She sat up straighter and stuck out her chest. “Then ask him. Why are you asking me these things?”
Ed pointed to my report on the table, “Max found the bank accounts, credit card and investment information you wanted.” Kathleen softened a bit and looked down at the papers while she lit a cigarette. Then she reached out and thumbed through the pages. “Ray was a lot of fun and he always provided for me, but he never let me in on his business. Thanks, I really needed this.”
Ed put his hand on hers. “There’s a small… complication.”
She sat back and looked at him. Ed looked at me, paused and then continued. “After Max obtained the information, someone broke into his home and stole Ray’s computer.”
Kathleen looked genuinely surprised. “What? Why would someone do that?” She looked at me as if she expected an answer. I didn’t have one so I said nothing. Saying nothing when I knew nothing was a recently acquired skill I wished I had learned earlier in life. It seemed to work now because Kathleen turned back to Ed and said, “None of this makes any sense.”
Ed asked, “What do you mean?”
She shook her head from side to side. “First, the police tell me that Ray had a heart attack. Now, you tell me that someone stole Ray’s computer. Ray was a fit as a fiddle and he was a simple sales rep.”
I didn’t realize it but I must have reacted when she said Ray was fit because she glared at me and said, “People just assume that if you’re big, you’re not healthy. Ray had good numbers. Low cholesterol, low blood pressure and good sugar levels. The guy just had good genes. His Daddy was over 100 when he died. I don’t believe Ray had a heart attack. No, not Ray.”
I asked her, “So you think he had an accident and that’s it?”
“I don’t know. I wasn’t there, but if he did, I can collect money from his accident policy too.”
I asked, “Did you tell this to the police?”
“You kidding? The first sign of any foul play and the cops come after the spouse.” She looked me up and down. “Don’t you watch TV?”
CHAPTER EIGHT
We sat in Ed’s car, headed to my place when he asked me, “OK. Who’s this guy, Horton and what do you think he knows?”
I didn’t have all of the information I needed yet, so I limited my response, “Like I said, he did business with Ray. Sometimes people discuss investments with business associates. I thought he might know something more about Ray’s finances.”
Ed appeared satisfied with my explanation. If he wasn’t, he didn’t let on but he still seemed upset from our visit with Kathleen. I was going to see Ed again tomorrow morning. I decided I’d give him the bad news about Ray’s criminal activities then.
He dropped me off and as I entered my house, my stomach growled. I looked down at the culprit and realized I hadn’t eaten since lunch. Now was about the time Mariel and I would plan dinner. Maybe “plan” isn’t the correct word. Maybe I should say, “negotiate”. Due to my size, I have what I like to think is a healthy appetite. On the other hand, Mariel is five feet two inches and slim with a limited capacity for food. One reason Mariel stays so slim is she hardly eats. The other reason is she is obsessed about exercising.
When we lived on Long Island, I once showed her a Newsday cartoon of two ragged, emaciated men stranded in the desert. One was crawling on his hands and knees. The other was doing sit ups. The caption read “I just don’t feel right when I don’t exercise.” She didn’t get it. When we went out to eat, I’d have dinner while she’d have a dinner salad. I don’t like to think I wolf down my food, but while I’d be sitting there groaning, wishing I could loosen my pants in public, she’d still be working on her dinner salad, dressing on the side.
Due to her minor and my major interest in food, I did the cooking and she did the cleaning. I cared a lot more than her about what I ate and how it was prepared. She cared a lot more than I did about what kind of mess I left after I made our meals. It was a match made in heaven.
All of this thinking about food made me hungry and made me miss her. I decided to call her at her sister’s. Her sister and their mother moved down from New York a few months after Mariel and I did. They each owned units in a condo about a mile south of us. It’s close enough we can see each other when we want to and it’s far enough we don’t have to when we don’t.
Not wanting to get the whole family involved, I decided against calling my sister-in-law’s home phone. Instead, I would dial Mariel’s cell. I knew I was kidding myself about them not being involved. I was sure the three of them and possibly my niece, if she were home from college, had already rehashed things a couple of times. I tried to admit to myself my real reason for calling the cell instead of the house phone was that I didn’t want to talk to any of them except Mariel. I felt bad enough about her being upset. I’d feel worse if I had to talk with one of the other people who loved her.
“Hello?” she asked.
“Hi, it’s me,” I said. I knew she knew it was me. Mariel never answered her cell without first looking at the caller ID to see who was calling. This was my pitiful way of buying some time so I could assess her mood before we spoke.
“I know.”
On the Mariel Scale, a count of three words in two exchanges usually means she’s still upset but willing to talk. So far, so good. Maybe I could build on that if I were careful. “I was thinking this is when we usually talk about dinner.”
“I’m going to have dinner here. We’re going to have some cottage cheese and fruit.”
Cottage cheese and fruit for dinner sounded revolting, but the fact she told me what she was having was a good sign. If she were mad at me, she’d have only told me she was eating there. On the other hand, maybe she told me the menu to revolt me.
“OK. I just wanted to check in and see how you’re doing. I’ll make something here.”
“I’m doing fine, but how are you? Are you still at the house? I’m worried about you.”
“Yeah, I’m still here.” My doorbell rang and I got up to answer it. “Wait a minute. Someone’s at the door.”
“Don’t answer it,” Mariel said. “You don’t know who it is. It could be dangerous.”
“I’m sure it’s OK. Crooks don’t generally ring the bell and announce themselves.”
“They might if they want to know if someone is home before they break in. They might just ring the bell and hide.”
“I’m sure it’s ok. Besides, the door is broken. I can’t lock it anyway.” I opened the door.
“Max, please be careful. I’ll stay on the line. If there’s a problem, hang up and I’ll dial 911.”
“Hi, Steve, Mariel, it’s Steve. He’s come to fix the door.”
“Oh, Max. I’m so worried about you. Please come and stay here with us.”
“No thanks, I need to see this through or you’ll never come home. We didn’t work this hard to get to the point where you’re afraid to be here.”
She said nothing and then. “OK. I love you.”
“I love you too.”
Steve had been standing there patiently looking over the broken doorframe while we talked. When I hung up, he said, “Hiya, Mr. Max. This doesn’t look too bad. I don’t have any new molding in the truck, but this piece broke off pretty clean. I think I can put it back with wood screws, slap some mud and paint on it and it’ll be just fine for now. If you want to beef it up, give me a call next week. I can come back with materials, strengthen the frame and install a stronger lock.”
“OK Steve. Thanks.”
We exchanged small talk while Steve repaired the door frame. As usual, he was quick, cheap and did good work.
After he left, I realized this would be my first night alone in this house. Since we bought this place, six months ago, Mariel and I had spent each night here together. Our first night after taking ownership, we went out and bought an inflatable bed. We slept on it for a few days until our furniture arrived from New York. Now, it felt odd to be here alone.
The house was strangely quiet. Neit
her CNN nor MSNBC blared from the bedroom. Mariel’s a TV news junkie. When she’s home, she always has a TV on one of the cable news channels. The only exception is baseball season. Then she bounces back and forth between METS games and the news.
On the bright side, I had a chance to make whatever I wanted for dinner. I decided to make an old favorite, pasta pesto primavera. Mariel used to love it, but recently decided the carbohydrates in the pasta were evil. I got out the old stew pot my father used to use when I was a kid. In my parent’s home, my Dad used to do all of the cooking. He did it until the day he died. He liked to say he had to teach my mother how to boil water. Since I ate my mother’s cooking from time to time, I don’t think he was joking. I liked using that pot. It was of my few links to my old man.
Early in our marriage, I burned some food onto a small pot and Mariel threw it out as she thought it would be too hard to clean. After that, we had a long talk and she assured me she would never do that with the old man’s stew pot.
I filled the pot half way with cold water. While the water heated, I boiled a can of cannellini beans, blanched a bunch of broccoli, cooked some cauliflower and nuked a pack of frozen chopped spinach. After the water boiled, I poured in a box of rotelli and watched it dance in the hot water. When the pasta was al dente, I strained it and tossed it in a huge bowl along with pesto sauce, the beans and the vegetables.
I filled a bowl with some pasta, found a fork, a glass, a bottle of red wine and brought my dinner out back to the pool. It was nice, cool, and quiet. The covered patio extended about 20 feet to the concrete pool deck, which was as wide as the house and covered half the backyard. A screened enclosure around everything kept the bugs out, but there was still a nice breeze. Patio lights glistened on the shimmering water as I sat at the table and ate.
“How’d I get into this?” I asked myself. I should have asked a smarter person, because I didn’t know the answer. I knew I needed more information but had no ideas on how to get it. The only lead was the bug in Ed’s office… if there really was a bug in Ed’s office. I’d have to get equipment and look for one.
I finished dinner, and went back into the house. By now, the path through the CDs on the floor was so well defined I almost didn’t notice the mess anymore. I realized I had better clean up before Mariel came back. If she saw all of this again, it might just remind her of how scared she was. Maybe, if things looked normal when she came home, she might feel more comfortable here. I spent less time than I thought getting the CDs and books picked up. Of course, now the previously alphabetized books and CDs were all stored in random order, but at least they were off the floor and out of sight.
I picked up the things on the bedroom floor and stuffed them back into drawers and onto shelves. I shoved some of the stuff on my office floor into the closet and then piled the rest on top until I could get the door shut. Neatness would have to wait until I got some new boxes.
Back in the kitchen, I got out the yellow pages, looked up a few likely places where I could buy what I needed and picked one. Tomorrow, I’d get up early and sweep Ed’s office. After loading the dishes into the dishwasher and tossing the empty wine bottle, I staggered off to bed.
CHAPTER NINE
At 7:30 am, a beeping noise startled me even though I knew I had set my alarm for that time. I wouldn’t say I woke up, but I did manage to open my eyes. I had to so I could find my watch and press the button that would stop the damn beeping. I couldn’t believe that before I retired I had been getting up earlier than this for over 30 years. I don’t know now how I had managed to do it.
I pulled down the covers, figuring I could build some inertia now my eyes were open. I thought I could do this if I did it one step at a time. Rather than being the next step towards momentum after opening my eyes, pulling down the covers slowed me down again as it revealed another reminder Mariel wasn’t there. I stopped a moment to think about that. Then when I realized getting out of bed was the first step to getting her back into bed, I sat up and swung my legs over the side. Did I mention I wasn’t a morning person?
I took my glasses from the nightstand and staggered into the bathroom. Some days, it takes a blast of steamy, hot water in the face to get me going so I took off my glasses and walked into the shower.
After a few minutes of scrubbing, I felt revived and clean enough for public contact. I put on my boxer-briefs, cargo shorts, sandals and an emblem marked golf shirt I got free at a forensic tools training class. If I was going out to buy P. I. gear, I should look the part and it was too hot for a trench coat and fedora. I dragged myself into the kitchen. I had to get on the road quickly so I settled for a glass of orange juice, a bowl of Kashi cereal with skim milk and cup of café con leche.
I got my camera bag from my office, my car keys from the kitchen drawer and went out the foyer door into the attached garage. Mariel’s car was gone and my Monte Carlo looked lonely in the two-car garage all by itself.
I left the house, crossed the southern bridge to the mainland and after 15 minutes, turned onto Interstate 95. I still couldn’t believe that this was the same road, which stretched north far enough to be the Cross-Bronx Expressway in New York. I traveled about 30 miles south to exit 50. Then west another 15 until I came to the Spy Shack of Orlando. The name was so cheesy I was embarrassed to go in. The Spy Shack wasn’t so much of a shack as it was a former gas station. It looked like the building owner wanted to save money while keeping his future rental options open. Removable wood fill-ins covered the repair bay doors.
I slinked from my car to the shop and opened the door. A small bell jingled. An Italian opera played softly in the background. A golden retriever on the floor to my right lifted his head up from resting on his front paws. He looked at me and then put his head back down.
To my left, a man sat on a stool behind what looked to be the counter for the old gas station. It ran along the entire left wall. In front of the man, small tools and a soldering iron covered the countertop.
He held something in both his hands close to his face and squinted at it through thick glasses. He wore a short sleeve shirt with a pair of thin blue stripes running both vertically and horizontally across a white background so the lines formed a pattern of blue double-lined boxes. Over that, he wore a pair of thin grey suspenders stretched over his potbelly to snap onto his baggy blue jeans. He looked like he might be in his fifties with a full head of unruly black and white hair and a thick, wide, moustache to match. He ignored me as he attempted to focus on what he held.
Welcoming his lack of solicitation, I turned to my right and passed the still disinterested dog. I wandered through the shop looking at the devices used to both pierce and protect privacy. I thought it was odd to see a Christmas wreath for sale until I realized it contained a hidden camera. Despite myself, I become fascinated with all of the ways people pried into each other’s lives and with all of the ways to prevent and to catch them.
I made a full circuit of the shop and came to rest in front of the man on the stool. Without moving his hands or his head, he raised his eyes over his glasses and looked at me. He said nothing but that which he said with his raised eyebrows.
“Hi,” I said. “I’m looking for something I can use to detect a hidden transmitter.”
He looked at me a moment as if deciding whether my need was worth him pausing his efforts to help me. When he sat up straight, I guessed he decided to help me. “Sure, fella. Lemme put this down gently first so this wire don’t come loose.”
As much as I didn’t want to succumb, I couldn’t help myself. I leaned forward. “What do you have there?”
“Oh, it’s a new design I’m working on. I make some custom devices. From time to time. For special customers. Sometimes, a fella needs something that isn’t a standard product.” He gently placed his work on the counter and looked up at me. You trying to find a bug?”
“Yes. My client and I discussed something in his office and it appears a third party also heard it.”
“And you�
��re sure your client didn’t tell anyone else?”
“So far. That’s why I want to look for a bug.”
“OK, so this wasn’t discussed on the phone. It was said in person?”
“Yes.”
“OK, so you’re probably not dealing with a tapped telephone line here. If you were, the conversation would have had to take place while talking on the phone. Was it said near a telephone?”
“The closest phone was a few feet away.”
“If you were near a phone but not on the phone, someone could be using an Infinity Device.”
I must have been giving him a blank stare because he paused a moment and then said, “It lets someone dial a phone without ringing it so the caller can listen in on whatever is in range of the telephone microphone.”
“I guess that could be. The phone was close enough on the desk, but a huge pile of papers covered it. Would it still work when buried like that?”
“Possibly, but if there’s no Infinity Device, then if anything, you probably have a separate listening device hidden somewhere. Now, if that listening device is a microphone connected to a recorder, you won’t detect anything when you sweep for radio signals. On the other hand, if there’s a microphone there connected to a transmitter, you stand a chance of finding the transmitter when you sweep for bugs. Luckily for you, stashing a mic and a recorder means the stasher has to return and retrieve the recorder before they can hear anything.”
“Why is that lucky for me?”
“Well, since you gotta go back for the recorder without knowing if what you want is on it, most folks wouldn’t choose that approach. Plus if you don’t know where it is and it looks like you don’t know, finding the thing can be tough. If you got a transmitter hidden there, then it’s transmitting on a radio frequency. If something’s transmitting on a radio frequency, I gotta couple devices here that can hear ‘em.”
He got down off the stool and walked behind the counter to a wall mounted cabinet where he took a key from his pocket and opened the glass sliding door. “This here’s what I’d recommend. If there’s something transmitting, you should be able to find it with this frequency finder. You put on these headphones, plug them into the finder and then turn on this switch.”
Falafel Jones - Max Fried 01 - Life's a Beach Then You Die Page 6
