by Ben Rehder
Problem was, at the time, she was seeing someone—an idiot and abuser named Garlen Gieger. She didn’t see it at first. Didn’t realize the kind of man he was. Or maybe she just didn’t want to admit it to herself. I don’t mean that to sound patronizing, and I freely acknowledge that Mia has better sense and judgment than I do in almost every possible way. Garlen was the rare exception.
But as you would expect from that type of person, Garlen eventually sabotaged the relationship himself—a couple of times—and then he decided it was all my fault, and that he should confront me, and a car chase ensued. Didn’t go well for him. Or his BMW.
Once Garlen was in the rearview mirror, so to speak, I finally realized I would regret it forever if I didn’t tell Mia how I felt. So I did, knowing it might change things forever—for the worse. But my wildest dreams came true. Not only did we start seeing each other, it wasn’t long thereafter that Mia caught me by complete surprise and proposed to me. I said yes, of course. In a heartbeat. With no reservations whatsoever. Now two months had passed and our plans were beginning to take shape. We’d chosen a date in November of next year. One year from now.
But there was a problem. A rather large one.
There was an important piece of information I’d failed to share with her as our relationship progressed, and now it had reached the point that I needed to tell her as soon as possible. Right now, in fact. Before the planning went any further, because it was the kind of thing that might cause her to call it off. Seriously. It might not, but it very well might. And it had to do with my reason for visiting the doctor today. And there would likely be another visit after this one, with a different doctor, because this condition would require a specialist.
3
The following morning, I was waiting again, this time in the lobby of JMJ Construction. It was 9:38 and Joe Jankowski had agreed to meet with me at nine o’clock.
The receptionist—a tall, pretty brunette who appeared to be in her late twenties—hadn’t said anything about the delay or given any indication as to whether Jankowski was even in the office. A nameplate on her desk told me her name was Brandi Sloan. Brandi had pointed out the coffee maker when I’d first arrived and hadn’t paid me much attention since.
That was fine. I could use the time productively to do more background research.
Not long after my doctor’s appointment yesterday, I’d read the file Jonathan sent and remembered why Jankowski’s name was familiar. He was the forty-two-year-old CEO of JMJ Construction, which specialized in mid-sized commercial and retail projects—chiefly strip centers, if I were to guess based on the projects they featured on their website.
I’d also done some googling and learned that some time back—maybe a year or so—JMJ had experienced a case of fraud involving one of his construction workers. The employee—I’ll call him Brent Donovan, because that was his name—sustained some injuries when he was pinned between a brick wall and the dumping chute of a concrete truck, but it was later learned that he was thoroughly intoxicated at the time. Then another member of the work crew revealed that Brent had been planning this little scheme for some time, and he’d needed to get drunk to have the guts to follow through. He intentionally placed himself in harm’s way and things didn’t work out as he had planned. He spent a week in the hospital recovering from broken ribs and a lacerated liver.
He’d picked the wrong company to rip off. He was fired immediately, of course, and JMJ refused to pay any of the medical bills. They also pursued criminal charges. “This punk needs to pay for what he done,” Jankowski said in an interview. “Fraud like this cripples companies like mine and harms all of our honest, hardworking people. I want this loser to serve some serious time.”
That kind of talk was typical Joe Jankowski, from what I’d learned. The articles I’d read about him in the business section of the newspaper described him as “brusque” or “no-nonsense” or “straight to the point.” I figured all of those descriptors were subtle ways of saying he was an asshole.
The criminal case had been working its way through the legal system when Brent Donovan disappeared, apparently deciding to run for the hills.
“Good riddance to that coward,” Jankowski said at the time. “You ask me, that’s as good as a confession. He ran so he wouldn’t become someone’s girlfriend in prison.”
Jankowski’s bio on the JMJ website was a little more diplomatic. Apparently Joe had pulled himself up by his bootstraps, starting as a general unskilled laborer fresh out of high school, learning at the elbows of plumbers, electricians, and heavy equipment operators, as well as designers, architects, and project managers. Being a fellow with lots of pluck and initiative, he opened his first business at the age of 23 and it had become an immediate success. But he’d never forgotten his blue-collar roots, and that point was made over and over on the website. Most of the photos of Joe showed him in work clothes, wearing a hardhat. He got the job done. Didn’t put up with any slackers. Real he-man stuff.
“This is a nice space,” I said to Brandi, the receptionist. “Did y’all build it?”
The place was modern. Sleek. Lots of sharp angles, high ceilings, and recessed lighting. Brandi stopped what she was doing on her computer and said, “Honestly, I don’t know. Nobody has ever asked that. I assume so.”
“How long have you worked here?”
“Almost a year.”
“You like it?”
“I guess so, yeah.”
“A ringing endorsement if I’ve ever heard one.”
“No, I do. It’s fun. Everybody here is fun.”
I had seen several people coming and going through the lobby, disappearing down various hallways. None of them had appeared to be fun. Rushed and focused, maybe. Not fun.
“How about Mr. Jankowski?” I asked. “Is he fun?”
“He’s nice,” Brandi said, nodding. “I like him.”
I couldn’t tell if she was sincere.
“You know what else he builds very well? Suspense.” She looked puzzled, so I smiled and said, “Any idea when he might be able to meet with me?”
“Oh!” she said, and laughed. She looked down at a piece of equipment on her desk. “He’s still on the phone right now, but as soon as he’s done, I’ll take you back. I’m so sorry for the wait. That was funny, though. Very clever.”
I started to point out that I’d had forty minutes to come up with that line, but referring to the long wait a second time would’ve made me sound like a real jerk, and I am just an artificial jerk, and only on select occasions. Instead, I said, “Thanks. Hey, this is great coffee. Is it Norwegian?”
“I’m not sure, but I’m glad you like it.”
“Those Norwegians have a way with coffee,” I said.
“You’re being silly,” she said. “Norway doesn’t have the right climate for coffee.”
“That’s true. In my defense, I get Norway and Colombia mixed up.”
“Uh-huh. Oh, good. He just got off the phone.”
“I’m really not sure how I can help, and I’m afraid I don’t have a lot of time,” Jankowski said, and he waved half-heartedly toward the two chairs in front of his desk. I sat in the one on the right. He was wearing black slacks, loafers, and an expensive golf shirt. No hardhat anywhere. No dirt under his nails. Just a wedding band on his left hand.
“I’ll try to keep it short,” I said. “I guess Jonathan mentioned that I’m looking into the situation with Lennox Armbruster.”
“I thought you were trying to keep it short,” Jankowski said, and he wasn’t kidding. “Yes, he mentioned that. Let’s try not to cover old ground.”
“Okay, then please tell me about the night you struck Armbruster.”
“Didn’t you read the police reports?”
“I did, but it might be helpful if you would share your account with me.
”
“How would it be helpful?”
“I said it might be helpful. Or it might not. But I think you are misunderstanding the situation here. My job is to find out whether Armbruster is committing fraud—if he jumped in front of your car on purpose.”
“Yeah, I get that. So what?”
“You’re a fun guy,” I said.
“Pardon?”
“I heard rumors that you’re a fun guy. I’m glad to see they’re true.”
He frowned, as if I’d just passed gas. “What are you talking about?”
“The fact that I’m trying to help you, which means I’m hoping we can work together.”
“We are working together,” he said. “That’s why we’re sitting in the same room, talking. But I’m starting to wonder if it’s worth the time. If you got some questions, ask. Otherwise—”
“Did you know Lennox Armbruster before the night of the accident?”
“No. How would I?”
“No chance you might’ve run across him somewhere and he might’ve held a grudge?”
“About what?”
“I have no idea. That’s why I’m asking. I’m just trying to weigh the possibility that he picked you specifically.”
“The cops are doing that.”
Was this guy just genuinely stubborn and argumentative, or was there something else at play?
“I understand, but there’s no reason I can’t look into it, too,” I said.
“I thought you were, like, a video cameraman. That sort of thing.”
“I’m a legal videographer.”
“You follow people around with a camera, right?” Jankowski said.
“That’s part of what I do,” I said.
Legal videographers record all sorts of things on video—depositions, wills, scenes of accidents. But Mia and I specialize in insurance fraud. It’s all we do. It’s our specialty—what we’re known for. Basically, we spend a lot of time doing exactly what Jankowski suggested—following a subject around and hoping to gather evidence proving he or she is faking an injury.
Other times, our activities veer into territory that requires a private investigator’s license, but my criminal record prevents me from being licensed, just as it prevents me from obtaining a concealed-carry permit. Mia, on the other hand, already has a carry permit, and we’ve considered the possibility of getting her a PI license. For now, sometimes we operate in a gray area. Nobody has taken issue with that yet, or questioned our tactics.
“So why are you acting like a cop?” Jankowski asked.
I paused for a moment in an effort to keep my cool, running the risk that he might call an end to the meeting just because I wasn’t using every second wisely.
Then I said, “I’m trying to help my client—your insurance company—keep you from being screwed sideways by this guy, Lennox Armbruster. I’d love it if you’d help me, but if you don’t want to, I’ll still do my best. Only problem is, I’ll be operating at a disadvantage—kind of like a backhoe operator who doesn’t know where all the underground pipes are buried. I need all the information I can get.”
It was a clumsy analogy, but it seemed to have gotten through, or to at least make Jankowski understand he’d be better off cooperating, instead of fighting with me.
He sighed deeply because I was putting him out so much, then said, “There’s not a lot to it. Driving down Exposition and suddenly the guy was right in front of me. I hit him and he sort of bounced back off the front of the car and landed near the curb. If it had knocked him straight ahead, I probably would’ve run right over him. He’d be dead now.”
“How fast were you going?”
“About thirty-five, forty. No more than that.”
“The police report said you stopped about seventy yards down the road.”
“Yeah.”
“Why did it take so long?”
“Ever hit anybody with your car? It freaks you out and you’re thinking about all these other things—like calling 911 and getting him to the hospital—instead of hitting the brakes. And wanting to make sure the witness hung around. There was a woman that saw some of it. I just barely remember passing her right after I hit the guy. It was dark out there, but I saw her standing in the parking lot next to that grocery store.”
“Randall’s.”
“Yeah.”
“So it looked natural to you—the way he appeared in front of your car? It wasn’t like he was trying to get hit?”
“I got no idea about that,” Jankowski said. “How could I tell? My understanding is most of those cheating scumbags are pretty smooth. They make it look like an accident. We had an incident on a job site where a guy got pinned by the chute of a concrete truck. Luckily he’d blabbed his big mouth about what he was gonna do.”
He was referring to Brent Donovan.
“The report says you tried to comfort Armbruster as EMS loaded him into the ambulance. Did he say anything relevant?”
“I don’t know about comforting, but yeah, I felt bad for the guy, and I wanted to see how bad he was hurt, even though it was entirely his fault. I get over there and he’s screaming and moaning, and then he asks how fast I was going—like trying to accuse me, like I was going too fast, instead of him stepping right in front of my car like a jerkoff.”
I asked questions for ten more minutes, and Jankowski’s antagonistic demeanor settled down somewhat, but nothing he told me was particularly helpful, nor could I see any inconsistencies with the account he’d given in the police report. I thanked him for his time and he grudgingly agreed that I could call him if I had more questions later.
On the way out, I nodded to the receptionist and said, “That’s the most fun I’ve ever had.”
Her reluctant smile told me she wasn’t convinced.
4
Now the grunt work began.
Time to locate Lennox Armbruster and put him under surveillance. According to Jonathan’s report, Armbruster’s hip and back injuries resulted in a limp and some immobility that should be obvious to the eye.
I had Armbruster’s address, so I headed that way in my beige Dodge Caravan. If there was a vehicle more suited to my line of work, I hadn’t found it. Nobody noticed a nondescript vehicle like mine, in traffic or parked. The windows were tinted good and dark, so I could hang out in the van for hours at a time, cameras ready to record.
The interior had plenty of storage, including a secret compartment under the rear bench where I stashed various valuable equipment, including a nine-millimeter Glock. I’d dealt with enough criminals and scumbags to know it made sense to have protection close at hand, in a place where they wouldn’t find it and use it against me.
I went south on MoPac, east on William Cannon Drive, then a short distance on Brodie Lane to an apartment complex. I love apartment complexes. Compared to a residential neighborhood, it’s much easier to park and hang around an apartment complex as long as necessary, without anyone getting suspicious or curious.
The complex consisted of at least a dozen rectangular three-story buildings, but I knew Armbruster’s building number and I found the unit easily enough. Got lucky and immediately spotted his faded Honda Prelude. Maroon, with one rear window replaced by cardboard and duct tape. I could tell from the tape that it had been in place for a good while. Keep it classy, Lennox.
I drove past his vehicle and found a spot about eighty feet away, but as I began to pull in, I realized that it was an assigned space. Curses. So I backed out and continued around the lot, until I saw a short row of spots marked as visitor parking. One space was available, so I grabbed it. It wasn’t in an ideal location for watching the Honda Prelude, but it would have to do. I also noticed there was a surveillance camera mounted on a nearby pole, aimed directly at the visitor spots. Smart. Get a video record of any non-resid
ents coming and going. Didn’t bother me that I was on camera. I wasn’t doing anything illegal.
It was a reasonably balmy day for November, so I lowered the windows a few inches and got myself situated for a long wait. I started by moving to the bench seat directly behind the front seats. I could get comfortable here. Stretch out. Have some snacks if I got hungry. Soft drinks in a cooler. Even a plastic milk jug if I needed to take a leak. Hey, it ain’t pretty, but it works.
See, this is often how a case starts. Lots of enthusiasm. Plenty of patience. I could listen to some tunes, while keeping my eyes peeled for Armbruster, while also reviewing the file a second time on my laptop. Which is what I did.
According to Armbruster’s statement to the police, he was attempting to cross Exposition at about nine in the evening when he heard a car accelerating rapidly and realized he was about to get creamed. He tried to jump out of the way, and he almost succeeded, but not quite. He took the hit in the pelvis and legs and was thrown toward the curb on the east side of the road. He said the driver must not have seen him, because it almost seemed as if the person was trying to hit him.
The police report confirmed that Jankowski had never hit the brakes. He said headlights from oncoming traffic got in his eyes and he didn’t see Armbruster until it was too late. And, yes, he had probably accelerated, because he had just turned the corner at Lake Austin Boulevard, heading north on Exposition, so it was only natural to hit the gas and get up to speed.
It all made sense, except something was missing. Armbruster’s destination.
I scanned the report again and still didn’t find it. Where was Armbruster going when he was trying to cross the road? On the east side of Exposition was a Randall’s supermarket, and then a Maudie’s Tex-Mex restaurant and a liquor store and a Goodwill store.
