Private Dick

MIA

2004-11-30T01:30:00.000-05:00

Wasn't ambiguous enough about the truth, and it turns out that people are watching a little more closely than I'd assumed. More ... soon?

Still among the living

2004-10-14T16:07:00.000-04:00

Contrary to popular belief, I am still alive and have not become one of the walking dead at the Oneida. In fact, I'm long since done with that case, and I'll write all the details up soon. But let me apologize for my absence, and try to offer an explanation. When I started writing about my cases, it was during a lull in work and I was able to provide somewhat consistent updates. These days, things have gotten much more busy, and I've found myself with much less personal time to devote to this blog. Also, the more days I miss writing about, the longer the entries must invariably be. I realized the implications of this as I started to continue the next entry in the Oneida case, and realized that it would probably come out upwards of ten pages or longer. Ten page blog entries aren't fun for me or you (well, maybe for you, but not for me!).

I'm not going anywhere, not to worry. But I'm going to slow down just a bit and only post those day-to-day cases I know I can keep on a day-to-day update status. This will also mean a few more posts from my past than usual. For example, I saw someone asked me to relate a case in which I thought I was right and turned out to be wrong. While I'd like to believe I'm perfect, the truth of the matter is I fuck up like the rest of us, and am not adverse to letting you in on the details. Also, very shortly I'll post a summary of what happened at the Oneida and who was behind it all. Then on to (hopefully!) some day to day stuff.

More soon.

Haunting at the Oneida - Part 2 - On Vacation

2004-10-05T19:14:00.000-04:00

I was supposed to go to the Oneida on Friday night, but due to a last minute family emergency, my entire weekend was spent at Beth Israel hospital (all is OK, thanks for asking). I gave Reginald a call from the hospital and asked if I could do his thing early the next week, and he said fine. Nice of him, given that he had no choice in the matter and all.

I showed up at the Oneida on Monday (yesterday) afternoon looking like a tourist who’d just stepped off the plane. Reginald told me that no one knew I was coming, and I didn’t intend to blow my cover by looking like a New Yorker.

The front of the Oneida, located in Midtown, is heavily ornamented and loomingly high. A line of taxis were streaming up and down the block, loading and unloading travelers. A few towncars and a Maybach (look it up if you’re unfamiliar with ludicrously overpriced automobiles) were parked out front. I pushed my way through the crowd on the sidewalk and went inside.

The lobby is a huge, lofty affair, with high ceilings and painted in a creamy white color. The walls are decorated with paintings of former hotel owners, most of whom tended to have a hand in areas outside of the hotel business (oil, for example). A grand staircase glamorously rises up to the next floor in one corner, while four gold elevators are situated on the opposite wall. Tourists reading newspapers and guidebooks were seated on the several antique sofas that dotted the room. Dominating it all was a large oak reception desk, which I went up to.

Sign-in wasn’t any trouble. Reginald had booked me for the 13th floor. Most of the disturbing activity had occurred at higher levels, which I assume is because the responsible party (or parties) want to have some time to escape before management gets complaints and sends someone up to check it all out. I got my keycard and road the elevator up to my floor and got out.

The hallways were as stylized as the lobby, with intricately designed wallpaper and paintings. There must have been around 20 rooms on my wing of the floor. As I approached my door, I noticed a large grandfather clock stationed at the end of the hall near the exit to the stairwell. It began to dong the hour and I swore that if it continued doing that throughout the night, I’d have to excuse the smashed clock to Reginald as yet another occurrence of the Oneida ghost.

Given the grandness of the hotel I had thus seen, I have to say I am a little disappointed in the room they gave me. It looks only slightly above the grade that comes with what one would consider a normal hotel, and I wonder if Reginald is in fact sparing expenses when it comes to my stay. Queen-sized bed, television, desk, normal bathroom, and a fridge. I looked over the room, then grabbed a few things and headed out. I wanted to have a look around the place to see if I noticed anything or anyone before it got busy.

I stepped out into the hall and immediately heard a high-pitched whining noise coming from around the corner. It sounded like a cat screeching at the highest pitch possible, and kept fluctuating in tone. And it was getting louder – whatever it was, it was coming towards me.

A moment passed, then a thin, bookish-looking guy with wiry blond hair and thin glasses came around the corner. He was holding a gray rectangular box, which I saw had a button or two and a meter on the front. I asked him what he was doing, and he told me he was Richard, a parapsychologist hunting ghosts. The box he was holding is known, apparently, as an electro-magnetic frequency meter (picture found online):

He explained to me (with the seriousness of someone explaining the fundamental laws of the universe) that ghosts give off strong electromagnetic frequencies, which in turn make the needle on the meter jump and the whining noise raise in pitch.

Richard the Ghosthunter told me that strange stories about the hotel have always been well known, but rumors about the sudden jump in activity have everyone in his “society” (whatever the hell that is) excited. He also said I’d probably see a few more people like him over the week. I asked him if he’d found anything yet, and he told me no, but that he was confidant something would come along. He showed me a few other tools – one looked really high-tech but ultimately turned out to be just a fancy thermometer, while another was only a tape recorder. I feigned some interest and asked if he thought any earthly causes were behind it. He said no, but I subtly pressed him to tell me if he had seen anyone out of the ordinary. He said that in the evenings, there generally seemed to be quite a bit of traffic in the hallways after hours, but no one stood out specifically. I thanked Richard and continued on my way.

I noticed a few faces on various floors that I committed to memory – a redhead on 10, a tall man in a striped suit on 14. But no one was coming out of their rooms shrieking about a ghost, nor were there any guys in sheets running up and down the hallway. I used the opportunity to see the rest of the hotel – the dining room, the ballroom, the workout room, the pool – but didn’t notice anything peculiar.

I went back to my room at around midnight and still hadn’t seen anything that struck me as strange. I had passed a few more people walking around with gadgets in their hand, then later noticed a hotel employee talking to them angrily. After that, they disappeared.

I snaked a camera through the crack at the bottom of the door and gave myself a good view of the hall. I connected the receiving end to my hotel television and turned it on. Then, I got into bed fully dressed and shut off the lights. The hotel was pretty quiet, despite its location, and for a while there, I got the feeling someone was watching me. I got up and shut the closet door to hide the full-length mirror that had been staring at me. Maybe the ghost stories have sort of started to eek past my tough front. Nah.

At around 1, I was awoken by the incredibly loud sound of pounding. It sounded like four or five fists were slamming on the door to my room. I jumped up and looked at the television.

Onscreen, there was no one at the door. And yet if I looked at the door itself, it was clearly being slammed by someone on the other side. As I got out of bed, the banging immediately stopped. I ran to the door and opened it, but the hallway was empty. A few other guests were sleepily looking out of their rooms. There were two escape options for whoever it was – toward the elevators or down the stairwell, and I took the stairwell route because it was closer.

For a moment, I could hear echoing footsteps a few floors down, then they vanished. It could have been the culprit, it could have been someone going down to their room. Otherwise, it was silent. I went back to my room and noticed I had left the door open. Inside, I found the faucets and shower running cold water at full blast. Crushed ice was in both the bathtub and sink. I started to laugh. This was too much fun. Then I saw that my snake camera was gone, and I stopped laughing. That thing cost a little too much to be funny.

I grabbed a notepad and camera, then barged into the hallway – and smacked directly into a short thin man with a long face and gangly arms. He jolted back in shock.

“I’m sorry!” he said, voice quivering. “I didn’t see you!”

“My fault,” I said. “Didn’t think anyone would be up this late.”

“I have to be,” he said. “I’m an employee here. My name is Anthony Engles. We had more complaints, and I was checking it out.”

“I heard some noise. Seen anyone?” I asked.

“No, sir. As usual, no one around.”

“Listen,” I said, handing him a $20. “Let me know if you do see anyone. Something of mine got nabbed, and I’d like to get it back personally.”

He took the money with shaking hands. “Will do, sir.” We said goodbye, and walked in opposite directions. At the last moment, I turned to ask him something, but he had already gone.

I spent the next hour camped out in the different hallways around the top-most floors of the hotel but didn’t find anything. Annoyed, I went down to the hotel bar for a drink.

There was another man there, dressed in a doorman’s uniform, who was being consoled by the bartender. The guy, named Tom, had apparently just been fired by Reginald, and was in a shitty state. I got that he owed rent that he couldn’t afford and that his girl was going to leave him. He finished his last shot, then stood up to go.

“I know how I can get back at him, though,” he said.

“Reginald?” I asked.

He nodded. “Didn’t understand at first, but they were right all along. Funny how getting fired can make you get it.” Then he vomited. This created a bit of commotion, as the bartender sprung to life and began hollering for some clean-up help – which, of course, at this hour of the morning there was little of. Meanwhile, Tom the Doorman looked like he was about to pass out in his own puke, and I led him to a chair. I tried to get him to talk, but he was out for the night.

I headed off to bed, and nothing more happened.

I woke up this morning and ran into Richard again in the hall. I asked him if anything had happened around his room last night, but he said no. I also asked if he had talked to the hotel employee Anthony Engles, and at that Richard went silent.

As it turns out, Anthony Engles died about forty years ago in a fire in the hotel kitchen. Meaning that the guy I ran into last night is either a ghost or one of the perpetrators of the stuff that’s been going on, and I let him go with $20 and a smile.

I’ve got a meeting in fifteen minutes with Reginald, and I’m going to try to stay another night. As I said, I don’t believe in ghosts, and it bugs me when someone tries to suggest I’m wrong.

Haunting at the Oneida - Part 1 - Ghost Stories

2004-10-01T15:39:00.000-04:00

I don’t believe in ghosts, nor do I believe in anything that falls under the heading of either the paranormal or the supernatural. Let’s get that out upfront. But that’s not to say I’m not intrigued by the case a new client brought to my office on Thursday.

The client is named Reginald, and he works for a five-star hotel located in midtown, which we’ll call the Hotel Oneida. The is one of those historical New York institutions that everyone is familiar with. The Oneida has been in business since the 1800’s, and thus has a great amount of history and romanticism attached to it. During prohibition, for example, the hotel secretly operated the most elegant “speak-easy” in New York for its rather wealthy clientele. Every U.S. president has stayed in the hotel at least once since 1860. The roof has an enormous pool which has an unrivaled view of the New York cityscape. Its reputation is among the highest in the city.

And, like almost every major hotel in any major city, the Hotel Oneida supposedly has a ghost. Or several ghosts, depending on which legend you choose to believe. In 1942, a daughter shot both her parents in their room after they prevented her from marrying a boy who didn’t live up to their financial standards. In 1875, a man drowned his wife in the bathroom tub, then threw her body out the window to try to pass it off as a suicide. In 1950, a man hung himself from a chandelier in the grand ballroom. None of this is very unusual, of course. If you imagine owning a hotel that houses countless guests per year, it’s only mathematically logical to expect some amount of tragedy to occur over time.

These stories, of course, give rise to legends of ghosts that supposedly continue to walk the hallways. And again, this is to be expected in any major hotel. Strange occurrences like showers turning on without warning or flushing toilets often go unexplained by the management and ultimately wind up as part of the mythology of these buildings. And to some extent, I think any good manager would encourage it. Because at the end of the day, there are no ghosts, and everyone knows that (i.e. they’re not losing business). But a nice romantic or spooky ghost story to talk about before you go to sleep gives a certain amount of character and intrigue to any hotel.

But things have changed. The hotel recently switched hands, and a new manager, Reginald, was brought on board. Reginald is a tall, skinny man in his 50’s. He is almost completely bald, and his brow hangs far out over his nose. He’s originally from England, and has clearly adopted an accent of the highest class. He’s not outwardly snooty, but then again, it’d be almost impossible to say that he’s not snooty either.

His transition into his new position was not an easy one. Many resented the new ownership of the hotel, and resented it even more when a series of firings left a number of long-standing employees without a job. Reginald claims he was not fully behind the lay-offs, but was merely acting for people higher up. Of course, as manager, he takes all the blame, and he’s already detecting a cold attitude from almost all his staff. That, he says he can deal with.

But something else is going on, and guests seem to be pointing fingers at the supernatural. He has received numerous complaints over the past two weeks of various unexplained phenomena. Incredibly loud banging will be heard on bedroom doors in the middle of the night, yet when the guests open them, the hallway will be completely empty. Sink taps will start running without warning, then stop just as suddenly. Footsteps and laughter are heard in adjoining rooms that are supposedly empty. And last week, a woman claims to have opened her closet door to see a man hanged from a rope staring back at her. The man vanished, she claims, but it was too much for her. She checked out immediately.

I’m much more likely to believe in whacko guests than I am to believe in ghosts, and so is Reginald. Regardless, the disturbances are clearly real at this point, and Reginald considers them to be harassment of his customers, most likely by former employees who still have access to the building. He wants it to stop right now, which is why he’s hiring me. The house dick they originally had on staff was one of the many laid off recently, and despite Reginald’s begging, he wouldn’t come on to help with the problem. I know the guy very well, and will probably still be able to get some help out of him on my own.

In the meantime, Reginald has asked that I stay in the hotel for the weekend and keep a constant eye on exactly what’s going on. All expenses paid, of course, and on top of my regular salary. And in the end, ghosts or no ghosts, you always say yes to a free vacation.

If the hotel has internet, I’ll see if I can post sometime this weekend. If not, I’ll try to have something on Monday. I’ve gotta pack a bag now.

Chinatown - Part 7 - Dirt On Tanaka

2004-09-29T23:55:00.000-04:00

I apologize for the delay in updating, but getting dirt on someone that can be used for blackmail purposes can take weeks, or even months if the person is cautious enough. I needed something on Tanaka that could be effectively used by Saito to keep him from hurting Natalie, but it quickly became apparent that he keeps whatever hidden secret side he has very hidden and very secret.

The weekend didn’t yield anything. On Saturday, Tanaka and his wife went out together, spent the day walking around Central Park, had dinner downtown, and returned home early. On Sunday, Tanaka went out to lunch with a few respectable-looking guys in suits, then walked around alone for a while. He got back to his building in the evening and didn’t come out again.

Monday – Tanaka went to work early in the morning. He didn’t leave his office until around 7pm at night, after which he went straight home and didn’t come out.

Tuesday – same as Monday. I called Tanaka to let him know I had uncovered some leads on the case, and that I’d have the tape to him in no time. I also called Ruby to give her the same bullshit.

Today (Wednesday) – Paydirt. After going to work, Tanaka left the office at the uncharacteristic time of 4:00PM. He got in a taxi, and I followed after him in my car. The taxi took him to a small but elegant hotel in the Village. He went inside. I grabbed my suitcase of goodies and followed after, though made sure to keep my distance.

The deal with getting around in hotels is that you have to look like you’re staying there without any hesitation. If you walk in and stare around nervously, you look like you don’t belong and they’ll ask you your business. If you stride in like a tourist whose left his subway map in his room (preferably with a key dangling in hand) and go right up the elevator, no one will get in your way. This is exactly what I did.

Tanaka had taken the elevator to the third floor, and I did the same. The hallway was quiet. I took out my sound amplifier and quickly walked up the hall listening for the sounds of humans mating. None doing. Clearly, the girl wasn’t here yet. I readied a very small digital video camera that fits in the palm of my hand for her big arrival, then pretended like I was trying to decide which candy to buy from the vending machine. There was a hotel security camera above me in the corner, and I made sure to stay as far outside of its reach as possible.

About ten minutes later, the elevator binged its arrival, and the doors opened. I continued to inspect the candy options as if the cure for cancer was hidden somewhere between the Butterfingers and bags of Doritos. The person exited, and I slowly looked to the side, then looked away as fast as humanly possible.

It was Ruby.

In retrospect, I can’t believe I hadn’t thought of it. Sure, she had an ad in the Adult Bodywork section of the Voice, but that could have been planted. Then again, it looks like Tanaka was going for authenticity. And what better way to get it than with a whore you've worked with before?

She walked down the hall towards me, and if she had suddenly gotten the urge for M&M’s, it would’ve all been over. She didn’t though, and went to the door behind me to the left. She knocked a few times and said “housekeeping” in a voice that suggested she was a hotel cleaning lady who worked overtime as a phone sex operator. The door opened, Tanaka appeared, and the two did a whole bunch of tongue wrestling while I got it all down on video.

Suddenly she slapped him across the face. “Naughty boy,” she said. “I didn’t tell you you could touch me yet.” I expected him to kill her for this, but he went all apologetic.

“I’m sorry!” he said like a little kid who knows he’s been bad and is trying to get out of the worst spanking of his life. “I’m so sorry!”

“Not half as sorry as you’re going to be,” she said in that same sultry voice, and pushed Tanaka into the hotel room. The door slammed shut.

What I had on video at this point was good but not enough. I had to get into the room beside them. Problem was, the hotel security camera was staring down at me. Lock-picking was clearly out. I turned on my cell-phone and put in a call to the desk. I told them I was in a random room on 3, and that I needed an extra pillow. They assured me that someone would be up promptly. While I waited, I wadded up a few pages from my notepad into a tight ball.

Soon after, a maid arrived and went to the closet to get a pillow. I stood in front of the door of the room next to Tanaka’s and called to her.

“Excuse me,” I said. “I just checked out, and I think I left my watch in the room.”

“We already cleaned there,” she told me.

“I think it dropped behind the bed.”

She looked at me skeptically. “Fine then,” she said. She opened the door and went inside. As I followed after, I jammed the wadded up ball of paper into the lock cavity. She didn’t notice. Then I did a little acting routine, pretended to find my watch under the bed, thanked her for her time, let her exit first, then shut the door behind me. She went to deliver the pillow, and I hid in the stairwell. After a few moments of knocking and getting no reply, she took the elevator down. I went back up and simply pushed the door open to the room beside Tanaka’s, went inside, and locked it behind me.

I didn’t need any sound amplification to know that Tanaka and Ruby were going at it hard. I started a tape recorder to pick up the delightfully naughty reprimands Ruby was yelling (“You’re a bad boy! Now I’m punishing you!”), while Tanaka just moaned.

I went to the window, opened it, and saw that theirs was open as well. Finally a break. I put together my snake camera (a very small video camera head mounted on a long wire) and carefully looped it around the corner and in through their window, letting it rest on the sill. No way in hell they’d notice in the middle of what they were doing. I plugged it into the IN on my video camera and began recording.

Tanaka was on all fours on the bed. Ruby was behind him wearing a strap-on dildo and giving it to him up the ass, with an occasional spanking or two.

This was like striking oil.

I got about five minutes of this down on video, then packed up shop and split. I returned to my office, made a few copies of the tape, then dropped one off with a friend I trust and another in my bank deposit box. There are certain pieces of evidence that should be duplicated and distributed for understandable safety measures. I dropped off my last copy to Saito, who was most pleased to get it. He paid me my standard fee, plus a large bonus for successful completion of the job, plus something extra for loyalty and the fact that I was going against my initial clients. Very generous guy, Saito.

I finished off the day by calling Tanaka and reporting that I would no longer be able to help him in his particular case. I said that it had become clear that Natalie was long gone, and that I doubted if she – or the video – would ever be found. He was clearly upset, but gave me his credit card number and authorized me to bill him for the services we agreed on. I did, though I wouldn’t be surprised if he tries to cancel it later. I did the same for Ruby, and she said she would get back to me regarding the payment. Yeah, right.

As you might be able to tell, I’m a big fan of using blackmail against blackmailers. I find it solves problems a lot better than simply outing the initial blackmailer. It puts everyone on an equal playing field and forces them to follow the flawless Do Unto Others maxim (though let’s all be a little careful about this; I’d be out of a job if everyone took the Golden Rule to heart).

I’m waiting for an angry call from Tanaka or Ruby (hell, maybe she’ll try to spank me) but it hasn’t come yet. Otherwise, it’s time to deal with other cases. I’ve been putting off new client appointments until Thursday, so maybe something new and intriguing will come along. My secretary keeps telling me she thinks it would be cute if I said that Sammy says “meow” to you all, or something. I, on the other hand, don’t think it would be cute at all, and am thinking of lowering her hourly wages. Now that would be cute.

Chinatown - Part 6 - Another Client

2004-09-24T17:00:00.000-04:00

Two Asian men and a black limo were waiting outside my apartment this morning when I stepped out. One of them opened the door to the limo, and the other motioned for me to get in. Neat. I pulled back my coat revealing my holstered gun.

"This a problem for anyone?" I asked.

They shook their heads. I climbed into the limo and realized that the woman who'd attacked me in Natalie's apartment was seated across from me. We stared at each other for a bit, then I took the throwing star I'd been carrying around out of my jacket pocket.

"I think you lost this," I said. "In my arm." Her face remained absolutely motionless as she stared at me. I put it away. "Where are we going?"

"Our employer would like to have a word with you."

"Tanaka?"

She shook her head. The limo started and we took off heading towards the Battery. Any talking during the ride came exclusively from me. I tried to get her to answer a few questions, but she remained quiet. We finally arrived at a large skyscraper at the southern tip of Manhattan. The woman and one of the two men escorted me into the building. We brushed past the security guard with a nod and took the elevator to the 45th floor. There, we walked out into a reception area. The name of the business was something very generic, along the lines of "Venture" or "Endeavor."

We walked past the receptionist down a long hallway to a pair of double doors at the end. They knocked, and at the sound of a gravelly voice saying "enter" they opened the doors and motioned me inside. They didn't come with me, and closed the doors behind me.

The office was positioned in a corner of the building and had a beautiful view of the harbor and the Lady Liberty in the distance. It was the typical office of someone important: huge mahogany desk dominating the room, a large leather executive chair, numerous officious looking books on the wall, and a few framed pictures of wifey and the kids.

The man in the exec chair looked to be Japanese, tall and chubby, with carefully combed hair and manicured fingernails. He was wearing a very nice black suit, and I immediately became conscious of the scruffy, wrinkled clothing I had put on without much thought this morning. He stood up and extended his hand. We shook.

"My name is Saito," he said. "Do you know who I am?"

"I think so," I replied. "You're trying to blackmail Tanaka with a certain videotape."

He nodded, but the nod was slow, and didn't seem to imply a "yes" answer.

"You've met with Mr. Tanaka then." I kept quiet. "And you're working for him, either looking for the girl, or trying to recover the videotape." Still quiet. "I wish I had found out about you first. It could have saved a lot of trouble."

"Could've saved you a lot of trouble if you hadn't tried to blackmail Tanaka," I remarked.

"I didn't do anything to Tanaka," he replied slowly. "Tanaka is trying to blackmail me."

"Bullshit. Prove it."

"Very well." He pressed a button on the intercom system. "Nancy, will you send in my guest?" The receptionist said yes, and several moments of silence followed as Saito and I eyed each other.

Then the door opened, and Natalie came in.

She looked absolutely gorgeous, as good as she had in the Village Voice ad. As I said before, a total knock-out, even without the airbrushing. She came up, shook my hand, and introduced herself. I smiled and nodded, then dropped the smile and turned back to Saito.

"So this girl brought you a tape of Tanaka to blackmail him with."

"So you have spoken with Tanaka," he continued. "Have a seat, my dear," he said to Natalie, who was being quiet. "Let me try to clear a few things up. First of all, Tanaka told you the correct story, but with the names reversed. I have been the one meeting with Natalie for some time now. It is I, and not Tanaka, who rented the apartment in Chinatown for us to meet. We had this arrangement for a number of months. Natalie?"

"I got a call to go to the apartment one night," she said. Her voice soft, but at the time suggested a lifetime of experience that had completely vanquished any hint of innocence. "I got there, and Tanaka was waiting. He had found out about the apartment, called as Mr. Saito, and met me. They strapped me to the wall and...tortured me." My mind thought back to the star I'd found in the wall. "They told me they'd kill me unless I helped them get a video of Mr. Saito and myself, and I believed them. I'm not in a position to protect myself. I can't go to the police, and Tanaka made it clear that he could kill me at any time and no one would know. I was given a camera to make the video and met Mr. Saito. And like an idiot I went through with it. I made the video. I called Tanaka the next day to confirm that I had a copy, as well as several duplicates. But then I got scared, and came to Mr. Saito and told him everything.."

"I have a special affection for Natalie," Saito continued, "and understand the position she is in. I know my colleague very well, and am sure that he will make good on his threats out of sheer spite. It's not like anyone will miss a Chinatown whore for more than week." I thought Natalie would hit him for that, but she only smiled and he smiled back, as if it was some sort of inside joke. "She's been with me ever since, keeping a low profile both from Tanaka and my wife." He chuckled at this last line. I kept a straight face.

"I had sent my employee, Kameko, to gather a few of Natalie's belongings. I knew that Tanaka would try to hunt down both Natalie and a copy of the video tape, and made sure Kameko had taken the necessary precautions. And this is where we first encountered you. I must apologize for what happened to your arm, and will gladly pay any medical expenses you incurred." I shook my head.

"Just a paper cut."

"Very tough front you put forth," he said. "Kameko is trained in numerous fighting styles, and I am glad she didn't feel more threatened by your presence. You could have been killed." If that wasn't a blow to my manhood, I don't know what is. "She left, but followed you after. She reported back to me, and I've since had you followed to try and learn who you were working for. We were worried you had been employed by Tanaka to find the tape, but then again, we knew you weren't the first to visit the apartment. Tanaka's men arrived before Kameko and yourself, and ransacked the place. Also, to be frank, you don't look the part."

"I'm not working for Tanaka," I confirmed. "At least, I wasn't. I was working for your friend Ruby." Natalie looked at me with a big question mark across her face. "You don't have a friend Ruby who works in the business with you?"

She shook her head. "I don't know any of the other girls. I've kept my distance." "My guess is that Tanaka hired her to put forth a believable story in trying to locate you," said Saito.

"He also hired me directly a couple days ago," I said.

"Probably to steer you in the direction he wanted you to go in. Let's put it this way: when you came in this office, Saito was the bad guy in your mind, right? Hopefully, I've cleared this up."

This was the overstatement of the year. I'd been told all the details, but at this early in the morning and without a cup of coffee, my mind was spinning faster than a Turkish Twist.

"So you've been seeing Natalie," I said to Saito. "Your rival Tanaka learns this. He threatens Natalie and forces her to film you. She does, contacts him, then goes to you for help. You hide her. He hires me through Ruby to find her. I'm moving too slow, so he hires me directly to push me in the right direction. And he tells me a bullshit story that makes him sound like the victim and you the enemy."

"Probably so that if the name Saito came up, which it inevitably would, you would have negative preconceptions."

"And the one who attacked me - "

"Kameko."

"Kameko, she was just at the apartment to collect some of Natalie's thing?"

"Precisely." It all seemed to check out.

"So what do we do now?"

"I'd like to hire you." Wow. Three different clients on one case is a bit unusual for me.

"What for?"

"I will pay you the money that is owed, and most likely will not be paid, by Tanaka and Ruby, for your services. I would like you to come up with something on Tanaka, something we can use to even the score and make it safe for Natalie to walk the streets again."

"Any leads? Does Tanaka go to a prostitute of some kind?"

"Almost definitely, but I do not have specifics. That is why I'd like to hire you."

I took the case. It's clear at this point that I won't be able to deliver to either Tanaka or Ruby, and it's equally unlikely that they'll pay me for the work I've done so far. And in the end, I hate being taken for a ride, so there's a bit of revenge in here too.

I'm back in my office now, and I've been trying to figure out what plan of action I can take against Tanaka. But I've got nothing as of yet, other than to follow him and hope to dig something up. Any easier suggestions? Otherwise, my weekend looks shot.

Followed

2004-09-23T15:05:00.000-04:00

Two guys definitely followed me to the deli on the corner when I went for lunch.

Update - 9:42PM.

They followed me home. For those who suggested I follow the followers - It's hard to follow people that are following you, because you end up bumping into each other. Either that, or you wind up in a big confrontation that gets you a black eye or a lot of lies, and neither is beneficial. At the moment, I'm going to let it continue, because they're certainly not going to learn anything by following me. And something might just pan out from it.

Chinatown - Part 5 - A Dangerous Man

2004-09-23T11:17:00.000-04:00

There is a Chinese restaurant in the heart of Chinatown that probably hasn’t been visited by the Board of Health in decades. Cockroaches and rats run freely in the alley beside it, and you’d have to be an idiot not to think they all make their way into the kitchen shortly after closing. The two front windows are yellowed from age and slimy with grease, and the food inside doesn’t look any more appealing.

This was the address I had been given for the weapons store. No other details had been provided. I stood around outside for a while debating whether to go inside or wait for a contact. As I was standing there, a truck pulled up and parked, and two men began unloading boxes of food supplies. Those who know New York are aware that most buildings have their own basement entrance through two metal doors in on the sidewalk. The sidewalk doors in front of the Chinese restaurant opened, and a small busboy stepped out. He walked over to the truck, signed for the order, then picked up one of the many boxes.

As he walked by me, he said “Carry one and follow.” I quickly grabbed a box filled with beer cans and proceeded down the steep concrete steps into the basement. The basement was filled with boxes and refrigerators containing various foodstuffs, and reeked of that smell all cheap Chinese restaurants have. The busboy indicated where to set down the beer, then nodded at a door in the corner. Then he left.

The door was large, wooden, and locked. I knocked on it loudly, and after a moment, someone asked my name. I gave it, and I heard the click of a lock being opened. The door swung in.

The room on the other side was completely empty save for a desk which was stationed in the exact middle. The desktop was similarly bare, with only a telephone and a composition notebook on top. Two chairs were in front. The only source of light was a hanging bulb; there were no windows. An elderly man was seated behind it reading a book and twirling a small throwing knife in his fingers absentmindedly. He didn’t look up when I came in.

“Do you want me to shut this?” I asked. No answer from him. I shrugged and started to close the door.

Suddenly, I heard a whoosh of air, followed by a thwack, and I realized I was caught. I looked down to see the knife stuck through my jacket into the door. I turned quickly to see the old man still engrossed in his book while twirling another knife in his hand.

I pulled the knife out of the door and finished closing it.

“Neat trick,” I said. “But make sure I don’t catch you in the act next time, or you might find a bullet in your skull.” I dropped the knife on the table, and he looked up. He looked to be in his late 60’s, with long white hair and a moustache that vaguely brought to mind the facial hair of Fu Manchu, though to say there was a resemblance would be an exaggeration.

“A bullet? You wouldn’t have the time, young man,” he said, smiling. “You’d be dead before you pulled the trigger.”

“I’m pretty fast.”

“I’m faster.”

For a moment, I thought we were going to have a face-off – him with his knives and me with my gun. And in all honesty, I’m not sure who would have won. Luckily, our duel never came about. He broke into a hoarse laugh and motioned for me to sit down. I did.

“What can I do for you?”

“You make weapons?”

“Yes.”

I took out the throwing star and the broken prong I had found embedded in the wall of Tanaka’s apartment and let them drop on the desk.

“Who did you make these for?”

He picked them both up and studied them for a moment. “They are different. I made this one,” he said, indicating the one that had been thrown at my arm. “This one, however, was not of my handiwork.”

“How do you know? They look exactly the same to me.”

“They follow a well-known design,” he continued, “but there is a difference. Whereas this one is perfectly weighted, expertly sharpened, and bears the mark of genius craftsmanship, this broken blade is of much cheaper quality.”

“They still look the same to me,” I said. “And I have reason to believe they came from the same person.”

“They didn’t. The person I made this star for would never stoop to using such trash.”

“Who did you make the one star for then?”

He turned it over in his fingers. “There are flakes of blood on it. Yours?”

“Yep.” He laughed. “You find that funny, huh?” I asked.

“Oh yes,” he said. “Very amusing. I will make you a deal. I normally would never divulge a customer’s name, but will make an exception if you can prove yourself. See that mark on the wall?”

He pointed at the far wall, on which a small red X was painted. “Hit that with a bullet before I do so with a knife and I will tell you.”

Without thinking, I ripped out my gun and sent a bullet flying toward the X. I turned to look at the old man, and saw he hadn’t moved.

“So will you tell me now?” I asked.

He nodded at the mark. I turned to look and realized that something was sticking out of the middle of the X. I got up close and realized the truth. The end of a knife was sticking straight out of the center of the mark. My bullet had shattered the handle, but it was clear that he had reached it first.

“That is all I can do for you,” he said, and resumed reading. I trained my gun on him.

“Maybe you can do a little more.”

He yawned. “I have already surprised you twice today. Would really like me to surprise you a third time by killing you?”

He had a point. I waited for a moment, but it was clear our conversation was over. I kept my gun trained on him and backed out of the room.

“Thank you for coming,” he said without looking up. I closed the door.

Back on the street, I was kicking myself. Not that I know of anything I could have done differently, but I had just met someone who knows the woman who attacked me at Natalie’s apartment, and I hadn’t learned a thing. Well, that’s not entirely true. If what the old guy had told me was accurate, there was a big difference in the star that had been pulled from the wall in Tanaka’s apartment and the star that had been thrown at me in Natalie’s apartment. One was more amateurish, the other a master. Maybe two different employees, and maybe hired by two different employers? Not sure if that means anything yet, but it might.

I started to walk home. The last thing I wanted at this point was the roar of the subway making my headache even worse. As I walked into Soho, my sixth sense started twitching. I glanced over my shoulder but didn’t see anyone. I continued walking, but I was still getting that crowding sensation, as if someone was getting too close too often. I still didn’t notice anyone in particular, but it was really bugging me. I saw a subway stop and went down into it. The train was arriving, and I swiped through the turnstile and darted into the car. No one followed me, as far as I can tell. But I’ve been on my guard ever since.

I’m totally lost here. My field trip to the weapons dealer clearly failed, bringing me back to square one. This Saito guy might be involved somehow, but I have no clue how I’m going to get in touch with him now. Maybe I’ll get in touch with Tanaka again, though I don’t know what good that would do.

To top it off, my arm is aching more than ever, which is just pissing me off. Ugh.

Chinatown - Part 4 - Mr. X

2004-09-21T20:37:00.000-04:00

Ruby called me on Monday and told me to stay by the phone. It rang again a few hours later. The man on the line was Mr. X himself, who asked me to meet him at his apartment down near Gramercy Park. He knew I was looking for him, he said, and had as much desire to speak with me as I to him. I tried to get him to meet in an open area, but he was absolutely resistant. He assured me that no harm would come to me and that he just wanted to talk, but that it had to be absolutely secure and private.

I suited up with a concealed gun and a few conveniently placed knives, then called a couple of friends to let them know where to find my corpse in case they didn’t hear from me over the next few weeks. I took a cab down to the address he had given me near Gramercy Park. Mr. X – who we will now call Mr. Tanaka, as per the alias he gave to the escort service – lives in a very large high-rise building that clearly costs a fortune.

A million thoughts were racing through my mind as the elevator ascended to the 32nd floor. Would I be greeted with a team of women similar to the one who had decided to remove a chunk of my arm the other night? Was I about to step into a situation straight out of a Hong Kong kung fu flick? I had a sneaking suspicion that Tanaka’s wife would turn out to be the attacker from Natalie’s apartment.

I was wrong on all accounts. The door was indeed opened by Tanaka’s wife, but she was the complete opposite of the woman that had attacked me. She was probably in her 50’s, short, with a rounded body and face, and graying black hair pulled tightly back into a bun.

“I’m here to see Mr. Tanaka,” I told her.

“We’ve been expecting you,” she said with a grandmotherly expression of kindness covering her face. “Come in!” Huh. No ninja assassins just yet, but perhaps it was all a ruse to lower my guard. I kept my hand within gun-grabbing reach.

The apartment was enormous and modern in design. We entered the living room, which centered around a small rectangular pool in which brilliantly colored goldfish were swimming. Several expensive-looking black leather couches surrounded it. The walls were white and lined with antique bookshelves filled with books that looked centuries old. A pleasing combination of old and new.

Tanaka was seated on one couch reading a book, and he stood up to greet me. He was an older man, also in his 50’s, with graying hair slicked backwards. His face was a map of wrinkles, but his body looked quite fit and strong. He was dressed in a perfectly-pressed business suit.

“Welcome,” he said, shaking my hand. “Please sit down.”

I was still on edge, which was probably very obvious to him. “Do not be afraid,” he continued. He called to his wife, and asked if I wanted tea or coffee, both of which I turned down. He then asked his wife to leave, and closed the doors. He took a seat across from me.

“I think I know your type,” he said without any animosity. “You won’t tell me anything. You expect me to tell you everything, but every attempt I make to get answers from you will result in failure.”

I shrugged. “That’s the nature of my profession.”

“Save your questions then. Let me do some talking, and if you have any questions after, feel free to ask them. I wish to hire you.” Suddenly, my brain desperately wanted to ask a million question, but my mouth stayed shut.

“I will be perfectly honest with you, Mr. Dick. I have been hiring women to perform sexual services for about as long as I have been a businessman. I’ve been married for just as long. It’s very common in my world, and I would be hard-pressed to think of a single colleague who has not engaged in this type of behavior at one time or other.

“I met Natalie sometime ago and fell in love with her instantly. Not in the serious sense, but in the carefree, casual way. She was beautiful, was comfortable with what I liked in bed, and had a great personality for those awkward conversations before and after. I requested her again and again, and we became familiar with each other. She was my favorite, and I rented out an apartment in Chinatown for us to meet at – which I am told you also know about.

“Then I made the mistake of divulging factual information about myself and my livelihood. It was a stupid error that should have never happened, but I thought nothing of it at the time. I described to her my business, the history of my life, my financial status and power. I thought there was an unsaid agreement between the two of us, but apparently, there was not. She announced to me last Friday that she had secretly filmed one of our sessions together, and wanted a substantial amount of money to keep it quiet and not tell my wife. A substantial amount, Mr. Dick. The tape was quite explicit.

“Her intention was to blackmail me without end. I know where that road leads, and I sized her threat up in my mind. Ultimately, it seemed baseless. If I refused to pay, she would gain nothing personally from telling my wife, and would most likely lose her job and any trustworthy reputation. I offered her a single payment in return for the tape, but she turned it down. She wanted monthly payments, and would settle on no less. I tested her. I blew up in her face. Screamed threats at her, and threw her out of the apartment. All was without substance, but it seemed to work. She left, and I have not heard from her since, nor has my wife. I also terminated my lease on the apartment and had it cleaned out.

“It perhaps hadn’t occurred to Natalie or myself at the time, but she had far more bargaining power than she realized. I began remembering the conversations we’d had, in which I had gone into detail about competitors – and I suspect she has by now remembered them as well. I am now aware that it is in my interest to retrieve that video at any cost. The revelation could very much harm my reputation.

“I realize that you are already searching for Natalie under the employment of another client. I would like to employ you for a related task – to find the video for me. Now – do you have any questions”

Two paychecks for the same case. Not too shabby, but then again, I wasn’t about to work for a guy whose hired goon tried to kill me.

“Have you been to Natalie’s apartment since Friday?” I asked.

“No. I do not even know where she lives,” he replied calmly.

“But you could find out.”

“What makes you say that?”

“You already seem to know some information I didn’t think anyone had access to.”

“Yes, I could easily learn where Natalie lives, but I have no desire to – wait.” He paused, then: “Has someone been to her apartment?”

“Remember that rule about trying to get information out of me,” I said. “Let’s just say that if I learn you had any connection to what happened to me this weekend, I have no qualms in making many, many different parties aware of it.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said, and his voice sounded innocent enough.

“Who do you suspect she might have gone to with the video?”

“It is possible that she may have gone to a man who not only works at a rival company, but whom I would consider to be a rival to me personally. This man and I have met in the past in some bad clashes. His name is Saito.”

“Address? Phone?”

Tanaka laughed. “If I told you any such identifying information, he would be aware of your attempts to use it to get to him immediately. He is a very powerful man, perhaps moreso than myself, and I’m going to have to leave it to you to devise a backdoor method of learning more about him.”

“You could really save me a lot of trouble.”

“Sorry. It’s for your own protection. Simply continue in your investigation, and see if his name comes up. If not, ignore it. His is the only name I mentioned personally. I may have mentioned businesses, but Natalie would have to literally walk into the reception desk to get anywhere with the video. And such business do not typically deal with whores.”

I took the case. Hell, I’m working the case to begin with – why not get another paycheck off of it? And if it turns out Tanaka was behind Natalie’s disappearance or the attack at her apartment, I’ll make good on my threat. When people take swings at me, I like to return the favor.

I got back to my office in the evening to find a brief voicemail message from the man from the martial arts supply store. It was simply a date, time, and location. The location I’ll have to keep quiet, but the date is Wednesday, September 22nd, and the time is 1:00PM.

Apparently, that’s my appointment with a man who makes very, very dangerous weapons.

Chinatown - Part 3 - Throwing Stars, Feeling Pain

2004-09-18T20:19:00.000-04:00

I spent much of Thursday night watching the webcam feed from Natalie’s apartment on my computer. I was in the middle of writing an update to this site to say that the idea hadn’t turned in any results when I saw movement on the screen. The door in Natalie’s apartment opened, and a figure came in. Someone of Asian descent, though I couldn’t see his face clearly. The person was rummaging through the mess of Natalie’s apartment, apparently looking for something.

I rushed out to my car and gunned it down to Natalie’s apartment, running a whole slew of reds and nearly killing a bum that refused to get out of the street, even when the light was green. I pulled up, parked in front of a fire hydrant, and ran up the stairs to her apartment. The door to her apartment was open slightly, and a dim light was streaming through into the hallway. I took out my gun and pushed my way through.

At first glance, the room was empty and everything was silent save for the hum of the computer running in the corner. Then I was staring at the bottom of a Nike running shoe as it made its way through the air toward my face. The kick met its mark, smacking into my nose and sending me backwards. I still held the gun, but before I could get balanced, the assailant had an arm wrapped around my throat and what felt like a very sharp knife pressed against my jugular. The person wasn’t going out of their way to be gentle, and I could feel the blade break the skin. A person can bleed to death in about 10 to 20 seconds from a wound to the jugular.

“Why are you here?” the person asked from behind me. Raspy, but definitely a female voice. Her body felt small yet very powerful.

“I’m just the neighbor. Natalie asked me to watch her cat while she was gone.”

“One more time, then you bleed. Why are you here?”

I stayed silent for a moment, then I felt her draw up her arm. “I came here to find what you’re looking for.”

“What am I looking for?”

“What Natalie stole.”

The attacker eased up momentarily on the knife, maybe in surprise, and I used this to my advantage. I sent an elbow into her gut, and as she doubled over, I smacked the knife hand away and trained my gun on her. She had a long face with thin lips and dyed-blond hair pulled back into a ponytail. No one I had seen before. She stared at me with contempt, but dropped the knife knowingly.

“My turn for questions,” I said, rubbing my bleeding nose and keeping the gun trained on her. “Who are you, sweetie?”

The eyebrows lowered further than I thought possible. She said something that I imagine is very derogatory in Japanese.

“One more time, then you bleed, sweetie,” I said, and cocked my gun for effect. “Who do you work for?”

She was fast, and in my memory, her movement is a total blur. Suddenly, her hand was down by her waist, then there was a burning pain in my arm and she was out the window onto the fire escape. I looked down and saw what looked to be a throwing star sunk deep into my arm. Without thinking, I yanked it out, pulling along some strands of flesh I would have much preferred to keep apart of me. I ran to the window, but she was on the street level. In the time it’d take me to get out there, she’d be long gone.

I stared down at the bloody star in my hand, and realized immediately that the broken blade I had removed from Mr. X’s wall was an exact match (this roughly resembles it, from an online weapons store):

I found some rags under the kitchen sink and tied up my wound, which was bleeding pretty bad. From my brief conversation with the woman, it sounded like she still hadn’t recovered what was lost. Maybe she works for Mr. X. Maybe she’s another Voice girl. No clue. She definitely wasn’t either Ruby or Natalie, for anyone who was wondering.

I sat down on the couch and called Ruby. The next necessary step to take would be to find Mr. X, and I wanted to know whether it would make more sense for me to go to the escort service myself or for her. She said she had an idea, and would get back to me.

On Friday, I took both the throwing star and the broke throwing star blade down to a martial arts supply shop in Chinatown. The walls were hung with swords, though the $15-$100 price tags suggested that they weren’t anything more than for show. A few foam nunchucks were lying around, but nothing looked too dangerous. In fact, it almost seemed like a costume shop.

I showed the clerk the stars and asked where I could buy them in New York. He immediately began pointing at a sign, which detailed what was illegal in NY, and thus what they didn’t carry. There’s a whole array of weapons that cannot be sold legally in Massachusetts, New York, and California, including (among many, many others) throwing stars.

Then again, we’re in New York, the city where everything can be bought if the price is right. Just last year, for example, a Queens business was busted by the cops for selling tons of illegal weapons, from butterfly knives to canes with concealed blades. It only took a few minutes of hounding and bribery before the guy wrote down the address of a place a few blocks over that could give me more info on what I was looking for. He also gave me a line to say in Chinese to get in, and I wrote it down in my notebook phonetically.

I left and walked over through the bustle of countless pedestrians and arrived at what looked like a trinket shop. This type of store riddles Chinatown, and they usually all sell the same crap: faux-antique vases, cheap furniture, small statuary, and many other goods that can all be classified under junk. I made my way into the store to the back counter. A young man was there, and I tried to pronounce the line. He looked at me suspiciously for a second, probably trying to determine if I was a cop, then nodded over his shoulder. I realized he was directing me, and I walked around the counter through a pair of curtains into the backroom.

The backroom was not what you’d imagine. There were no knives, swords, nunchucks, throwing stars, bos, or sais decorating the walls. Just boxes. Countless non-descript brown boxes carefully arranged on shelves. An older man was back there, and I held out the stars.

“Where can I get these?” I asked.

He took a quick glance at them and seemed to size them up immediately. “These are custom made. Hard to find. Well-balanced. These cost much.”

“Do you have them?”

He shook his head. “These are unique, not mass-produced. Only one person I know of in Manhattan, and he won’t see you unless you are the type of person he will see.”

Nothing beats circular logic. “Am I the type of person he will see?”

“Depends on whether he will see you.”

Goddammit. “Where can I meet him?”

“Give me your name and phone number. I see if he’s taking orders now. If you don't hear back, answer is no.”

I wrote it down for him, and he put it in a pile of papers, then stopped paying attention to me. Our meeting was over, I took it, and left.

Saturday has been an ugly day, and I’ve been sitting around at Natalie’s apartment waiting to hear back from Ruby regarding Mr. X, or from the weapons guy about the stars. No one has shown up to wreck this place any further, though I don’t think that’s possible. Sounds like her neighbors just came home, so I’m going to go ask them a few questions.

This case has become a pain in the ass. Or arm, to be accurate.

----

2004-09-16T23:09:00.000-04:00

Someone is in Natalie's apartment - I can see it on her webcam feed. I'm going over.

Chinatown - Part 2 - Vanished!

2004-09-16T10:00:00.000-04:00

I went over to Mr. X’s (the Japanese businessman) apartment at 11 AM on Wednesday morning, located deep in Chinatown. When tourists come to New York, the Chinatown they tend to see is mainly relegated to Canal Street, a large avenue that runs from east to west in downtown Manhattan. Canal Street is hell on Earth, and why tourists put up with it is beyond me. The traffic is always bumper to bumper, and so are the pedestrians, who stop to look at every bootleg piece of crap being sold on the street for ludicrous prices, from jade Buddhas to fake Rolex watches (otherwise known as Frolexes).

If you go to the end of Canal Street and take a right, you’ll eventually find yourself in Chatham Square (recently rechristened Kimlau Square). The square has a large arch dedicated to Chinese Americans who died fighting for democracy, as well as a statue of Lin Tse-hu, who played a major role in the Opium War. One street over is Mr. X’s apartment.

Mr. X’s building looks pretty much like those surrounding it: red brick covered in filth, with a rusted fire escape zigzagging up the front. The first floor is occupied by a storefront, which I think deals in electronic repair, though the sign is in Chinese, and they appear to also sell flowers. Beside it, a grimy glass door leads to the apartments above.

I unlocked the front door with the keys Ruby had given me and found myself in a small entryway. Steel mailboxes lined the wall, and I checked the apartment number Mr. X lived in (13). No name on the box, which wasn’t a surprise. I entered through the second door into the apartment and started the hike up the stairs. My first impression of the building was that it is a loud place to live. In one apartment, I could hear a mother yelling at her child for having done something wrong. In another, the television volume had been cranked to full blast. In another, someone was giving piano lessons to a very untalented youth.

I finally got to the door to 13 and put my ear to it. No sound. I took out a small device designed to amplify sounds on the other side of a wall or door, consisting of a receiver mic, small base unit, and headphones – all in all, smaller than an iPod. It’s capable of picking up whispers, but all I got was the sound of traffic coming from outside the apartment. No one home, or at least, no one making noise. I took out my set of keys and opened the door slowly. No one objected, so I continued inside and shut the door.

The apartment was completely empty. Ruby had told me the apartment was lightly furnished, yet the place looked like no one had lived there in ages. It was a studio apartment, with a closet, small kitchenette off to one side and a bathroom to the other. The main room was totally empty – no furniture, nothing on the walls, no lamps. Same went for the kitchen – nothing in the fridge, nothing in the garbage, nothing in the dishwasher. Bathroom was completely empty too. Not only was the place empty, but it was also incredibly clean. It looked like a professional job – the floors were totally free of dust, the windows had been Windexed to perfection, and the walls smelled like they had been recently painted.

I did a thorough search of the main room but found not so much as a piece of lint. I had a feeling that a full team of forensics experts wouldn’t do much better. Hell, there weren’t even any stray eyelashes or pubic hairs to be found (keep in mind it’s a room used for principally for sex). The bathroom was more immaculate than the pope’s, and if the kitchen had ever been used for food-related purposes, there was no sign of it now.

OK, I thought – the cleaners have clearly done their job. Nothing to be found in the room, and in addition, nothing seemed to be missing.

That’s when I began to focus my attention on the walls. They had been repainted for a reason, and there was the likely possibility they had been more than just a little dirty. I got up close to one wall and began feeling along carefully for any bumps or indents. I spent about twenty minutes running my hands very slowly along every square inch of it, but didn’t find anything. Then I cut myself.

There is no way I would have seen it otherwise, but my finger had pressed down onto an incredibly small yet very sharp piece of jagged metal sticking out from the wall. The exposed amount was nothing longer than the bit of exposed lead on a pencil, but it was enough to draw blood. I took out my jackknife and began scraping away the paint. It soon became clear that whatever it was was much larger and deeply embedded. I began hacking at the plaster until the piece of metal finally began to loosen. I opened the small wrench on my knife and pried it out.

What I had looked like the broken end of a knife blade, only the sides were too round to have been part of a knife. Rather than angling slightly down to where a base would be, they curved out to the sides. Also, the piece was too small to belong to a larger knife blade – less than an inch on each side. It looked almost like a metal arrowhead.

Then I heard the lock begin to open – someone was coming in, and I didn’t have any escape plan. My eyes looked to the closet, then to the fire escape, but it was all too late. The door swung open, and a Chinese man came into the room followed by a young couple. The Chinese man was in the middle of describing the apartment to them in broken English.

“We have all amenities you could want – hot water always hot, pressure good -”

He turned and saw me, and an angry expression flashed onto his face.

“Who are you? Whatchoo doing here?”

I quickly explained that I was a friend of the previous occupant, and that he had given me a key, but this only made the man - who I took to be the landlord - angrier. He demanded I hand over the key, and told me that the previous occupant had moved out on Saturday. He began herding me out of the apartment, clearly angry at having been embarrassed in front of his potential tenants. I threw a series of questions at him, but I was totally unprepared and it showed. The only answer I got in the middle of his cursing and threatening to call the police was that the place had been cleaned by someone the previous tenant had hired.

He had finally succeeded in getting me out into the hallway. As he started to close the door, I yelled in: “The previous tenant used this room to meet prostitutes in!” The door slammed shut, but I know the couple had heard. I wanted to talk to the neighbors, but now wasn't the time.

I walked through the streets of Chinatown to the subway, which I took to Natalie’s apartment in the Lower East Side. I buzzed my way in, then went up to her floor. On Tuesday, I had placed a small string running from the door to the door frame to see if anyone would enter while I was away. The string was lying on the ground. I took out my lockpicking tools and was about to go to work when another thought occurred to me. I tried the door and found that, unlike on Tuesday, it was unlocked.

Inside, the apartment had been completely trashed. Couches were overturned, with cushions split open and stuffing poured out onto the ground. The rug had been yanked up, and was heaped in a pile in the corner. The drawers of Natalie’s computer desk were all lying on the floor, the contents spilled across the room. In other words, it was clear that the room hadn’t been randomly destroyed – someone had been looking for something. I went through the rest of the apartment and found the same mess throughout.

I returned to the front room, uprighted her computer chair and sat down. A line of reasoning began to formulate: The hooker has been seeing Mr. X for a while. Then one night she disappears. Mr. X cleans out his apartment completely, then moves out. A blade of some kind is left in the wall. Then, Natalie’s apartment is trashed because someone was looking for something.

To me, this suggests that Natalie took something of Mr. X’s; he got angry; threatened her; she wouldn’t or couldn’t give him the answers he wanted; he killed or kidnapped her; then finally he went on a treasure hunt in her apartment. Whether he was successful or not in finding what he was looking for is unknowable. As for me locating it (whatever “it” is), I wouldn’t even know where to begin looking. I did a once over, but all I found were items I wouldn’t expect in the home of a prostitute: books on philosophy, for example, and DVDs of old Fellini flicks. I sort of assumed that all the literature in the apartment would be on Kama Sutra, and all the movies, pornos. Call me crazy. The frustrating aspect was that the answer probably was in the apartment within ten feet of where I was sitting, yet was totally beyond my reach.

One positive turn of events came out of my visit – I noticed that Natalie’s computer had an impressive webcam connected to it, along with a cable connection. Without a doubt, Natalie makes side money through a web presence of some kind. I turned on the camera and logged it on to a web-based cam service, then turned it to face the living room. Free surveillance is always a plus.

The next step is to try and figure out what the blade might have broken off of, and perhaps try to contact the escort service. I’ve never been to the office of such a place, but something tells me it’s not the Playboy mansion that I’d like it to be.

Chinatown - Part 1 - Turning Tricks in Chinatown

2004-09-14T22:47:00.000-04:00

The Village Voice is a free left-wing newspaper in New York City that comes out every week and can be found on just about every other street corner. Despite its numerous scathing condemnations of current political leaders, the most infamous section is always found in the classifieds, where the Voice has its Adult advertisements. Each small 1-inch by 2-inch ad features a picture of a woman in sexy lingerie, a comically fake name, and a phone number. The idea is that you call the lady pictured and receive some kind of pleasure, whether over the phone or in person. There are about ten pages of these ads, and there’s a fetish for everyone, from BBW to S&M to shemales and trannies.

Is this prostitution? Not by the books. None of the women overtly advertise themselves as providing sex for money, as if the most they’ll do is a hardcore striptease or massage. Ultimately, what actually occurs on your outing with “Crystal” or “Bambi” depends on their mood, as far as the law is concerned. If, while you are paying for the pleasure of their company, they suddenly and coincidentally get the urge to fuck you, this supposedly has no relationship to the money you have already paid them. Of course it’s all a big lie, but that’s the way it stays legal. Once in a while, you find a girl who works solo, but most belong to an escort agency that gets a cut of the payment in exchange for protection and business.

The girl who came in to see me today is a Village Voice ad girl. We’ll call her Ruby, and if you open up this week’s Voice to the Adult Bodywork section, she’s easy to spot. In fact, if you look through the year's worth of Voice classifieds, you’ll see the same ad for the same girl over and over again. Ruby brought the latest issue with her, and though she looks a bit more worn in person, she still has all the beauty of the girl in the Voice ad. Asian, black hair going about halfway down her back, thin as a rail, and breasts the size of grapefruits (obviously implants, but I don’t think anyone’s complaining). She was wearing a very small red dress that achieved the wonderful trick of being cut too low at the top and too high at the bottom.

When Ruby first came into my office and sat down, my cat Sammy ran over and jumped onto her lap. Sammy tends to be very picky about who he lets pat him, and the fact that Ruby was allowed to immediately should be taken as a compliment.

Ruby works for a somewhat trashy escort service dealing in Asian women that operates out of Chinatown. She is concerned because last Friday, a friend and fellow co-worker we’ll call Natalie disappeared after going out on a job. Ruby pointed out her color picture in a Voice ad – with shoulder length black hair and falsely innocent eyes, Natalie was dressed in a sexy white bathing suit and bent over on all fours. Definitely a knock-out, even if some airbrushing was involved.

Last Friday, Natalie had been eating with Ruby when she got a call on her cell phone from the escort service. She had been specifically requested by a repeat client - a Japanese businessman who had become a regular with Natalie. In the escort business, regulars are much preferred over new customers for obvious reasons: you know that the guy isn’t a cop; you know more about how to pleasure him with each new meeting; and there’s a good chance that because he didn’t hurt or kill you the first time around, he won’t do so the second.

Natalie told Ruby that the businessman had rented an apartment in Chinatown specifically for his indiscretions. It was only lightly furnished, as the businessman otherwise had his real apartment in New York to go home to. She had described the guy once briefly as a fairly docile lover, easily pleased, and always a good tipper. Also, he was wealthy, meaning a few added perks once in a while. She was supposed to meet him at 10:00PM on Friday evening, and left dinner with Ruby to get there a little early.

Ruby hasn’t heard from Natalie since. Calling her cell phone leads automatically to the voice mail, and she hasn’t gone home to her apartment in the Lower East Side. To make matters worse, the escort service doesn’t seem to think anything is wrong. They received the call from Natalie at the beginning of the session saying that the businessman had paid, and started the clock. They called back after the allotted time was up, and Natalie again answered the phone sounding fine. She was on her way out the door then. After that, the escort service doesn’t feel she is their responsibility.

When clients like Ruby come along, I always think back to the movie “Goodfellas,” when the main character mentions in his narration that the mafia is the group you turn to when you can’t go to the cops. A great line, but not necessarily true. There are other options, and I’m one of them. Ruby can’t go to the cops right now without fear of bringing attention to a business that only gets noticed if it asks to get noticed. The risk is too high, and she thus came to me.

Ruby gave me the address of Natalie’s apartment, as well as the address of the apartment in Chinatown where Natalie met the businessman. She also gave me an added bonus: the businessman had given Natalie her own key to come and go as she pleased, and Natalie was smart enough to make copies, one of which she gave to Ruby for her own usage.

Ruby got a phone call at this point in our conversation. It was the escort service. Some guy named Jeff in Tribeca was at his apartment waiting for Ruby, and she had to go. She paid me my initial fee, and judging by the wad of bills in her wallet, I'm guessing she makes more than I do for far less work. She left, and I went back to another case I had been dealing with when she came in.

At the end of the day, as I was driving home, I stopped at Natalie’s apartment in the Lower East Side. Apparently she lives alone in a one bedroom, which is expensive in New York. I got into the building by buzzing a random apartment, then found her door. I started to work on the lock, but it was tricky, and neighbors kept popping out into the hall without warning. In the end, I decided to try to get in another day. Before leaving, I taped a thread from the doorframe to the door. If anyone opens the door, they’ll have to break the thread. Just curious to see if anyone’s coming and going.

Tomorrow, I’m going down to check out the apartment in Chinatown. Like film detective J.J. Gittes, Chinatown isn’t exactly the section of the city I want to be working in. However, Ruby has the cash, and if she tells me to go to Antarctica, I’ll be on the first plane so long as the money is right.

More soon.

Space Ring - Part 6 - Recovered!

2004-09-13T21:23:00.000-04:00

Did I mention my patience for this case was wearing thing? After my encounter at the club on Friday evening, I was more or less convinced that Cassandra wasn’t involved. She clearly had her own set of problems, but also seemed to be smart enough to handle them on her own. And if she couldn’t handle them, her wallet could. Sure, she could’ve stolen the ring for extra money, but as many of you have pointed out, it’s somewhat difficult to sell anything of great value in a hurry without raising a few eyebrows. In other words, there are easier ways to get emergency cash.

Greg’s alibi, however, was still up in the air. The only witness I have to his going out at 8:15PM on the night of the theft is his sister, who only can affirm that she heard him say he was leaving. She was not willing to commit to whether or not she actually saw him leave.

So Saturday night, I pulled up yet again to a familiar apartment on Park Ave., whose appearance makes me more and more depressed each time I see it, and waited. If Greg truly had a girlfriend, which again I doubted, they’d probably be going out tonight. It was late, but Greg answered my anonymous call to the apartment, thus indicating that he hadn’t gone out. As I sat in my car waiting for him to make an appearance, I began to imagine what a girlfriend to Greg The Lump might look like. Would she be lump-like in appearance as well? Or had he somehow landed a girl that was physically an alpha to his omega?

As it turns out, Greg’s girlfriend is neither a model or a lump. At around 11:30, Greg came out accompanied by a girl that is the very definition of the word average: average hair, average face, average body, average clothing. In other words, boring. However, it is important to note that average for Greg is not a small accomplishment, and I was surprised that such a girl would be seen with a guy whose neck is simply an extension of the width of his head.

Problem is, Greg and Girlfriend weren’t going anywhere. They talked outside for a while, then Greg leaned in for a kiss, and they said good-bye. Greg returned to the building, and Girlfriend started walking away. This meant that the evening was a total bust in terms of learning more about Greg. I sat in the car thinking about the situation, then decided that knowing more about the girlfriend was equivalent to knowing more about Greg. I still hadn’t called her after getting the number from Greg - hell, I didn’t even know her last name. I got out of my car and quickly followed after her.

She hadn’t gone too far – only to the crosstown bus stop around the corner. We both stood there waiting for the bus for about 20 minutes, then got on and road over to the West Side. Girlfriend got out, walked down to the 1/9 subway stop and boarded the train when it arrived, which goes north/south under Broadway. I got in the next car and kept an eye on her through the adjoining door.

The train arrived at 116th Street, and I got off. For any of you who know New York, 116th and Broadway is the address of Columbia University. Girlfriend is a Columbia University student, or at least knows a Columbia University student. She got out of the station and immediately took out her cell phone and made a call. Several minutes later, a girl came up to her, a girl I recognized:

Kim the dog walker.

Then the two of them took off to The West End, a local bar which was filled with more underage teenage girls looking to score than a National Lampoon movie. They bought a pitcher and started drinking in earnest.

I had to be careful - I had no disguise, and Kim knew full well who I was. I walked around the bar and ran into a group of rowdy frat guys who were downing shots and screaming their heads off. I bet one of them ten bucks he couldn’t get both Kim and Girlfriend’s names and numbers, and he took the bet with a roar of testosterone. I had my doubts, and was surprised to see him sidle up, successfully start a conversation, get invited to sit down, then walk away about five minutes later. He returned to the bar with Girlfriend’s full name, and I gave him his money, which he promptly spent on more alcohol.

Other than that, there wasn’t much more I could do. The Girlfriend reportedly lives in a dorm according to the frat boy, and stalking young college students across campus is generally a bad idea when it comes to security. I got a beer, then took off, depressed that the case wasn’t finished.

The answer I was looking for finally came on Sunday, as I was tooling around online (you can't be a private detective in this day and age without also being an internet virtuoso - someday, I'll write about how the internet has changed the field completely). I was searching The Girlfriend’s name across the internet, and decided to look her up on the Columbia website. Much to my surprise, a so-called people search reveals more than just name and e-mail. You also get a phone number, dorm address, mailing address, and major. It was this last section that stands out.

The Girlfriend is an Astronomy major.

Suddenly, everything fell into place. Kim comes over to the house sometime to walk the dog with her friend from Columbia. Friend meets Greg. Greg likes friend, and wants friend to become girlfriend. Greg learns that friend is an astronomy major. Greg decides on an easy way to impress friend: give her the ring and tell the exact same story Dad used on Mom. While it may have failed on mom, astronomy major would definitely go for it. In addition, dad gets the insurance money and mom gets rid of a ring she hates. Everyone benefits, save for dad’s ego. The alternative might involve something along the lines of the girlfriend stealing it herself, or having Kim steal it for her, but both seemed unlikely. Kim certainly wouldn't benefit from any type of scheme, and it is similarly unlikely that she could get away with it without Greg knowing something.

I waited outside The Girlfriend’s dorm the next day (waiting isn’t as suspicious as stalking), and around noon, she finally came out. I walked up to her trying to look as unthreatening as possible.

“We have to talk about a ring Greg gave you,” I said.

Her head jerked to the side, and I knew immediately that she was guilty to some degree. She started walking faster.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Leave me alone.”

“Listen,” I said, as she made an attempt to get ahead of me. “I’m not a cop, but I can bring cops if I need to. You’ve got a very, very expensive stolen item in your possession, which in turn will bring a hefty prison sentence if you don't turn it over.”

Somewhat of a lie, but the astro major bought it. She stopped walking and turned to face me.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. This guy, Greg, gave me a ring. I don’t know anything about it being stolen.”

Bingo.

“So your friend Kim hasn’t mentioned anything about being interrogated last week by the cops about a ring stolen from Greg’s house? Maybe she didn’t mention how a private detective also asked her a few questions about it last week? Most people don’t take it too lightly when they’re considered suspects in a robbery.”

She looked like she was about to cry.

“Listen,” I said in a softer voice. “Go upstairs and get the ring for me, and I’ll make sure no one finds out you had anything to do with it. Greg too.”

“I don’t give a shit about him,” she said, lip trembling. Poor baby.

Defeated, she went up to her room, then came down a few moments later. In her hand was the ring – just as damn ugly as it was in the photographs. She gave it to me.

“Greg told me this story about how the ring has a meteorite, and…”

“And how the meteorite had traveled billions of lightyears across the galaxy only to wind up on your finger?” I finished. She stared at me in surprise. “I’ve heard the story before. It was trite the first time, and it's trite now. Thanks for this.”

I started to walk away.

“Wait,” she called after. “You’re sure I won’t get in trouble like you said?”

I laughed. “Go study, kid. You’ll be fine.”

Ivy League pansies. They run the world.

-----

The look on Southern’s face as I held out the ring to him was utterly priceless. Our conversation was short and sweet.

“How did you…who took…how is…”

“Your son took it,” I told him. “He gave it to his girlfriend, who studies astronomy. Perfect gift for a girl like her.”

“Greg? He wouldn’t – ”

“Mr. Southern, it’s not my place to prove anything to anyone. Bottom line is that the ring is back, and that solves any issues as far as insurance is concerned. In the future, we’d appreciate it if you’d discipline your children a bit better so as to save all of us trouble. Also, your daughter’s into some pretty heavy drugs these days.”

His face turned red.

“My daughter would NEVER - ”

“Again, Mr. Southern, it’s not my job to prove anything to you. I merely mention it so you can’t say you were totally unaware when she O.D.’s down in the Bowery in the next week or so.”

“Get out.”

I winked at him and left.

-----

As I said, bottom line is that the ring has been returned, no insurance fraud has been committed, and Toby’s company gets to keep their money. The one aspect I’m not completely clear on is when Greg stole the ring, though I suspect he didn’t leave the apartment the night of the theft until after 10PM, despite telling his sister otherwise (and perhaps slamming the door for effect). Hopefully both he and Cassandra will get some serious grounding from mom and dad. Won’t make up for the small scar on my forehead from the beating the other night, but it eases the pain. So will tipping off the cops about Brody and his limo. But the best pain reliever is money, and right now, I’ve got a wallet fat with it thanks to the generosity of Toby’s insurance agency.

Still, I work a job with no standard hours in a city that never sleeps, meaning there’s always more work coming in the door. Someone stopped by today with something potentially more interesting than the run-of-the-mill deadbeat dad stuff. More info as soon as I know a little more myself.

Finally, do any of you live in New York City?

Space Ring - Part 5 - Black-Eyed Dick

2004-09-11T21:45:00.000-04:00

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

2004-09-09T19:44:00.000-04:00

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

2004-09-08T16:02:00.000-04:00

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

2004-09-06T11:54:00.000-04:00

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.

Space Ring - Part 1 - Stolen!

2004-09-02T12:45:00.000-04:00

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

2004-09-02T01:03:00.000-04:00

[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

2004-09-02T01:02:00.000-04:00

[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?

2004-09-02T01:01:00.000-04:00

[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.

?

2004-09-01T17:37:00.000-04:00

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

2004-09-01T17:32:00.000-04:00

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

2004-09-01T16:00:00.000-04:00

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.