EIGHT LIES (About the Truth): A collection of short stories

by Sean Chercover

  Finally she said, “How much would you charge to…well, you know.”

  There it was. “No, I don’t know.”

  “To kill him.” Only her lips moved. The mug was still in her right claw.

  “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that, Mrs. Hills.”

  “I’ve learned to accept the private humiliations,” she said, “but this…this is the end of it. I’ll give you twenty thousand dollars.”

  I stubbed out the cigarette and said, “I don’t murder people, Mrs. Hills. I’m a detective.”

  “If you’re not man enough to save me from his cruelty, I’ll find someone who is.”

  “Wait a second, let’s slow down. You’ve just received some bad news and you’re very upset—”

  “Do I look very upset?” She didn’t.

  “Some people hide it well,” I said.

  “I refuse to stage a public performance of my anguish for your benefit,” she said. “I want him dead and I’m offering a substantial sum. Now do you or do you not want the job?”

  It’s amazing how many people think private investigators will kill someone for the right amount of money. Too much television. I stood and picked up my coffee mug, pried hers loose, and went to refill them and give her a chance to think. When I returned, she was standing.

  “I’ve had enough coffee. I want an answer. Yes or no?”

  “You want me to kill your husband.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’re offering twenty thousand dollars.”

  She picked up her purse and said, “Stop stalling, Mr. Dudgeon. Yes or no?”

  I let out a sigh, almost meaning it. “All right, give me a couple days to work out a few things and then call me if you haven’t changed your mind.”

  “I’ll talk to you in a couple of days then.” Her mouth twitched up at the corners. Almost a smile. “I won’t change my mind.”

  And she was gone, her stiletto heels marching off toward the elevators down the hall, probably leaving a trail of dents in the marble floor.

  I slumped into my chair and hit the foot switch to shut off the video camera and lit another cigarette.

  Then I reached for the Rolodex and flipped to ‘Holborn’.

  Special Agent Holborn and I had a brief but intense history. I think Holborn liked me but he wasn’t sure if he respected me, while I respected him but wasn’t sure if I liked him. Anyway we’d worked together once and things had turned out okay.

  Holborn and his partner Special Agent Jordan watched the videotape in the meeting room at the FBI’s Chicago office on West Roosevelt, and I watched them. Holborn was about six feet tall with sandy hair and a runner’s build. Agent Jordan was black, an inch taller than Holborn with a bald head, a close cropped beard, and a little more muscle on his frame. I’d only met Jordan once so it was too soon to know if I liked or respected him. The videotape ended and Holborn pressed stop and the television screen went to blue.

  “Looks like we’ve got a live one,” said Agent Jordan.

  Holborn said, “Ray, are you sure that you said nothing, prior to activating the video recorder, which could’ve planted this idea?”

  “Well now that you mention it, I may have said something like, ‘It sure would be great if your husband was dead.’ Other than that, nothing I can think of.” Jordan stifled a laugh and I started to like him. Holborn glared at me.

  “Don’t be a dickhead,” he said.

  “I’ve been awake for 52 hours,” I countered.

  Holborn turned to Jordan, “Check with Torontelli and Robertson, in case this turns into something.” Jordan nodded and left the room.

  I said, “I’d like one more chance to talk her out of it.”

  “Why? She’s an Ice Queen. You can’t possibly like her…”

  “No,” I said, “but there’s something…I don’t know. Offered a way out, she might reconsider. And if she doesn’t, it’ll help shore up the case against an entrapment defense.”

  Holborn considered it. “I’ll give you one chance. When she calls back—”

  “If she calls back.”

  “When she calls back, you record the call. Give her one chance to reconsider, then make the deal.”

  “Fine.”

  “And don’t get cute, Ray. Play this straight or I’ll have your balls in a vice.”

  “You sure know how to paint a pretty picture, Agent Holborn.”

  Of course she called back. And I recorded the call. I played it straight and gave her the one chance to back out but she would not be dissuaded. She still wanted the job done and she was growing impatient. We went back and forth on the timing of payment. I said I wanted it up front. She wanted to pay on confirmation of her husband’s untimely demise, although she didn’t put it that bluntly. Maybe she was being careful because we were on the phone, but her reliance on euphemisms was frustrating. We finally agreed on six thousand up front and fourteen “upon delivery.” We arranged to meet that evening at an IHOP diner near the airport.

  I called Agent Holborn and we agreed that he would come to my office at nine thirty so he could wire me for sound, go over the game plan and get to the diner ahead of the scheduled meeting time of eleven thirty. I taped that call too, just for the hell of it.

  “Now remember, this doesn’t transmit, it’s only a recorder. We’re relying on you to judge when you’ve got enough on tape.”

  “I’ve done this before,” I said as I buttoned my shirt.

  “Just don’t get fancy. And don’t make any assumptions. Check the money. If she doesn’t give you money, we’re back to square one.”

  “Yeah, okay.” I put on my jacket and tightened my tie. Holborn wore blue jeans, a polo shirt, and a black leather bomber jacket. I’d never seen him in anything but a suit. “Is it on?”

  “It’s on,” said Holborn. “There’s five hours of tape, so don’t worry about it. And don’t touch it. If you adjust it, you’ll give the whole thing away. Just forget it’s there.” He seemed tense and it was the kind of tension that can be contagious and I didn’t appreciate it.

  “Agent Holborn, for a guy who’s done this a million times, you seem pretty nervous. Relax.”

  “I’ve also seen amateurs like you screw it up a million times.”

  If he were really so concerned, he’d wire me with a transmitter and have an agent listening in. I smiled, “Since we’re doing this on the cheap, I have to conclude that you do, in fact, trust my judgment and all this tough talk is just to keep me in my place.”

  “As usual, Ray, you assume too much,” he said. “I’m watching my budget.”

  I gave the feds ten minutes lead time and headed out to Rosemont in a steady drizzle. It had been threatening hard rain for days and the night air had the smell of it but the drizzle lacked motivation and never graduated to a genuine rain.

  Mrs. Hills was drinking coffee in a booth at the IHOP when I arrived. Holborn and Jordan were sitting at the counter, eating pie. Jordan wore a jean jacket and a faded White Sox baseball cap. The cap looked natural on him and I figured him for a ball fan.

  “You’re early, Mrs. Hills.” I sat across from her and checked my reflection in her sunglasses, thinking, Maybe rich people are more light-sensitive than the rest of us.

  “I wasn’t sure you’d come.” Her Chanel suit was black this time.

  “For twenty grand?” I signaled the waitress for coffee. “You’ve chosen an appropriate color, if I may say so.”

  “Let’s dispense with the gumshoe humor, shall we?” She said gumshoe the way your racist Aunt Mildred says Negro.

  “Sure you want to go through with this?”

  Her blood red nails dipped into her purse and withdrew an envelope. “Six thousand, as we agreed. The balance upon delivery.” She slid the envelope to the center of the table.

  I took a few seconds to get the wording right. “Mrs. Hills, I’m ready to take your money but you didn’t answer my question.” The waitress set the coffee in front of me. When she was out of earshot I conti
nued, “You just used the word ‘delivery’ again, and I don’t like it. It sounds to me like you may be sugar-coating this thing in your mind.”

  “I know what I’m doing,” she said.

  “Okay.” I took the envelope. “But one thing...”

  “Now what is it?”

  “I need to be sure that you’re not gonna fall apart and roll over on me when the cops come with their questions. Because there will be questions. Probing questions, about your alibi and about your marriage. And another thing…after it’s done, your husband will not look pretty. Are you sure you can handle that?” I knew I was pushing, but I needed her to say the magic words.

  “I do not enjoy these childish games,” she said. Then she stiffened. “Are you setting me up?” A chill ran down my arms. The tape recorder became itchy against my side. I fought the urge to scratch. Thinking, just play it out, Dudgeon. Play the creep that she thinks you are. I grinned and spread my arms wide.

  “Why don’t you come over here and sit on my lap and frisk me,” I said and winked at her. “We can talk about the first thing that comes up.”

  “Oh dear God, you are a repulsive little man.”

  “Your loss,” I shrugged, dropping the lecherous grin. “But you still haven’t answered me.” I sipped some weak coffee. “Mrs. Hills, look at it this way: if you went for a facelift, wouldn’t the surgeon be negligent if he didn’t explain the risks?” She seemed to be following me. “Now in a job like this, the risk is that you’ll have a change of heart. Once I walk out of here, there’s no turning back. Like I said, I want your money, but I’ve got to know that you’re going into this with a level head.” I maintained eye contact and resisted the urge to keep rambling.

  She nodded her head, at last. “Frankly, I don’t care if my husband looks like he’s been torn apart by a pack of dingoes, I just want him dead. And there will be no change of heart. Is that level enough for you, Mr. Dudgeon?”

  “It’ll be done within the week,” I said. “Don’t come to me with regrets.”

  “How will I know when it’s done?”

  “The police will want you to identify the body. It’ll look like a mugging.” I sipped some more bad coffee. “About the money, it isn’t in any way traceable to you, is it?”

  “I’ve had a significant sum of paper money in storage for years.” Her nails clicked on the Formica.

  “I’ll have to trust you on that,” I said and stuffed the envelope into my breast pocket. “I’m going to leave now. You can get the check.”

  Mrs. Hills fumbled around in her purse and I went to the men’s room where I looked in the envelope. It was money, all right. I left the diner without stopping to say goodbye. Holborn had already moved outside. Jordan sat at the counter, waiting to follow her out.

  They were easy to spot if you were looking for them, but of course Mrs. Hills wasn’t. Holborn sat reading a map in a black sedan parked beside Mrs. Hills’ Jaguar. Other agents were in a white van, parked directly behind. I couldn’t see them but I knew they were there. I got in my car and drove around the building and parked in the shadows. I left the engine running, ready to make my move. Holborn had instructed me to simply drive away—in fact he’d specifically instructed me not to be there for the arrest—but Holborn and I didn’t share all the same interests here. With everything by the book, Mrs. Hills would likely strike a plea and I’d be spared the hassle of testifying, so I wanted to get the arrest on tape.

  She emerged from the diner, seemingly oblivious to the presence of Agent Jordan, who followed twelve paces behind. As she advanced upon her car, I took my foot off the brake, applied the gas, and drove forward as several other things happened at once: Holborn dropped the map and got out of the sedan, Jordan closed the distance behind Mrs. Hills, the van’s headlights came on and its side door slid open and two agents hopped out. By the time they reached her I was out of my car and coming fast around the front fender.

  She froze in place, taking in the fact that she was surrounded. I lit a cigarette.

  “Mrs. Francine Hills?” said Holborn.

  “Yes.”

  Holborn flipped his badge. “Special Agent Holborn, FBI. You’re under arrest for the attempted murder-for-hire of Mr. Gordon Hills.”

  “But I-I…”

  Holborn produced a small card from his wallet and read it, fast and without inflection, “Before we ask you any questions, you must understand your rights. You have the right to remain silent…Anything you say can be used against you in court…You have the right to talk to a lawyer for advice before we ask you any questions and to have him with you during questioning…If you cannot afford a lawyer, one will be appointed for you before questioning if you wish…If you decide to answer questions now without a lawyer present, you will still have the right to stop questioning at any time until you talk to a lawyer. Do you understand what I have read to you?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Having these rights in mind, do you wish to talk to me now?”

  A single tear slid from behind Mrs. Hills’ sunglasses and down her left cheek. “No thank you. I’ll wait for my lawyer.” She thrust a finger in my direction. “I’d like a word with him, though.” Holborn sent me a look that would make a lesser man tremble, then a sharp nod. I stepped forward. Mrs. Hills leaned in close and said, “You have no idea what you’ve done.”

  “I think I do,” I said and blew a stream of smoke at her hair. Her right claw lashed out and her nails ripped my face, just below the left ear. Holborn grabbed her wrists from behind and held her fast.

  “You bastard!” she shrieked, trembling all over. “You fucking bastard! Give me back my money!”

  “Mrs. Hills,” I said, “I’d advise you to get yourself firmly under control and say nothing until you’ve spoken with your attorney.” I threw my cigarette down and it hissed itself to death on the wet pavement. Agent Jordan handed me a handkerchief and I held it to my face. Mrs. Hills began sobbing.

  “Let’s not make this any harder, Ma’am,” said Holborn. He produced handcuffs from under his jacket and gave Mrs. Hills a new pair of bracelets and loaded her into the backseat of the sedan, sandwiched between the agents who’d jumped from the van. Another agent, still in the van, started its engine. The rain started up again, but it was still only a light rain.

  Agent Jordan said, “You better get that checked, it’s bleeding a fair bit.” I looked at the handkerchief, which was now mostly red but looked purple in the mercury-vapor light of the parking lot. “Keep it,” he said and climbed into the front passenger seat of the sedan.

  Holborn approached and said, “The money.”

  I handed him the cash envelope. “I guess I didn’t screw it up, even if I am an amateur.”

  “We’ll see what you got on tape.”

  I unbuttoned my shirt and ripped the tape recorder off the side of my abdomen, taking some hair with it, and untangled the wire that led to a microphone on the back of my tie. “You’re welcome,” I said.

  Holborn took it from me and said, “Come see me tomorrow. We’ll need a statement.” He got behind the wheel of the sedan and they pulled away.

  As I walked back to my car, the real rain began.

  Mrs. Hills retained Dermott O’Connor, Chicago’s criminal defense attorney to the rich and infamous. O’Connor was one of the most skilled media whores in town and he played the case for full coverage and maximum confusion. And the media had a collective orgasm over the story. After three days of dancing the seven veils for newspaper reporters, talk radio and television, O’Connor had half the potential jury pool thinking that a scumbag private detective had preyed on the emotional vulnerability of an abused wife who came to him for help with a divorce. Naturally, I was being cast in the role of the scumbag private detective. According to O’Connor, I’d bullied and persuaded until Mrs. Hills finally broke down in desperation and agreed to my plan to murder her abusive husband. When I felt the heat of the FBI, I framed Mrs. Hills as the architect of the plan. Sure I did. And th
en came the best part: O’Connor wanted everyone to believe that the FBI, although well intentioned, had fallen for my con job.

  The FBI was not commenting, except to say that they were confident they’d arrested the right person and that Ray Dudgeon was not a suspect in this case.

  The Federal Prosecutor’s office had even less to say than the FBI. They were looking forward to bringing all of the facts to light in the courtroom. Have a nice day.

  Mr. Gordon Hills was commenting through his attorney, who had a few points to make on his behalf: “Mr. Hills categorically denies ever lifting a hand to his wife. All marriages have their ups and downs and the Hills’ marriage is no exception. Mr. Hills loves his wife but strongly suspects that she may not be of sound mind. He supports his wife’s application for bail, with the provision that the court issue a restraining order prohibiting Mrs. Hills from coming within 100 yards of him, and that she submit to court-ordered psychological testing.”

  I was not commenting at all. Not even to Chronicle reporter Terry Green, who was my best friend and a former colleague, back when I was a reporter in a former life. I spent my days hanging up on reporters and trying not to read newspapers or listen to the radio or watch television. I wanted to call Terry and howl: You moron! You call yourself a journalist? I can’t believe you’re letting yourself get played like this! But I knew I was being irrational and I could imagine Terry’s rebuttal: This is a newsworthy story and O’Connor is making newsworthy comments. We report the news. You choose not to comment, which leaves those of us who didn’t quit on journalism to do the ethical heavy-lifting. And you want to judge us? Fuck that. Get off the cross, you big crybaby. Of course Terry would’ve been more diplomatic about it.

  On the third day, Mrs. Hills made bail and Federal Prosecutor Alex Cavanaugh beckoned me to his office. I wore a clean suit.