Space Ring - Part 5 - Black-Eyed Dick

After eating dinner near my office on Wednesday night, I went over to the Southerns’ apartment to see if I could follow son Greg or daughter Cassandra somewhere interesting. Despite the warm weather, it started drizzling, and I began to worry that they’d stay in again. Luckily, I was wrong.

Around 10PM, a group of kids Cassandra’s age (18) arrived on the corner, standing around and trying desperately hard to look as cool as possible. One of the guys, who had clearly spent an enormous amount of time that evening getting acquainted with himself in the mirror, took out a cell phone and made a brief call. A few moments later, Cassandra came out of her building, dressed in tight jeans and a low-cut baby-doll t-shirt that squeezed her tits like ripe melons get held at the supermarket. She offered a nod and a sneer at everyone, who returned her nod and sneer. Not being mean of course, just cool. The type of cool that hurts.

They hailed a cab and took off. I started my car and followed closely after. The main thing about following cabs in New York is to give them room. Not that they’d ever guess that someone was following them, but if they feel you’re crowding them, they’ll suddenly do anything within their power to get away from you.

I followed them down Park, over onto 5th, and then further downtown until we hit Union Square and East Village beyond. Now in the Bowery, we weaved through the cross streets until we arrived at a large club, built into a former warehouse. On an average Wednesday night, clubs are usually only so full. However, this place was packed, with a line out the door full of well-dressed and rich looking patrons.

The cab stopped on the far corner, and Cassandra’s group got out. One of the guys passed around something, and the way in which hands suddenly slapped to open mouths suggested that a round of X had been distributed. Then, rather than getting in line, they went over to the entrance and started talking to the bouncer. A few moments passed, then a seedy-looking 30-something with a shallow, stubbly face and a pair of aviator glasses came out. He saw Cassandra and gave her a hug, then motioned for all of them to bypass the line. While I had strong doubts that ANY of Cassandra's escorts were over 21, IDs went unchecked.

I parked my car a few streets over, then headed back to the club and got in line. I’d never been to this one before, so I didn’t have any contacts with the bouncers or bartenders or anyone else that could get me a speedy delivery inside. The line took forever to move, and it was about 30 minutes before I got close to the door. I struck up a conversation with one of the bouncers – years ago, I did a short stint as a bouncer at a club on the West Side filling in for my friend, and I knew just about everyone over there. Turns out, this guy knew all the same people, and we hit it off right away. A few quick stories were traded about work, and before long, he was telling me to go in for free. I said thanks, then handed him the $30 cover and told him to keep it for himself. He resisted, but I won out in the end.

You’re probably imagining me in the club in my work clothes – suit pants, polished shoes, rumpled button down shirt and tie. Not the case. My secretary always complains that my clothing is from another era, and one day, I allowed her to take me shopping in Soho to find some clothes that would make me look more hip. Age-wise, I was at the higher end of the spectrum for this particular club, but clothes-wise, I was hotter than most. As for disguising my identity, I didn’t shave that morning, and wore a pair of tinted glasses. That, coupled with my clothing, made me more or less unrecognizable, especially to a girl high on X.

The club was packed, with patrons bobbing and bouncing crazily on the dance floor to techno music pounding out of the speakers at an ear-shattering volume. I made my way through the crowd, and before long, I’d spotted Cassandra’s friends sans Cassandra, who wasn't around. Near one wall was a long, dimly lit bar. Numerous drinkers were seated from one end to the other, and I noticed Cassandra down one end straddling the seedy guy who had let them in. They were laughing giddily about whatever the hell they were talking about.

I motioned to the bartender, a cute looking 20-something chick in tight black clothes.

“Whatcha want?”

I held up a $20. “Whiskey straight and some questions answered.”

“Whiskey I can do,” she said, pouring a shot. “What the question?”

I pointed at the seedy guy, who Cassandra was now speaking French with. “Who’s he, and how long they been going out?”

“That’s Brody,” she said. “And they’re not going out. She buys drugs off him. Right now, she’s just sweetening the deal.”

I kicked back the shot, then motioned for another. “Management doesn’t care?”

“Long as he doesn’t sell in the club, it’s fine. He has a limo parked around the corner. Takes people for a little ride, gives them what they want, drops them back here. Management likes their customers happy, which is why he gets special treatment.” She put another shot down in front of me.

“Seen that girl before?”

“Yeah. Little snobby rich girl. Seen her in here every few days for about a month. He’s got her hooked, I think, 'cause I think she’s paying for the stuff with her body. Watch.”

Across the room, Cassandra had slipped a hand down Brody’s pants, and from the expression on his face, she was hitting all the right marks.

“Other girls do that?”

“Lots want to. Letting Brody pound into you for five minutes until he ejaculates prematurely is a lot easier than paying a few hundred dollars for your drug of choice. You her dad?”

I laughed. “If she were my daughter, that man would be dead.”

“Over-protective type. Sexy. What’s your interest then?”

“Just checking up for a friend.”

“Huh. Well, I’ll tell you one more tidbit you’d probably interested in knowing, if you’ve got the money.”

I opened my wallet and took out a $10.

She continued: “Grapevine says that chick is pregnant with Brody’s baby.”

Sometimes information hits you like an oncoming train, though over the years, I’ve learned to at least fake a look of apathy. In this case, it took a lot of skill to keep my expression low-key, but I managed. I thanked the bartender and gave her some extra cash. Across the room, Cassandra was leading Brody away from the bar by pulling his belt. I downed my second shot, then followed after. They went to the door, then exited, and I did so also.

Outside, they walked down the street, then around the corner. I gave it some time, then followed after. A long black limo was parked there, and I caught a glimpse of Brody and Cassandra getting in before the driver slammed the door shut. The driver then lit a cigarette and walked off - I have a feeling his boss told him to take a break.

I watched the limo for a while, and noticed that as other cars occasionally drove down the street, the light allowed me to see silhouettes inside. Not much, but maybe something that would come in useful later. I took my camera out of my pocket and began lining up a shot.

Suddenly, a hand was on my shoulder, and the camera was yanked away from me. Seconds later, it was lying smashed into a million pieces on the street. I turned without thinking and sent a powerful fist at whoever was holding me. However, a hand caught my fist and easily diverted it, while a second set of fists slammed into my eye and stomach respectively. I doubled over, and it took a moment before I saw my assailants: two hulking black guys in nice suits.

“I was just going to ask them to take my picture. I’m a tourist, you see, and - ”

Another fist slammed into my jaw before I could deflect it. Not in the mood for jokes, I guess. Then, the two guys grabbed me and led me to an alley behind the club, where they threw me up against the wall, and one of the toughs held me there.

“What were you doing, fuckface?” asked one of them. “You a cop?”

“I’m telling you, I’m a tourist. I thought I saw Johnny Depp in the limo there.”

Another fist to the eye, smacking my head back against the brick wall of the club. The pain was killing me, though the whisky in my blood helped me handle it all. The other goon pulled my wallet out of my pocket and started rifling through it. When out on these types of things, I’m not stupid enough to carry any identifying information – just a few fake business cards, some cash, credit cards long since deactivated, and pictures that came with the wallet. The fact that I wasn’t easily identified as a cop, private dick, or member of the press seemed to rile up the toughs even more.

“One more time, smart-ass. Why the fuck were you trying to take a picture of the man in the limo?”

I’m a big guy, and could have easily taken on one of these two lowlifes. But two was too much. I realized there wasn’t going to be any easy way out of this situation, and as the saying about life goes, you make lemonade.

“Didn’t you guys play gangsters on an episode of Miami Vice one time?”

A fist cracked into the side of my head, and I went out cold.

------

I woke up sometime later to dawning light overhead and someone kicking me in my stomach. Not exactly what you want to feel after having your head pummeled around like the soccer ball at a World Cup match. I could tell I was still in the alley behind the club. As the foot went in for another kick, I grabbed the ankle and used whatever strength I had to pull the person down. The ankle was small and clearly feminine, and the owner slammed to the ground with a high-pitched shriek.

I tried to get up, but the girl was faster, and she began hitting me with her purse. I forced my eyes open and saw Cassandra. I started laughing, which only made her hit harder.

“You idiot! You stupid idiot! Why the fuck are you out here? Did you want to get killed?”

“I like to dance,” I croaked.

“Cute. Real fucking cute. And I bet you think you’ve got it all figured out yet again, don’t you Dick. Little rich girl gives out her body to some drug dealer, gets knocked up, then needs to steal an expensive ring to pay for an abortion so rich mommy and rich daddy don’t find out. Really fucking ingenious except I don’t need to steal money to pay for an abortion. They’re cheap when you’ve got a wallet like mine, and I can easily get away with it without my parents knowing. So I’ll tell you one more time: I didn’t steal the fucking ring, so stop fucking following me. Or I’ll tell my dad.”

This last part was a complete lie, and we both knew it. She had something on me and I had something on her, making us completely even. The unsaid agreement was that we’d both keep our mouths shut, so long as the other complied, and I had a feeling I could trust her to be selfish enough to do so.

She looked like she wanted to kick me again, and I braced for impact. She didn’t though, and simply turned around with a huff. I lay back in the alley, and stayed there for a while before finally gathering up the energy to head back to my car. Nothing felt broken, though my mirror revealed a swollen black eye and a lot of bruisers.

My plan was to catch up on Greg, but I ended up spending Thursday in bed, and Friday catching up on all the work I’ve fallen back on. Tonight, Saturday, is Greg’s night, though, and it’s time to see how he spends his time. Maybe it’s having sex with drug dealers in limos behind clubs, though I highly doubt it. Meanwhile, if any of you are still wondering about my true identity, keep an eye out for the guy walking around New York with a face that looks like its been recently used for boxing practice. That’s me.

Space Ring - Part 4 - Greg The Lump, Cassandra The (Naked) Bitch

With Kim and Juanita presenting fairly believable stories, it was time to check out the next two possible suspects: daughter Kim and son Greg. All that I knew was that Greg had supposedly left by 9, while Cassandra had had some friends over and was the last to leave the evening of the crime.

I stopped by the Park Ave. apartment unannounced on Tuesday. The front desk guy was occupied with a phone call, and I swept by him without a glance - a very reassuring test of the security of the building.

I got off on 10 and headed down to the Southern apartment. Loud rock music was blaring inside, and it took at least a minute of pressing the doorbell before the volume finally lowered. The door opened, and Greg was standing there.

Greg is a round, portly 20 year-old - fat, in less sugary terms - with a constant look of utter stupidity on his face. His eyes are small and always seem half-closed, and the unkempt hair and lack of a discernible neck only add to my impression of him as a lump. Greg The Lump is how I refer to him in my mind.

“Oh, it’s you,” he said in his monotone voice. “I guess you can come in.” He opened the door, then left me for the kitchen. I stood there for a moment, then realized he wasn’t coming back. I closed the door and followed after him.

“My parents aren’t home,” he said, taking out a box of Cocoa Krispies from the cabinet and preparing himself a rather late breakfast (it was about 1PM). Greg supposedly goes to CUNY, though I believe a “when he feels like it” coda must be added to that fact.

“That’s OK,” I said. “I actually wanted to ask you about what happened the night the space ring was stolen.”

“Space ring, huh,” he said with a humorless, smileless laugh. “Don’t call it that around dad or he’ll flip out. Makes it sound stupid, like something on Star Trek. He already knows mom isn’t a fan of it to begin with.”

“Mom doesn’t like the ring?”

“Nope, and that ain’t a secret either. If you asked her two weeks ago, she’d have told you point blank that she hates it, and wishes it were still attached to that meteor flying in outer space.” He began shoveling cereal into his mouth as if he were trying to dig a hole through the bowl.

“Where were you that night? See anything?” I asked.

“Nope,” he replied, milk dribbling down his stubbly chin. “I went out shortly after my parents left to see my girlfriend. Around 8:15PM or so.”

This guy has a girlfriend? “Anyone that can back that up?”

“My sister knows I left, and you can call my girlfriend if you want anymore details.”

“That’d help.” He gave me her number, which I still have to call (though I must say, I’m still doubting her very existence). “Anyone you think did it?”

He shrugged. “Who knows? Mom ‘cause she hates it? Kim or that Mexican maid ‘cause they’re poor? My sister?”

“Why would your sister?”

For a moment, I swear his head started slightly, as if someone had jabbed him with a pin. Then, his eyelids fell, and the lethargic expression returned to his face. “Who knows. ‘Cause she’s a bitch? You can go ask her, if you want. She’s in her room.”

Greg poured himself another mountain of cereal and began gulping it down. Rather than stay and watch the pleasant display at hand, I decided to ask sis a few questions. I walked to her room and knocked on the door.

“Go away, Greg,” her shrill voice called out.

“Not Greg.” I told her who I was.

“Oh.” A pause, then: “Come in.”

I entered into what can only be described as the standard rich girl room. Lots and lots of expensive possessions strewn around the room as if they were cheap toys. Bed was unmade. A few random band posters were crookedly hung on the wall. All in all, it looked as if someone had moved in yesterday and simply dumped the contents of their luggage onto the floor.

But I must say my attention was not on the room, but on the girl in the room. Cassandra may be a bitch, but she’s a beautiful bitch. And right then, she was sitting at her computer in a pair of track pants and a red lace bra. Her hair was wet, and it didn’t take a detective to know a shower had occurred in her recent past. Cassandra is a dangerous breed of teenage female – the type who doesn’t completely understand why the boys go crazy over the two lumps on her chest, but does understand their power with a willingness to use it.

The textbook reaction in this situation would be to turn around and apologize profusely for barging in on her, but fuck that. She invited me in.

As I came into the room, she didn’t look up from the computer, as if all were normal. Cute.

“Wanted to ask you a few questions about the night your mom’s ring was stolen.”

“Yeah.” Not a question, not a reply.

“Your brother says you can verify he left that night around 8:15PM.”

“Yeah.”

“How do you know?”

“He told me he was going out.”

“Did you see him?”

“I don’t know. Sure.” Sniff.

“No way to be 100% positive?”

“No way without lying.”

“Fair enough. What about you? Looks like you had some people over that night.”

“Yeah. A little gathering.” Sniff.

“What happened?”

“Some friends came over just after 9. Right after Kim took Chauncey for a walk. We hung out in the living room till the maid showed up, then went back to my room. Stayed till around 10, then left. Got back early the next morning.” Sniff.

“Any chance your friends took it?”

“No way. They have no idea where it would be, and all of them have too much money to care in the first place.” Sniff.

I let the silence hang in the room. She continued typing on her computer. A moment, then another sniff.

“Got a cold? Allergy season?”

“No.” Another moment, then she turned to me, realizing she had been caught in a small trap.

“Oh, good one. Little rich girl starts sniffing, and big private detective deduces she’s a cocaine addict like all the other little rich girls in New York, and she hawked the ring for drug money. Hate to break it to you, Dick Tracy, but I’m smarter than that, and if I actually did do coke, I’m at least smart enough not to let you know.”

“Just wanted to see if you wanted a tissue.”

Now she looked furious. Her magnificent breasts heaved up and down in her frustration.

“Look, I didn’t take my dad’s fucking ring. Did you try my dumb brother? Maybe he ate it. Hell, maybe the dog ate it. Or maybe my mom flushed it down the toilet. No one would ever know, and she’d be rid of that piece of junk.”

“Maybe.” Too much fun. I had a feeling that she suddenly felt naked (both literally and figuratively) in a situation that was initially intended to give her dominance.

“Listen, do you have any other questions? ‘Cause otherwise, I gotta get dressed.”

What a tragedy. I thanked her for her time, then left without shutting the door. It slammed behind me.

Greg was passed out on the living room couch. I cautiously gave a glance into the parents’ bedroom and saw Chauncey passed out on the bed. Some of you have suggested that the dog may have eaten the ring. Possible, but I’m not really considering it at the moment. First, given his personality and age, he doesn’t seem like the type to eat random household trinkets. Secondly, if he did eat it, there’s nothing I can do about it. He’s already taken enough shits since the incident to have expelled the ring from his body, and I’m not about to go hunting for piles of dog crap around the apartment. Not in my job description. If everyone else’s stories ultimately check out, I may conclude that he is responsible. But at the moment, he’s off the hook.

Tuesday was an ugly day in New York, and I ultimately wasted a few hours that night waiting for Greg or Cassandra to go out (neither did). I’m going to grab a quick dinner now, then head back to the apartment tonight to see if they go anywhere (much nicer weather today). If that doesn’t pan out, I’ll do the same for Kim and Juanita soon enough.

One more point: No one has mentioned it, but it is probably clear to you that I am doing more than just investigating the insurance fraud end of this crime - after all, if it were only that, I’d be sticking to questioning Mr. and Mrs. Southern alone. Bottom line is that Toby’s company saves a lot of money if the ring is recovered, and if I work under the guise of serving as an insurance investigator, I am allowed to otherwise do my normal job as if Southern had hired me directly. It's an unsaid agreement between me and Toby, and it's worked out nicely for both of us in the past.

Off to a nearby diner for a quick burger, then back to the Southern residence.

Space Ring - Part 3 - Walking the Dog, Washing the Maid

The events of the night of the theft thus far:

8:00 PM - The Southerns leave for Gramercy Tavern
12:00AM - The Southerns return from Gramercy Tavern

I was busy for the rest of Friday after meeting the Southerns, but decided to use the weekend to follow up on the two non-Southern family members: Kim the dog walker and Juanita the maid. I assumed both would be by at some point to do their respective duties on Saturday, and I arrived in the morning to catch them early. I parked my car out front of the Park Ave. apartment and waited, passing the time by eating an H&H bagel and downing my second cup of coffee.

At around 9 AM, I saw a tall, thin Asian girl with waist-length black hair walk around the corner and head for the building. She entered, and about ten minutes later, came out again with Chauncey, the Southerns' elderly cocker spaniel. Kim looked to be about 18 or 19 years old, and I’ve found in my experience that similarly aged females are a bit reluctant to talk to big men with notepads asking nosey questions. First they assume you want their phone number; when they learn your true desire, they clam up even more. Damn kids.

I got out of my car and followed her down Park Ave. and over to Central Park. She walked down by the boat pond near 74th and sat down on a bench. She tied up Chauncey, then began reading a book.

Again, meeting teenage girls is always difficult, because their minds instantly revert back to when mom warned them in early childhood not take candy from strangers. Approaching her at this point and asking "Are you Kim?" would have been enough to lock down her brain tighter than a women’s convent. Sitting down on the bench directly beside her would have been equally bad.

However, Kim was not alone. Chauncey was a good an in as any, and I went for it."Chauncey!" I said as if I’d known the dog since his puppy years, and after a moment, the dog raised its graying head to look at me. I walked over and started patting the dog and saying it’s name a few extra times to prove to Kim that I did in fact know the dog.

Kim smiled at me. Excellent. "You know Chauncey?"

"Sure," I replied. "I’ve been doing some work for the Southerns recently, and I’ve run into this old boy a few times. You’re Kim?"

She said yes. I introduced myself, and handed her my business card, casually adding that I was in charge of recovering the missing ring.

"I’ve been meaning to get in touch with you to ask you about the evening it was stolen. Mind if we talk now?"

I could almost see the cogs in Kim’s head turning rapidly as her brain struggled to justify the coincidence of my meeting her in Central Park. However, I must have kept the answers coming fast enough, because she agreed (though there was a quizzical look on her face at the beginning of my questioning). So much for Ivy League educations.

"I’m trying to figure out the chain of events that happened on the evening the ring was stolen," I said.

"Didn’t you go to the police? They asked me the same thing," she queried.

"I like to work independently of the police. Mr. Southern has been very unhappy with their failure to recover the ring, thus suggesting that something in their line of reasoning is off. Rather than bias myself with their findings, I like to start from scratch."

It looked like the answer gelled with her, and she told me the following:

On the evening of the theft, she had been called by Mrs. Southern to come and walk the dog at around 9:00PM, as the entire family had planned on being out that evening. She arrived at the designated time, and found that only the Southerns’ daughter Cassandra was home at the time. She was eating in the kitchen when Kim came in, and the two talked only briefly enough to relay this information - the look of disgust on Kim’s face suggested that she too was in the growing club of people who thought Cassandra was a bitch.

Kim went into the Southerns’ bedroom and found Chauncey on their bed, his favorite napping place. I asked about the ring, and she bluntly told me that she had seen it sitting on the nightstand. She didn’t regularly see any of Molly Southern’s jewelry lying around, but ignored it and took Chauncey for a walk.

She returned at 9:30 and let Chauncey back into the apartment. Chauncey bounded off to the Southerns’ bedroom with an unexpected burst of energy, and Kim followed after him to take off the leash. As she entered the room, she immediately saw Juanita, the maid, examining something in her hand near the nightstand. Juanita turned with a start as if she had been caught doing something bad. Kim said she didn’t know whether or not the ring had been on the night table at that point, and that frankly, she wasn’t paid enough to care. She left the apartment, and heard Cassandra with what sounded like a few friends in her room.

I asked Kim if she had known about the ring previously, and she said didn’t know anything about it until it was stolen, at which point she was informed of its value. A few more questions told me that this was all Kim was going to reveal. I casually asked about her reasons for taking the dog walking job, and she alluded to the fact that money was scarce for her these days, but NOT scarce enough to steal. I thanked her for her information, urged her to call me if she remembered anymore details, then said good-bye.

The evening thus becomes:
8:00 PM - The Southerns leave for Gramercy Tavern; Greg and Cassandra are home;
9:00 PM - Kim arrives; Cassandra is only one home; ring is present(?)
9:30 PM - Kim returns; sees maid; hears Cassandra; not sure if ring is present(?)
12:00AM - The Southerns return from Gramercy Tavern

I left Central Park and returned to my car, where I sat listening to bad AM radio and waiting for Juanita to show. Sometime later, Kim returned with the dog, dropped him off, then left (she looked around once or twice, but I wasn’t easily noticeable).

Around 1PM, Juanita, a short stout Mexican woman, came walking around the corner. Different ways to play it, and I decided on the eager-jovial method. I got out of my car and approached her cautiously.

“Juanita?” I said, and she turned. I let a big smile break onto my face. “My name is […] and I’m looking into the robbery at the Southern residence.” Very courteous, very honest, very polite, and very friendly. A slight pause, and I mentally held my breath as I waited to see if she’d buy it. She did.

“Ah yes, so terribly,” she said in broken English.

“Are you headed up there now? Do you mind if I come to ask a few questions?”

“I no mind,” she replied, “but doorman, he no allow it.” Damn.

“That’s fine,” I said, the shit-eating grin still plastered on my face. “Can I ask you a few questions before you go in then?” I handed her a card, though I doubt she understood half the words written on it. The professional design was enough, though. She said yes, and I asked her about the evening.

Juanita related the following: she had meant to come to the apartment earlier in the day but had been held up by other jobs. She finally managed to get off her last assignment and arrived at the Southern residence at around 9:15PM. She said she ran into Cassandra, who was with a few friends in the living room. They immediately went to her bedroom and stayed there for the rest of Juanita’s visit (“like I smell bad or something!”).

She had just begun cleaning in the Southerns’ bedroom when Chauncey the dog - who Juanita is not fond of – bounded in the room and jumped on the bed. She began trying to bat it off, and the dog lunged its paw at her, cutting her hand with its nail. Right about then, Kim walked in (“scaring me to the death!”), saw her, then left. As Juanita began cleaning, she noticed the ring lying out and figured it was unusual for Mrs. Southern. However, rather than moving it, she decided it was there for a reason and left it there.

Her duties for the evening were just to tidy up the Southerns’ bedroom, and she finished at around 10:15PM. When she left, she claims the ring was still in its place on the table. She could still hear Cassandra and her friends in the bedroom. I asked if she had known anything about the ring, and she replied that other than seeing Molly Southern wearing it once or twice, no.

I thanked Juanita, smile still on my face, and let her go. She seemed very happy to assist me, and I was sure that I’d be able to get her in the future for any further information.

This leaves the following:
8:00 PM - The Southerns leave for Gramercy Tavern; Greg and Cassandra home;
9:00 PM - Kim arrives; Cassandra is only one home; ring is present(?)
9:15 PM – Juanita arrives; Cassandra home with friends;
9:30 PM - Kim returns; encounters Juanita; Cassandra still home; ring is present(?)
10:15PM – Juanita leaves; Cassandra is still with friends
12:00AM - The Southerns return from Gramercy Tavern

If this timeline is correct, Kim is cleared of guilt, as she left before the last sighting of the ring. However nothing is set in stone.

The next big question: What were the Southern children up to that evening? Tonight, I’m going to try to catch up with Cassandra The Bitch and Greg The Lump. Though both Juanita and Kim would clearly benefit from the type of cash the ring would bring in (I suspect they’re both intelligent enough to know to sell the small jewels surrounding the meteorite piece individually so as to not get caught). Regardless, rich kids who have it all always want more, and I wouldn’t put it past either Greg or Cassandra. I wouldn’t put it past any of the Southerns, for that matter.

More after tonight.

Space Ring - Part 2 - The Family

Not sure how many of you forgot that this weekend was Labor Day break, but given that there’s no set holidays in the world of private detectives, it had completely slipped my mind. So when I showed up at the Southern residence early Friday morning to find them packing the car, I was a bit confused. Of course, like most wealthy New Yorkers, they were off to their place in East Hampton (I’m surprised that Southern didn’t use the RNC as an excuse to take the whole week off, like many others I know had), and only had a short amount of time to give me. The doorman to the building was carrying bags to their SUV at Southern’s orders.

Southern made it clear right off the bat that he didn’t like my being there. Apparently, they had been planning on leaving on Thursday evening until Toby called and said I would be along Friday to meet them all. Southern “just wanted to get it all over with,” and thus chose to stick around til Friday just to meet me. I felt so special.

He led me in the building past the front desk, up the elevator, and down the hall to their door. A large brass handle was crossed with a small slot, into which Southern inserted an entry card. A small beeping sound was heard, and the door opened (“wrong card, and alarms immediately go off downstairs”).

We entered the apartment into the main living room, which was tiled in a marble design. Several couches that looked to be about 300 or so years old were carefully positioned around the room, collecting dust and giving off total opposition to any thought of actually sitting on them. On the walls were several paintings that all looked somewhat more expensive than the mass-produced discount “art” I have hanging in my waiting room. Beneath the paintings were several glass display cases, which Southern brought me over to. Each was filled with various antiques, ranging from Irish Georgian silver, to ancient Aztec jewelry. He mentioned off hand the value of several of the items, and all are far higher than that of the meteorite ring. However, the cases, paintings, and furniture were all wired with security systems that only Southern knows the password for. So that may have acted as a deterrent to the thief.

Several rooms branch off from the main room – the kitchen, Southern’s office, and bedrooms for Southern and Molly, Cassandra, and Greg. Southern led me into his bedroom, which was dominated by a large canopy bed of Chinese origin. An elderly looking cocker spaniel was lying on the bed stretched out, and Southern angrily batted him off. “Let me tell you where the ring should have been,” he said. He indicated a painting on the wall, then swung it open – it was mounted to the wall on hinges. He entered the keycode and opened the door. Inside were countless necklaces and bracelets covered in expensive diamonds and jewels.

“The ring should have been here,” he said gruffly. “This safe is completely indestructible. It is totally invincible to all of the elements, cannot be removed, and it would take days for even the most knowledgeable locksmith to get inside. However, sometimes, my wife forgets to use her brain.” On this, he slammed the door shut and closed the painting.

He led me over to a bedside table and pointed at it with a shaking finger.

“She left it there,” he said. “Right before we went out to eat at Gramercy Tavern. Said that it didn’t match her dress, and that furthermore, our fellow diners would not understand the metaphorical importance of the ring, and would only judge it by its looks. She is, er, not particularly keen on it.”

I nodded, and I think Southern thought I was sympathizing with him and not his wife. A few more questions revealed the following: Southern and his wife left the apartment at 8:00pm in order to be fashionably late for their 8:30pm dinner reservation at East 20th street. Both kids had stayed home, as they had previous engagements to go out with friends. As stated by Toby, the only other people who could have gained access to the apartment are the maid (employed independently from a cleaning service with a reputation for trustworthiness) or the dog walker. Both had their own keycards to the building. Initially, Southern had their cards programmed to only admit them at their given entrance times during the day, but their hours proved to be so frequently varied that he gave up trying to organize it all.

The maid is a sweet Mexican woman named Juanita, who he would otherwise have recommended highly until the theft occurred. The dog walker is an undergrad at Columbia named Kim, who makes money by walking dogs for rich clients on the Upper East Side. Kim had definitely been by that evening at 9:00pm to walk the dog, as both kids had told mom and dad that they’d be out of the building then, and the spaniel has a weak bladder. The doorman working that night confirmed that she had indeed been by, taken the dogs out, and returned sometime later. Juanita had not been seen, though her presence around the building might have gone unnoticed. The police had looked into both possibilities and turned up nothing.

Southern and Molly returned at midnight, and returned to find the door to the apartment slightly ajar. A quick search of the valuables suggested that nothing had been touched. Then, Molly realized that her ring, which she had left on the nightstand, was gone. Neither child was home at the time. When Cassandra and Greg did finally get back that morning (at different times), both were grilled by mom and dad and both swore they knew nothing.

At this point, Cassandra – a sprightly blonde in the prime of her teenage youth – bounded in the room, and in an accent that sounded more California than New York, asked dad “when the hell” they were going to leave. Southern introduced me, and it was clear that any thrill of meeting a private detective was lost on her. She gave me a weak nod, and I asked her a few questions which she swept away with quick yeses or nos. Then Southern sent her down to the car, saying that he’d be along shortly.

Southern asked if there was anything else that needed to be done before the weekend began, and I told him I’d like to meet his wife and son. With a sigh, he led me into Greg’s room, where Molly – a hefty woman with curly brown hair and enough moles for an unpredictable game of Connect The Dots – was trying to get her son Greg out of bed. Greg, who had obviously got his genes from mom’s side of the family, was a portly lump, though I couldn’t see much because he was buried in covers. From the sound of Greg’s voice and his specific complaints, I got the sense that he was in the midst of an intense hangover. Molly was meanwhile yelling at him for a variety of sins, including not being awake, not having packed, and not having avoided alcohol the previous night. Southern pulled her aside for me, but I could see right away that she was in no mood to talk. I asked her about the ring and if she had any thoughts.

“No clue. My own fault for leaving it out,” she said without the faintest sense of sadness. Yeah, Molly was glad to see it gone, no question. There would be more questions to be asked, but it would take a very thorough interviewing session, and now wasn’t the time. I told Southern I’d be back the following week to talk to them more (the expression on his face was priceless), then headed out the door.

My initial reaction: Someone went out of their way to steal a ring that wasn’t anywhere near as valuable as other items that could have been taken. Sure, Molly could have taken it herself to get rid of it – it's damn ugly. Then again, insurance fraud is a pretty hefty crime to commit for reasons of vanity.

Over the weekend, I checked out both Juanita and Kim, who came by to tend to the apartment and dog respectively while the Southerns were away. More on those encounters shortly.