castle, and looking over the pieces, there seemed to only be pictures of Billy and Angelina. In fact, something looked out of sorts --“ there were more Angelina heads than there were Billy heads --"

I started to put together one of the pictures. A few minutes later, I had assembled enough to know the answer to everything.

The picture showed Billy leaning against a wall of the castle, showing off his teeth. In his left arm was Angelina. In his right arm was also Angelina.

Angelina's sister Tina was her twin. Billy had ditched Angelina for her twin sister.

I had to catch Angelina before she disappeared forever, and there was a chance I knew where she might go.

---

The police had long since finished their investigation of Angelina's apartment. A few lines of police tape were still draped over the door knob, and I left them in place as I picked the lock. Once inside, I fed the cat, then took a seat in her bedroom and waited.

Two hours later, the door slowly opened. A woman dressed in black, with glasses and a large hat entered the room. She shut the door behind her, then glanced around the kitchen and living room. Seeing no one, she burst into action and began searching both rooms for something. Amused at her stupidity, I watched her for a few minutes, then came out of the bedroom.

"You know," I said loudly, startling her. "I hate being used."

Angelina started for her purse but I pulled out my .45 before she could get the zipper undone.

"What the fuck are you doing?" she shrieked. "You work for me!"

"There's one clause that renders my contract void, and that's when I find out I'm being used." She shrank back against the couch. The cat came over to me, and I hefted him onto my lap.

"So let me just make sure I understand everything clearly," I said. "Billy dumps you for your twin sister. You are furious. You try to get him back, but they both ignore you. You plot your revenge. You kill your sister, make it look like it's you that's been murdered, then implicate Billy as the killer. Your plan is to run back to Italy while the cops are trying to figure out what happened. Once out of the country, it'll be a while before they figure out a twin exists somewhere. In the meantime, Billy is the perfect guy to take the rap. I won't go into the added benefit you'd have with a jury when they have to judge a black guy for killing a sweet, beautiful white girl. Then, you hire me to put all the pieces together and tell the cops that my client was killed by her ex-boyfriend. Did I miss anything?"

She stared at me, shaking with rage but keeping absolutely silent.

"Didn't think so. Two mistakes. First, if you leave your plane ticket at the crime scene, just buy a new one. Don't come back for it." I held up the plane ticket for her to see, and the look of shock that crossed her face was priceless. "Two, don't hire a private dick who's as smart as he is handsome." No reply to that one. None needed.

With my gun still trained on her, I called the cops.

---

No happy ending to the story. Turns out, Billy was going to marry Tina before Angelina killed her and tied her body to the pier (yes, that was intentional). As of now, there's no way to reverse what doctor's refer to as rotting corpse syndrome, so Billy is going to have to cry, write some great jazz numbers about what happened, then ultimately get over it. Angelina got punished pretty damn severely. There was always enough evidence to link her to the case. However, if she had got back to Italy, there's a very good chance no one would have ever seen her again, and Billy might be in jail now.

As for me, the greatest tragedy of all: I didn't get paid, as my client turned out to be a murderer. It happens, though a lot less since this case. I'm much less willing to take on a case for any reason these days other than the payoff (pretty face or not). I realize that a lot of people think I have no morals or ethics, and am only in this for the money. These two statements are both true and false. I have morals and ethics, but when it comes to my work, they have no place save for helping me look out for my own welfare. As for the financial side, the money is good, but there are other reasons. I'll explain them sometime, but it requires telling at least one case, maybe more.

However, that's not to say it was a total net loss. In lieu of payment, I decided to take her kitten, who is named Sammy (that is the one true name I will ever give in any of my stories; at least, until Sammy verbally complains). My secretary acted annoyed, as it meant a new host of chores that went beyond her job description, but I think she's just as happy to have someone new around the office. Sammy has been with us ever since.

Angelina's Problem - Part 2 - Blood & All That Jazz

[Originally posted on Rance's site here]

But no body.

I searched the entire apartment from top to bottom but found no corpses, Italian or otherwise. The blood was isolated to the carpet in the living room - the bedroom and bathroom were both busted up in much the same fashion as the other rooms, but nothing stood out as evidence that might lead to answers. In the trash barrel underneath the computer desk, I found a pile of torn up photos of Angelina and her ex-boyfriend Billy, apparently taken on and around Belvedere Castle in Central Park. I found an envelope and collected the pieces. The only other noteworthy item I found was in the small space between the refrigerator and the adjacent counter - a plane ticket. Destinazione: Roma. Must have been held by a magnet to the side of the fridge and fallen (there are certain places where helpful clues tend to crop up, and such a space is one of them).

I'd think about it all later -- time to flee the crime scene. I filled up a new dish of milk for the cat (soft spot for animals, don't tell anyone), then walked into the hall and closed the door behind me. I turned around and ran smack into an elderly man, who had quietly come up the stairs.

"They all done in there?" he asked.

"Done what?"

"Done arguing. Damn man and woman were arguing loud as hell. Walls are thin in this building, and I couldn't stand it anymore, so I left."

The old man went on to tell me that it had sounded like an argument about a relationship. He knew his neighbor Angelina, of course, and said he had seen the man, Billy, come around frequently in the past, though not as often recently.

I thanked him, then headed outside. Almost midnight. I pulled out my cell phone and called the police. I'm generally not one to involve cops when I can avoid it, but something clearly had happened, and Angelina could very well be injured but alive somewhere. I have a pretty good relationship with a detective at the nearby precinct house - once in a while, I throw him a bone, and just as frequently he returns the favor. I got him on the line, gave him the address, and hung up before he could ask any questions. It wouldn't be long before he questioned the neighbor, found out an ex-boyfriend was involved, and searched Angelina's apartment for his info. Billy was their next logical target, and mine as well.

As I write this, I realize I've changed a lot over the years. If a similar situation were to happen now, I'd be much more prone to leaving it to the police to handle. After all, there was a likely chance Angelina was dead, meaning there was an even more likely chance I wouldn't be getting paid. Why waste physical and mental energy? Sure, I could lie to you all and say I was counting on finding her alive and collecting a fat reward, but the truth of the matter is, she was pretty, and I don't like when people fuck with my pretty clients. Like I said, this is ancient philosophy, but more on that later.

Time to track down Billy. I arrived at the jazz club at 12:30, where Billy's band was in full swing. The place was filled with smoke (back when smoking indoors was allowed in New York), and was packed with about every type you can imagine, from lounge lizards to college students trying painfully hard to look hip. Billy was standing on the stage in the middle of a wild solo on his sax, and I politely waited until after the applause had died down before working my way forward. He took his seat, and I sidled up to him. I yelled to him that we had to talk about the argument he had with Angelina earlier. He kept playing, but glanced down at me with a suspicious eye.

"Her place has been trashed and there's blood everywhere."

He let out an extra large breath of air and missed the next note, causing the rest of the band to glance over and give me bad looks. Billy continued playing for a moment, then dropped out the song and got off stage.

He led me through a black-curtained doorway. On the other side was what you'd call the Green Room if you were on a late-night talk show, only in this particular club, it could only be described as the back room - a dingy shoebox of a space with concrete walls and a few small round tables for the performers to kick back a few drinks at before going on stage. A few musicians were smoking idly or chatting with their dates.

Billy led me to a vacant table, and we both sat down.

"Here's the deal," I said. "I'm a private detective. I just came over from your ex-girlfriend's apartment. The place has been torn apart and there's blood on the carpet. I have at least one witness who knows you were there earlier in the evening. Hope you have a good alibi."

"Listen man," he began, looking totally shocked, "Angelina called me and asked me to come over. Did she hire you?" I didn't move. "Doesn't matter," he continued. "Everyone knows we ended on bad terms. I left her for her younger sister, and she wasn't too happy
with the both of us."

"Not what she said, man," I replied. "She said she left you, and you were pissed off at her."

He laughed, though not the type of laugh that suggested he found anything funny. "Crazy bitch. Look, I broke it off with her to go with her sister Tina a few months ago, and she's been furious at both of us ever since. Every conversation has been an argument, and just when it seemed like it was getting to a dangerous level, she disappeared. Nothing for a few weeks, then I got the call tonight. I can't believe I even went over there. She said she was heading back to Italy, and wanted to say good-bye. I went over, and she started to chew me out. Screaming and yelling - fuck that. I left after fifteen minutes."

"So you don't know how the place got torn apart? Don't know where she is now?"

"No clue."

"All right," I said. "You can go play now."

He laughed again. "Yeah, right. How long before the cops get here?"

The sound of sirens answered his question. He looked at me to see if I'd try and stop him, but I stayed still. He threw his sax in its case, then bolted out the backdoor into the alleyway. I followed suit, as talking to cops was the last thing I wanted to do at this point.

So two completely opposite stories and no reason to believe either. I headed home.

The next morning, I got a phone call that put things in perspective. Angelina's body had been found down by the Hudson River a few blocks over from her apartment.

Angelina's Problem - Part 1 - Attempted Murder?

[Originally posted on Rance's site here]

I offer you a case from several years ago which stands out as the last time I did a female client a favor because she had a pretty face.

It was a Thursday evening when a woman came into my office. Jet black hair, perfect face, full lips, skinny little body --“ just the type of client I enjoy serving the most, and she hadn't even opened her mouth. She introduced herself --“ we'll call her Angelina -- and I instantly noticed the heavy Italian accent. She told me that she had been in the US for a few years now. Her problem: "I think someone is trying to hurt me, maybe even kill me."

Everyone always looks so disappointed when I don't react dramatically to their out of the ordinary dilemmas. Well, I've said it before and I'll say it again: after working in New York for a number of years, it takes a lot to make this Dick raise an eyebrow. Hell, the case I'm working on now involves an actress who thinks someone is out to do her in, while someone unrelated came into my office just last Friday with the same problem. Everyone is out to kill everyone these days it seems, though fewer than you'd think actually go through with it.

In this case, Angelina thought her ex-boyfriend of two years, Billy, was trying to kill her. Why? "Angry that I dumped his sorry ass," she said. "Months ago. He won't leave me alone. Always was coming around. Threatening to beat up any man he sees me with. He's was stalking me."

Finally, she threatened him with a restraining order, and he disappeared. But she was convinced he was still out to get her, and her suspicions had only grown over time. Lacking any hard evidence, she wanted me to look into it and either put her fears at rest, or give her something to bring to the cops.

Not a difficult job --“ tail Billy for a few days, a week at most. In my experience, most people give away their stalker m.o. very quickly. Angelina gave me contact info and pictures of her ex: Billy, a handsome black guy with a smile straight out of a toothpaste ad, was employed during the day at Macy's selling suits, and worked nights at a jazz club on the Upper West Side playing sax.

As I was knee-deep in other cases at the time, I promised her I'd get to work on her problem the following Monday. She said that was fine and left.

I continued on with my other work. The weekend arrived, and as I finally sat down to mull over her file, I realized I no longer had Billy's picture. My secretary searched through both file cabinets and turned up nothing. Not completely necessary, as I remembered his face, but then again, no reason to go into a case without all the right preparations.

I gave Angelina a call and got the busy signal. I called an hour later and it was still busy. A half hour later, still busy. Not a good sign.

After one more failed attempt to contact her, I took a cab over to her place on the Upper West Side in the 80's (four story brownstone) and pressed a random buzzer to get in (most New Yorkers don't bother asking who it is anymore --“ try it for fun sometime). Up the stairs to Apartment 2R. I knocked on the door and waited. No answer, though through the door, I could hear radio static. Knocked again --“ no reply. Tried the doorknob --“ it was open, so I went in.

Angelina's place was ransacked. First room was the kitchen, and pots and broken dishes were strewn everywhere. A small TV had been knocked off the countertop and was lying on the ground in a million pieces. Pretty ugly. The small kitchen led into a living room, which was a similar mess. Couches overturned, bookshelves knocked over, the works. A small radio was lying on the ground blaring static, and I turned it off. A kitten was meowing sadly at its broken milk dish.

Last but certainly not least, the wall-to-wall white carpeting was smeared with what looked to be blood.

?

Remember the girl who came into my office last week with one of those ever popular "someone's trying to kill me" claims? As far as I can tell, she's disappeared off the face of the Earth.

More soon.

Popular Dick

Two items of note:

1) I noticed that the Village Voice's Mr. Roboto, a computer columnist, has written a very kind review of this site. Much thanks to him for his flattering words!

2) I've realized that all blog roads eventually lead to Rance, the anonymous celebrity blogger. He has opened up his blog recently to outside writers, and I sent along a case from a few years ago which he has graciously posted. You can read that here.

Break A Leg - Part 6 - Curtain

Charlotte, as I’ve said before, is an excellent actress. Not only can she genuinely portray emotions like no other, she’s also willing to give everything and anything to a role. What is amusing about the situation I put her in is that it called for her to be a bad actress, which I assume required all of her abilities. And she pulled it off with flying colors.

Last night, Charlotte bombed on stage. Not enough to be obvious, as the equivalent of a theatrical nuclear explosion would scream HOAX loud enough for the Jerseyites to hear. No, she gave it just the right amount of suck to suggest that this was the worst night of her run so far. Not bad by anyone’s standards, but for the first time, applause for Nora was substantially louder than that for Charlotte. I swear I saw a hint of bitterness on her face when she didn’t get to take a second bow, but it was gone soon enough.

The plan was simple. After the cast and crew gathered in the backstage area (many of whom I imagine were somewhat happy to see her fall down at least once in her otherwise successful career), Charlotte made it a point to say that she had become too comfortable in the role, and that the acting simply wasn’t genuine anymore. She had to rediscover her character, she claimed, and requested to stay at the theater following closing.

I got the sense that whoever was behind it all wanted to enact revenge in front of an audience. After all, the previous past attempts on her life were made very much for the public to witness. However, over the past few days, my presence has become well known to the other actors, despite my attempts to remain low-key. So it goes. As no further attempts have been made on Charlotte’s life since then, I’d decided to give the mystery person (Rita, anyone?) an open shot at her. I made sure not to be seen at that evening’s performance.

After the show, I filed out with the crowd and hung out around the corner waiting for the cast and crew to leave. Anyone who has ever worked in theater knows how long this can take, and it was only around 11:00 pm that Steve came out and assured me that the place was empty save for Charlotte. For those of you who have a creeping suspicion that Rita somehow got plastic surgery to look like a 19 year-old male NYU student, I’m going to have to ask reality to step back into the picture. While a Hollywood mystery thriller or cheap airport detective novel might somehow make this situation feasible through the latest in medical technology, or some such nonsense, it’s simply out of the question. Ocham’s Razor isn’t always accurate in my particular field, but lets not throw it out the window.

Steve let me in, then took off. I was to be the only one around the theater besides Charlotte. Any third party would immediately be considered dangerous, and I didn’t want to accidentally shoot Steve's head off mistakenly (if for no better reason, Steve owes some hefty student loans, and I don’t want those collectors coming around to my door wondering where the money is).

I was dressed in all black, and in the wiry mess of the lighting grid, I was virtually invisible to anyone below. After climbing up to the catwalk, I tested this by calling down to Charlotte. She was startled at the sound of my voice, and only noticed me when I flashed a gel in front of a light. She knew the plan – continue as if no one were there.

She resumed acting the play out, and I had to go out of my way not to get sucked into her brilliant performance. Nevertheless, I had my gun drawn at all times, safety off, in case anything happened suddenly. I had no clue what Rita would look like, but I imagined she’d simply be a generic face with a hint of her accident if you looked closely. I had made sure to get a good look at every female working at the theater, and I’d recognize any of them immediately.

An hour passed, and no one came. Charlotte continued her practice as if she were completely alone. Another hour passed, and she had reached the end of the play. She took a mock bow for the empty audience.

Suddenly, in the back of the theater, I heard the sound of a single person clapping.

“Who’s there?” she called out, frightened, and I strained to see who it was. After a moment: “Oh, Marco!” she said, voice wavering. Suddenly, the idiocy of my plan had become painfully obvious. For some reason, I had figured that the guilty party would return to his or her popular haunt on the catwalk. I never thought the person would enter down the center aisle. In the rafters, I was pretty much helpless for any sudden need. I didn’t even have as good an aim as I’d planned.

Marco made his way to the stage, and I could tell that Charlotte had no idea what to do. Neither did I. On the one hand, Marco is paying my salary. On the other, that usually means nothing.

“Sorry about tonight,” he said affectionately. “I decided to come and work the script through with you.”

Dammit. Should I call out, or blow his head off, or what?

“Thanks,” she said after a moment, “but it’s not necessary. I really just wanted to be alone.”

“Come on, no need for that. I just wanted to – ”

He lunged at her, and a knife appeared out of his back pocket. Should’ve blown his head off.

Charlotte screamed, and I held up my gun to aim – but no good. No line of sight. Charlotte dodged his advances, and he tripped over a prop stool.

But he was still moving to fast. I holstered my gun and began detaching one of the lights to drop on him - see how he'd like it. I finally got the G-clamp off, when I noticed that a safety wire was also holding the light in place. I could feel the seconds ticking by as she screamed for help. I finally got the wire detached, and the light fell tumbling to the ground. Glass shattered everywhere, and he turned, startled. Charlotte grabbed a vase from the set and smashed it over his head. He fell down like a rock, and in a perfect position for the bullet itching to get out of my gun. I aimed and shot him square through the back of his knee. Now I had all the time in the world to climb down to stage level.

If you’ve seen any popular movies recently, you’ve probably heard that a shot to the knee hurts like a bitch. It does, though there are a a few worse places I can think of. Regardless, it’s very, very easy to get a person to talk in such a situation.

I won’t try to relate the dialogue word for word, because I’m sure it will sound trite as fuck on the electronic page. Rita is dead. Rita committed suicide after the failed plastic surgery, leaving her lover Marco grieving and swearing revenge. Marco had been the director of the show in which Rita and Charlotte had their fateful meeting, and was sure that she was responsible. Only problem – no evidence. When Charlotte’s agents expressed interest in his latest show, he jumped at the chance to cast her, then draw her close.

The hatred had built up over the years, and he didn’t want it to be quick. He wanted her to suffer, like Rita had. Of course, she got scared, and the police were brought in. As he had planned, they found no evidence, and took the easy way out with their coincidence theory. However, he hadn’t counted on me, and when she suggested the idea of hiring a private detective, he had to go along with it for fear of looking unsympathetic. So he did the opposite of his desire, offering to pay my full bill.

But his plan failed, and he got caught at the first bait offered by yours truly. What an amateur.

One minor note about that evening: As he was laying on the floor bleeding and crying, he screamed at Charlotte to reveal what she had done to his wife, and no acting in the world could hide the look of guilt on her face. Maybe for me, but not for someone who had been directly hurt by her crime.

So Charlotte did hire someone to beat up Marco’s wife Rita, leading to her suicide. Do I care? I’m not paid to care. The world is unfair, and while I don’t want to promote further injustice, I certainly can’t do anything to balance it. I’ve tried, in my younger, more optimistic years, and in the end, only wound up hurting myself.

The police arrived and arrested Marco, and Charlotte paid me the difference plus my completion fee. We parted ways with nothing more than a goodbye, and I suspect I’ll never see her again. Well, maybe at the trial, if I’m called to testify. But I doubt we’ll be on speaking terms.

Oh, and as for Nora and Paul. While I very much enjoyed the letter one commenter suggested I leave, I ultimately decided that less is more in some circumstances, and such is the situation here. I left a copy of the video tape of Nora leaving the note in Charlotte’s dressing room, then fucking Paul. The note simply said: “More where this came from.” I have a feeling they’ll get the picture.

As I’ve stated before, I allow a certain amount of time and fact altering before I post my recent cases. I noticed the story made one popular New York daily newspaper, though the sordid details were largely left out (I assume few people know the full story as of yet).

Yeah, life ain’t fair sometimes. But two things to remember: 1) my wallet is fatter, and 2) two wrongs don’t make a right.

Break A Leg - Part 5 - A Career (And Face) Destroyed

I woke up early this morning and went to the Washington Square Diner to meet the police detective who worked the Rita/Charlotte case several years ago. Over a couple of lukewarm coffees and plates of undercooked eggs, he described an investigation he largely looked at as a failure. All basic intuition suggested Charlotte had pulled a Tonya Harding on Rita to ascend to her position, but there was no evidence to back it up. If an independent contractor had been hired, he knew how to clean up his tracks.

The detective gave me a copy of Rita's headshot, taken in her prime – full lips, huge Bambi eyes, and a sweeping mane of black hair. As gorgeous as Charlotte is, Rita had her beat, from teeth to tits. He also gave me a few pictures taken immediately after the attack, and despite the shit I’ve seen throughout my career, I still winced at the sight. Her nose, for all intent and purposes, had been smashed clean off her face, and both eyes were swollen shut. Teeth were broken and chipped, leaving jagged flecks of white in place of a smile that would have made me switch dentists. Her cheeks were black and blue, and covered in blood.

“The reason I bring these,” he said, “is simply to indicate how different Rita must look today.” The detective had spoken with her in the hospital after she had been admitted, but she remembered very little. Sometime after the doctors had patched her up, she flew out to L.A. to a renowned plastic surgeon, in hopes of making her face what it used to be. He did his very best, but ultimately the work of his scalpel lost to the work of the baseball bat. No pictures exist, as far as I can tell, of Rita following the surgery. She disappeared with her husband to a distant location far from her home in New York. Her agency officially dropped her because of her “unexpected disappearance,” though everyone knew that it was really because of the sudden decline in her facial features. Rita hasn’t been seen since, and her name has more or less been forgotten.

I thanked the detective, then paid for both of us and headed uptown to the theater. Once there, I went to Charlotte’s dressing room, and waited for her to arrive. Every story has two sides, and while it seemed very likely that Rita had returned to enact revenge on the woman she held responsible for her downfall, I needed to hear what my client had to say. Again, keep in mind that I’m not a cop. Any unlawful deeds in Charlotte's past only have a bearing on the case so much as they lead to me discovering who is out to get her. Rita certainly isn’t paying my bills.

Charlotte showed up at around 2:00 PM and found me seated in her make-up chair. One mention of the name “Rita” reduced her to tears, and she fell to the ground sobbing. I got up, closed the door, and offered her a tissue (I’m certainly not one of those shoulder-to-cry-on types). I helped her to her feet and led her to her chair, though her bawling didn’t stop. I got tired enough of all of it soon enough, and put on my serious tone of voice and got right in her face.

“Charlotte, what did you have to do with Rita’s attack?” She wouldn’t look at me – just kept crying into her arms. Well, my mother always taught me that eye contact was the polite way to have a conversation, so I forced her head up until she and I were looking directly at one another.

“This matters,” I said firmly. “I don’t give a shit about what you did to her, but if you want me to protect you, you have to tell me – ”

Suddenly, her lips were jammed onto mine and her tongue was doing a Lewis and Clark on the inside of my mouth. I tried to pull away, but a hand clamped around the back of my head, holding me in place. With her other hand, she quickly slapped my hand onto her breast and squeezed tight.

I wonder if she noticed me laughing in the middle of the kiss. Plenty of women I’ve encountered in my career have tried to halt a topic of conversation with sexual advances, but none so dramatically as Charlotte (did I mention I hate actors? Well, perhaps I should be a little less judgmental…). Regardless, I was caught in a bit of a mental quandary – while part of me said I should get back to questioning Charlotte, another very specific part suggested I let the current situation play out as nature intended.

Ultimately, fate intervened. A knock at the door sent Charlotte into shock, and she fell on the floor again as it opened. Stagehand Steve was there, and I didn’t know whether to thank him or kill him. He blushed when he saw he had interrupted a potentially steamy confrontation, mumbled something about making sure all the actors were on set, then shut the door quickly.

I looked down at Charlotte on the ground, who was quite a sight – tits half out of her top, tears streaming down her face, hair a complete mess. I stuck out a hand and helped her up, only to have her jump me again. Eh. The moment was over, and I pushed her down into her seat.

“Enough of that,” I said. “Answer my question.”

To add yet another emotion to the collection on her face, a look of poutiness appeared. Yeah, I really hate actors.

“I didn’t touch her,” she said firmly.

“Sure,” I said. “But you did touch the money that you gave to the man to touch her for you, right?” I tried to explain that whatever she told me was in the strictest of confidence, but she wouldn’t budge, eventually clamming up like a little girl who has just had her favorite doll taken away by daddy. I kept the interrogation going.

“Listen,” she finally burst out. “I didn’t have anything to do with it, but I admit there’s a good possibility Rita thinks I’m responsible. Isn’t that all that matters?”

Ultimately, she was right. This was all that mattered. She said she didn’t recognize any of the cast or crew as resembling Rita, and I believed her. I spent the rest of Monday evening carefully inspecting each and every face I came across, and saw no trace of those Bambi eyes that had once made Rita famous.

Thus, it's finally time to bring Rita to me. Tuesday evening, we’re going to put Charlotte in the most vulnerable position possible without being obvious, and see if we can get Rita to take the bait.

In the meantime, I’ve started some mind games with Nora and Paul. I’m sure both were quite surprised to find Dasani bottles in Nora's dressing room filled with the cheapest Pinot Grigot sold at the liquor store a few blocks down from where I live.

Tomorrow night is the opening of Charlotte’s one woman show, directed by Private Dick. I hope our intended audience member decides to show up.

Break A Leg - Part 4 - Shady Past

Sorry to be m.i.a. recently, but this case, coupled with several others I’m in the midst of, has occupied all of my time. And to be perfectly frank, this whole theater thing is proving to be far more annoying than I previously suspected. It’s been about four or five days, so as I try to get everyone up to date and sort through the details, please bear with me if I repeat a fact or two.

First off, the note left by Nora for Charlotte was just a pleasant Hallmark card with a few choice insults written on the inside to shake her up. It’s become clear to me that there are two parties responsible for all the attacks on Charlotte. When the initial attacks began, they were dangerous. Lights falling from grids are the type of prank that could kill a person, and go way beyond switching water with wine. The cops show up, and suddenly the level of the incidents shifts into a lower gear – the threat of physical harm is almost non-existent, as if the responsible party is only hinting that something greater could happen at any time. A theory that had crossed my mind at the time was that someone other than the original culprit had reason to see Charlotte suffer, and decided to continue the attacks in a much lighter fashion to make her nervous.

Monday evening solidified this theory. Nora and Paul are clearly responsible for some, if not all of the lesser incidents that have been occurring. However, Nora was on stage and Paul visible in the audience when I saw the figure in the catwalk aiming to throw a knife at Charlotte on stage. The person responsible for the initial, more deadly incidents has picked up where he or she left off.

After spotting the figure on the catwalk, I raced around the backstage area looking for the ladder up to the lighting grid, but by the time I found it, whoever had been up there was long gone. I found Steve the Stagehand, who told me that a door in the rafters leads up to the roof; from the roof, a fire escape runs along the back of the building with a few window entrances - otherwise, the person could re-enter through the backdoor on the ground floor. I went to the back and maintained surveillance for about an hour, but found no one.

This is bad news, as it changes things significantly. Look, when you’re performing in a major play, you don’t have time to be up in rafters throwing knives at people. You have to be in your dressing room fixing your make-up, or in the wings about to go on. Furthermore, it’s difficult to disappear unnoticed – too many people depend on your being in the right place at the right moment. The amount of time it would take to go up to the roof, down the fire escape, and back into the theater would almost certainly draw attention from someone, and after countless interviews, no one seems to have noticed anything out of the ordinary that night. To make things even more complicated, the scene that follows the one between Nora and Charlotte calls for nearly the entire cast to be on stage.

All of this suggests that whoever was up there is not a member of the cast. On Tuesday, I went around as the same scene played out between Nora and Charlotte, and kept an eye on the positions of all the actors – again solidifying the fact that there is almost no way any of them could have been in the lighting grid at the time the scene occurred.

Meaning the culprit is not a principle actor, yet has still been able to get inside the theater without turning any heads or raising any questions. Someone who can move freely backstage. The list of people this could be is extensive – stage hands, understudies, assistants, theater employees, etc.

At this point, two options lay before me: I could go around and interview every single person who might possibly have been in the theater that night and try to dig up some motives, shady backgrounds, or possible connections. Or I could work from the source of the problem: Charlotte.

See, the mystery person isn’t interested in just shaking up Charlotte. The pranks have been deadly. That suggests a very serious motivating factor behind it all, and a bit of jealousy over acting, in the case of Nora, doesn’t seem quite strong enough.

It was time to do some research and find out a little more about my client. I hit the library on Thursday. After sorting through numerous show reviews, several small interviews, and various trades and magazines, I knew a lot more about Charlotte: born in North Carolina, she showed a particularly strong ability to perform at a young age, and her parents – both retired, somewhat unsuccessful actors – decided to encourage this. Charlotte got the lead in Annie, and her career grew from there. Once she hit her teens, however, she realized that a successful youth resume in theater only carries so much weight in the world of adult actors. She applied and was accepted to NYU, where she continued to hone her abilities. It was there that a professor began championing her skills to everyone he knew on Broadway.

At this point in her history, a headline from a trade sums up the next event in her life:

“[name withheld] Mugged, Beaten Behind Theater”
Byline: “NYU Actress Takes Role in [play title withheld] Following Accident”

The article describes how a popular actress we’ll call Rita, involved at the time in a very popular show on Broadway, was mugged one night in the alley behind the theater. Several blows to the face and another to her leg with a baseball bat put her out of commission, and her understudy, Charlotte, took over for her. It was big news at the time – Rita was famous, and the show had garnered much attention because of her involvement. The police investigated, but never caught the responsible party. Eyebrows were raised when Charlotte took her place in Rita’s shoes, but her performance was so strong that positive reviews outweighed the tabloid-esque headlines.

As far as I can tell, this is the last time Rita worked in theater. I called her agency and learned they had dropped her soon after the attack – her face had been seriously injured, and despite reconstructive surgery, the beauty everyone raved about was gone. No one would take her. They had no forwarding information, and no one I’ve since talked to seems to know where she is.

The conclusion from all this is obvious: Rita thinks Charlotte was responsible for the career-ending mugging, and has come back for revenge, drawing it out nice and slowly to make her suffer. Big question, of course, is why didn’t Charlotte tell me about all this? I suspect the answer has something to do with a shady past she wants to keep quiet.

I’ve had trouble getting in touch with the police dicks who investigated the case (it seems as if everyone is busy now that the RNC is in town), but I managed to talk to one of them last night, and he agreed to meet with me Monday morning for a chat.

I’ve otherwise spent the weekend at the theater with Charlotte, keeping an eye on her (not an unwelcome job given that body) and watching to see who comes and goes in the theater without notice. I’m keeping my suspicions from her until I know a bit more, as I suspect she’d be somewhat opposed to my current plan.

And as for the Nora/Paul involvement, I'm curious how you, the reader, might cleverly tell them the following through some sort of anonymous act (ala my letter in the Jeremy The Dog case):

1. We know you're behind the attacks
2. We know you're having an affair
3. Cut it the fuck out, or else

I might just use your suggestion.