The House at Hull

by Karl Tutt

  Chapter 1

  There is one person who genuinely likes me despite what she kindly calls “my eccentricities”. Her name is Eleisha Mountcastle. She’s a bit of a Goth. Coal black hair to the waist, which, by the way, is tiny. Fortunately, her boobs and her ass are ample compensation for whatever else is missing and believe me . . . there isn’t much. Thick black eyeliner and gray eye shadow framing subtle jade eyes. A long aquiline nose with just a little crook in it, and flaming red lipstick that looks like it was applied with paint brush. Her crimson nails could have come off a grizzly bear. You almost expected them to drip blood. It’s sort of Morticia Addams with a hint of Raquel Welch lurking beneath the surface. Actually, I like the combo quite a lot.

  Eleisha reads Tarot and palms. She’s pretty damned good at it. Her business card reads “Sha. A Gateway to Your Destiny”. I know it’s kind of camp and creepy at the same time, but it works. She has a steady clientele -- mostly well-heeled -- that keep the bucks coming. You ought to see her in her gypsy get-up. Scary and sexy in the same breath. She’s got her own place down the block, but she has appropriated about half of my small hanging closet, and her girly stuff takes up most of the space around my bathroom sink. Small price to pay. The lady is dark dynamite.

  Suddenly, my ears were assaulted by the thudding of Chopin’s Funeral March on my cell. Yeah, a cliché for a psychic, but it seemed like a good idea at the time.

  “Hello, Spook.”

  “I wish you’d stop calling me that. Couldn’t it be Elmo, or even Mo for short . . . just one time.”

  “My, my. A bit touchy this morning, are we, Mr. Dombroski?”

  “Okay, enough of the sarcasm. What’s up?”

  “This one is complicated. Too much to explain on the phone. Can you come by my office this afternoon?”

  “Only if there’s money involved.”

  “Trust me. There is . . . and lots of it. You solve this one, you’ll need a laundry bag to carry it all.”

  “Ah . . . my esteemed public servant. You have my undivided attention.”

  Billy and I agreed to meet at the precinct at two o’clock.

  “And bring the other half of the Legion of Doom,” he said before hanging up.

  He meant Eleisha. I was never sure whether he actually wanted her input or just liked to stare at her boobs. Didn’t make much difference. She’d been a huge help on previous investigations and even saved me from a bullet in the back on one notable occasion. And did I mention that my fellow legionnaire was also the best hacker east of the Rockies? She could massage a computer until it rolled on its back and begged for her to scratch its belly.

  We were at the precinct at the appointed time. A couple of the boys in blue waited for me to pass, then spoke with voices just loud enough to be heard.

  “Well if it isn’t the Spook and his Mistress of the Dark. Woooooooooo . . . I don’t know about you, but I’m scared shitless.”

  We pretended not to hear. Simple ignorance . . . we deal with it all the time. A hazard of the trade. Besides, they’d be knocking down my door if they thought I had a tip that would crack a tough case.

  Billy offered a hand and sure enough, he did stare at Eleisha’s boobs. Also a hazard of the trade. We sat in unforgiving wooden chairs across from a desk that even Goodwill wouldn’t take. A few framed photos and mementos hung crookedly on the walls. Billy with the Police Commissioner. Billy receiving a citation from the Mayor. Billy with Roger Clemens. A diploma from Boston College. Stuff like that. I was sure everything had been dusted somewhere in the late nineties.

  Billy was mid-fifties, still solid, probably 6’2”, 195 lbs. or so, to my svelte 165. And I must say quite the dapper Irishman. He wore a nicely fitting gray pinstripe suit with a tasteful yellow silk tie. He still had plenty of hair – probably colored, but done quite artfully -- swept back from his temples like golden waves --- almost a Donald Trump look, but on him it looked natural. Startling blue eyes with long feminine lashes, but no facial scruff. Skin as pink and smooth as a baby’s bottom. The black wing-tips shined to a finish almost like patent leather. He stared at Eleisha’s boobs again and began. Fortunately he didn’t drool.

  “The Hull Police Department called us in. Vics were from Boston. Nice Brownstone up on Beacon Hill. Very pricey, custom furniture, and original oils on the walls. There was even a legitimate Hockney in the family room, and I think an original Lichtenstein. BMW-700 series for the master of the house, a newish Porche 911 for the lady. I think the son has an antique Mercedes convertible. Tough way to live. He was --- and I’m saying was, but no bodies, yet –- Oscar Bridgeton --- wife Melanie, two kids. Older son Todd, 24, in grad school at MIT, and daughter, Cherie, 14, still at home, a student at the Winsor School --- all girls, very expensive. Well, I said there were no bodies and there aren’t, but Mom, Dad, and Cherie haven’t been seen in a week. We’ve searched the Brownstone, checked out their beach cottage in Hull. The BMW is there, but they aren’t. No signs of foul play --- no signs of nothing.”

  “So what about the son? He hasn’t heard anything?”

  “If he had, you wouldn’t be here. The kid is frantic. Has access to his own trust fund. He’s offered a million dollars for any information leading to the resolution of their disappearance.”

  “Is he legit?”

  “The kid is devastated --- apparently very close to Dad and Mom, and adored little Cherie. We’ve interviewed him twice, even talked to his girlfriend, Shasta, a Shipley, by the way.”

  “As in Shipley Fine Foods?” Eleisha asked.

  “The very same. They’re distraught. I’d bet my last nickel that the son’s real, but I’m a cop. I get paid for never being sure until all the cards all on the table.”

  One thing was sure. Billy had seen too much. It had made him skeptical, cynical, and hard, but unlike some of the rest of them, he was still a human being. He dove into his cases like each victim was a member of his own family. I liked that and I liked him, despite the Spook thing and his obvious appreciation for boobs.

  “So who was, or is, Oscar?”

  “You’ve seen him . . . society pages, philanthropy to the max. The lovely trophy bride on his arm, smiling and waving like the Queen. He is, or maybe was, a hedge fund manager --- apparently had ties to Buffett, and I don’t mean Jimmy. Spent a lot of time flying back and forth to Omaha and New York in his Lear Jet. We can’t find any serious dirt. Hell, we can’t find anything. So I called the Spook.”

  “You are too kind, Billy. It’s so nice to feel needed.”

  He shook his head and feigned a gagging sound. Then he grinned.

  “Okay. Can you get me and Eleisha into the Brownstone or the house at Hull?”

  “Does a wild bear shit in the woods? You’re talking to Billy Frye, the king of unlawful entry and master of mysterious disappearances.”

  I knew about the bear thing, and he did.