by Jeff Vrolyks
Chapter Forty One
Being that Norrah has a fat bank account and loves me tremendously, I coaxed her into footing a bill for a private investigator. She thought it was a waste of money. If a department of detectives couldn’t learn anything about Paul, how would a single P.I.? I said I knew a guy who knows a great one. He isn’t cheap but results rarely come cheap. And my hired P.I. wouldn’t be investigating the same things that the detectives had. I had information that the S.B.P.D didn’t, like the name of the town where Paul’s from, and the city he lived in after Sedona: Fresno. Detectives didn’t put much effort into Paul anyway, being that he was never considered to be a suspect. Not when Norrah’s statement had put Paul upstairs when the people disappeared. They found records of his insurance, registration, and truck, and stopped there. Norrah’s dollars would take it from there.
The P.I. was named Doug Hostetler, and the dude was booked for at least the next couple weeks, possibly longer depending on unforeseen circumstances. So busy he was that it confirmed what my pal Williamson had said about this being a great private investigator. Shitty P.I.’s tend to have wide open schedules. This guy was worth the wait, so I asked his secretary Irene to have Doug call me when he could take my case.
It was two weeks later to the hour when I got a call from his secretary apologizing for Mr. Hostetler, saying his current case put him unexpectedly in Florida for a week. Irene said she’d call me in a week with an update. I thanked her.
A week later (also to the hour—they ran a well-oiled machine at Hostetler Investigations) Irene called me with more bad news, only the bad news was limited to its relevance with my needs: Doug Hostetler was now in Hawaii. How horrible that job must be. Getting paid to tan and surf. She assured me that it was the same case, that their firm wasn’t taking cases ahead of mine, that sometimes things happen out of their control. I said call me when the guy’s free. She said she’d call me in a week.
It was six days later, July 18th, when I got a call not from Irene but from the man himself. I had just finished writing up some paperwork on a fender-bender when I got the call. I sat in my car on the shoulder of the road as we spoke.
“Thanks for your patience,” Doug said.
“I’d have went with another dude by now if it wasn’t for your stellar reputation.”
He chuckled. “Thanks. We take pride in our work here.”
“Who’s included in we? Are there other investigators in your firm?”
“No, but I have an assistant, Roger, and the lady whom you spoke with, Irene.”
“Should we discuss my matter over the phone or in person?”
“In person, if you don’t mind.”
“That would be fine. When and where?”
“Los Angeles. I’ll text you the address. This evening work for you?”
“Sure. I haven’t had the pleasure of driving in L.A. traffic for far too long.”
We arranged to meet at eight P.M. (my work hours precluded an early meeting). He requested I bring any documents, photos, anything in my possession that would aid him in his investigation.
Norrah wanted to come with me, and I wanted to drive in the carpool lane so it worked out for all parties.
I had left fifteen minutes early and was still twenty minutes late due to the traffic (carpool lane and all). The office shared a building with a tax attorney. It was mostly dark inside, the lights dim, a casual atmosphere. Doug was the only one there. Irene’s desk was empty, and Doug’s assistant’s office was vacant. We took a seat before Doug’s desk. He offered us refreshment.
“Do you charge by the hour or day?” Norrah asked.
“Eleven hundred a day plus expenses.”
“Then I’ll take the most expensive thing you have to drink,” Norrah said humorlessly.
Doug laughed, as did I.
“I have Remy Martin, Gray Goose, water and coffee.”
We’d both take coffee, cream and no sugar for me. As he poured our drinks he spoke of his credentials, his experience (nineteen years), and told me a funny story of how he met Williamson, my buddy who referred this P.I.
He handed over the mugs and sat in his plush chair, leaned back comfortably and asked what it was he could do for us.
I leered at Norrah and asked if she wanted to shock Doug or should I. Norrah said by all means, go for it.
Doug’s curiosity piqued.
“She’s Norrah Petersen,” I said. “You might not recognize my name: Jay Davis.”
“Well, well, well,” he said with a pleased expression. “It’s a pleasure to meet you both. I blame the low lighting for not having recognized you. Yes, I know your name as well, Jay. In fact, when Irene told me about a potential case and stated your name is Jay, Davis was the first thing that popped in my head. I store a lot of information, one of the things that makes me good at what I do. Let’s see…” he said thoughtfully, “Paul Klein was the boy living downstairs, Edward Berg was one of the twenty-three—sad about the news of his death—Taylor I-forget-his-last-name, Victoria Salas, uh… Cody, Aaron, Brittney Hayes…”
“You don’t need to try to impress us,” I said, “you’ve already done that. Yes, good memory. Unsurprisingly you remember the hot chicks names better than the dudes. Funny thing, you already know of the person you’re to be investigating.”
“Do I?” Doug said.
“You just said his name.”
He reflected. “Edward? You want me to investigate his death?”
“No. Paul.”
“Paul Klein. Interesting,” Doug said and stroked his chin, “very interesting. I remember them saying on the news that they knew very little about him. But he was never a suspect, was he?”
“Never.”
“Excellent. I love a challenge. Where the boys-in-blue failed, I will not. What are you seeking?”
“As much shit as you can learn about him,” I said.
“Anything in particular?”
“Yes. His real name. I don’t think it’s Paul Klein. Anything else you can find will be great. The more the better.”
“Then I should tell you: when I take a case there is a five-day minimum, so fifty-five-hundred plus expenses.”
“Are you implying that you won’t need a full week?”
“Yes, that is what I’m saying.”
“I hope you’re right. Look into his past, because I think he ran away at thirteen. Learn his parents’ names, current address, and all that. See if he’s ever been admitted to a nut-house. Once you learn his real name, see if there have ever been charges brought up against him. Maybe that’s why he changed his identity.”
“Do you have any documents that might help me?”
“Only one,” I said and placed on the desk the little yellow notepad. “This was written by Edward Berg, given to me the day before he was murdered. Edward was the only friend of Paul’s that I know of. Lot’s of information in here.”
“I got to admit, I couldn’t have dreamed of a better case than this,” Doug said. “When you said your names, I figured you wanted me to investigate the cause of the missing twenty-three. I’d have refused the case because there had to have been thousands of man-hours spent on solving that already. I’m good but nobody is that good.”
“Yeah, we don’t need that mystery solved,” I said.
“We figured that out ourselves,” Norrah said mindlessly.
“I beg your pardon?” Doug said.
“Never mind,” she said.
“Oh. That’s right. In an interview you said you heard them get killed, and thought God brought them back to life.” At least he didn’t sound like he thought she was crazy.
“Yes, that’s what happened,” she said.
“It’s not as stupid a theory as it originally sounds,” Doug said. “It does sound stupid at first, admittedly. But if you discount the existence of God, what’s left? An unsolvable puzzle, that’s what. All those man-hours spent investigating, the best minds our country has to offer working on solving that enigma, and
not so much as a single theory has been made, other than yours. It’s because investigations are based on science, and the supernatural has no scientific foundation. What is science?—it’s the study of nature and naturally occurring things, is it not? How could one use scientific methods to prove or disprove the existence of God, who is a supernatural being? It’s a contradiction of terms. Anyway, how freaked out must you two have been when you heard the twenty-three downstairs after a week, like nothing had happened.”
“Geez,” Norrah said and rolled her eyes. “Only time in my life I fainted.”
“I can imagine,” Doug said and chuckled. He looked at me and said, “Being that Edward Berg gave you this notepad, I take it he was a friend of yours?”
“Yes,” Norrah and I said in unison.
He nodded. “For what it’s worth, I don’t believe he was guilty of killing Susan Feller and Lindsey Demitri.”
“He didn’t kill them,” Norrah said.
“Anybody volunteering to take a polygraph from both cops and the prosecution, and willing to take the stand during a trial, isn’t guilty of the crime he’s charged with, in my humble opinion. And he didn’t look like he would kill a mosquito, let alone a couple girls.”
“So when can you begin?” Norrah asked him.
Doug sobered a little, coughed into his hand, apologized for bringing up Edward’s death.
“It’s okay,” I said. “It’s just kind of a touchy subject.”
“Understandably. I’ll begin tomorrow. I’ll need a check for fifty-five-hundred in advance. I don’t think there will be much in the line of expenses.”
“You might fly out to Sedona,” I said. “That’s where he’s from, I think.”
“Why do you charge so much?” Norrah asked.
“I have a staff. And this office isn’t free. And quality doesn’t come cheap. And lastly, it’s reasonably priced: check around. We’ll keep in touch.”
