Grave Misgivings

by Kristen Houghton

  “I was afraid but I was also intrigued. The realization hit me that the woman had had this man kill someone. Why would he use the word eliminated? How else would he have a finger? I waited outside for a good twenty minutes after the man left and then went back through the kitchen.

  “An hour later, when I went to clean up my tables I asked the woman if she wanted anything else, maybe a cab to drive her home; she was pretty drunk by then. She had had quite a

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  few more drinks. ‘No,’ she said, ‘There’s nothing else I want.’ She laughed a little crazily and

  whispered ‘Especially not my father back from the dead. I’m finally, finally, finally free.’

  “As I said she was pretty drunk but she looked at me and laughed again; she was giddy. I must’ve looked upset or something. I was thinking about how someone could have their own father killed. I mean your own father; he must have done something terrible to her.

  “Anyway she misunderstood the look on my face because she said, ‘Honey, you look like someone has screwed you over royally—some prick of a guy? Married or something?’ I just

  stood there and looked at her. ‘Hey!’ she said to me in a confidential whisper. ‘Cheer up! Listen to me; no one deserves to be treated like shit. My father was a monster, a monster! And I finally did something about it. If you ever want to...dispose of someone, I know just the man you need.’

  “She began laughing again and I saw her take out a business card from her wallet. She scratched out the name and address of the business on the front, and wrote something on the back. ‘Here, this is for you. Call this number and do it soon. The man who was in here before with me? He is the devil himself when it comes to eliminating people but he gets the job done.’”

  Jennifer hands me a card with some writing scrawled on it in an unsteady hand. Professional Eliminator followed by a phone number. The information on the front of the card has been scratched out heavily with pen but I should be able to get some details from it.

  “Three days later I called the number and ordered the hit. I figured it was the best thing I could do. I was so depressed and sad. If anything happened to me, my father would get a small payout on a life insurance policy I had.” She laughs bitterly. “I was worth more dead than alive.”

  “Jennifer, I need you to tell me a few things about that call you made to the hit man. How was the phone answered? What was said and how long were you on the phone?”

  “I guess the hit man answered; it was a man’s voice but I don’t know if it was the same voice as the one in the bar. There was no hello or any other greeting. All he said when he answered was, ‘The price of a standard elimination is ten thousand dollars. You have twenty-four hours to think it over.’

  “Then he told me to call him back with details of the subject to be eliminated, he said those exact words, I remember, and where to bring the money. He wanted cash, nothing larger than hundreds. He said that if I wanted proof of the elimination or anything extra, it would cost an additional five thousand dollars. I thought of that horrible cut-off finger. I told him no proof was necessary and I told him I wanted the death to be quick, no suffering. The whole conversation lasted less than two minutes.”

  Two minutes—most criminals are careful to keep their phone time short. Even though a trace does take time, police don’t need a person to be on the phone for three minutes or more any longer. Computers can trace much more quickly today. Then there are burner phones that are hard to trace. But old criminal habits die hard. The rule that criminals go by is two minutes or less, phone time.

  “The next day I called him back and said that I needed a week to get the money but that I was sure that I wanted to hire him. I wanted to work a little longer and save as much money as possible for my father so I asked the man if he would wait two years until the person he was to …eliminate... turned twenty-five. I never told him I was taking the hit out on myself. He laughed

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  and said, ‘Giving this person a birthday present, huh? Sure, no problem.’ Then he said that he

  would call me when the week was up to confirm the deal. I gave him my cell number.

  “When he called back he told me to include a picture of who I wanted eliminated in the envelope along with the money and any instructions. I was to come alone and leave everything in the town park under a mailbox.” She stops and looks at her hands. “He said he would be watching me. He…told me…he told me something else too, Ms.…Cate.”

  “Yes? Go on.”

  “He said once the money had been paid, the contract was set. When he said that I knew there was no going back for me but I didn’t care.”

  “You never met him personally to give him the money?” She shook her head no. Asking her if I can keep the card, I also ask Ms. Brooks-Warren how she managed to come up with the ten grand.

  “I stole it from Kevin, the owner of the bar. I knew where he kept the cash in a hidden safe in the cellar of the bar. Like a lot of people in farming communities, he didn’t trust banks. I’m not proud of it, Cate, but I was desperate. I didn’t want to live anymore and I saw no other way out. Before the week was out, I followed the hit man’s instructions and left the money with a picture of me in an envelope. That picture you’re holding is the one I left for him.”

  I look from the picture to her. “You’ve had extensive cosmetic surgery, Ms. Warren. Was the money for that stolen also?”

  Suddenly my new client begins to cry and the cries turn into hysterical sobs. I get her a bottle of water from the small fridge and Myrtle comes over with a box of tissues. Her body shakes with her emotions as her fiancé holds her in his arms. She controls herself in a few minutes and looks down at her hands. “That’s the cruelest part of this whole thing! When my father died unexpectedly of a massive heart attack two weeks later, I found out why he was so frugal. He had saved almost every cent he could in case of crop failure or if he wasn’t able to work anymore.” She pauses and takes a shaky breath. “My father left me nearly twenty-five thousand dollars and a life insurance policy worth over a million dollars. More than enough to start a new life and return the money to Kevin.”

  “And you tried to contact the hit man with no success?”

  “I tried desperately to find him but I had no idea who he was or where he was! He never returned to Kevin’s bar. I drove around for weeks to out-of-the-way bars and burger places praying that I might see him. I put ads in several major papers and on the internet via social media, along with pictures of me back then. I put up a description of that man who was in the K & K in Culpepper, Virginia stating the date and the time he was there and begging for information to find him. I said that I was desperate for him to contact me immediately. But nothing worked; it was as if he simply vanished into thin air. I’ve never heard from him again.

  “You know, Cate, two years ago I thought that if I ran away from my small town and began a new life, I wouldn’t have to worry about anything. I used the money to remake myself and for a while I felt safe. I met Edward,” she gestures to the man she had introduced as her fiancé, “a year ago, and truly felt as if I could bury the past. But now…”

  “What about the woman in the bar? Ever see her again or know where she might live or work?”

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  She shakes her head. “I never saw her again. From the way she spoke, I don’t think she was from around Culpepper. I mean, even with the cursing and her being drunk, I could tell her speech was very proper.”

  “Jennifer, you paid this man his money, right? Maybe he took it and has forgotten about you. Two years is a long time to wait and you do not look anything like the woman in the pictures you showed to me.”

  Jennifer Brooks-Warren sat down next to her fiancé and took his hand. He turned to me and spoke again in a clear and concise voice. His eyes focused on me alone as he spoke.

  “He hasn’t forgotten, Ms. Harlow.” He hands me the type of card you’d find in a gift box. �
��Ten days ago someone sent two pictures to our condo. One was the picture of Jennifer as she

  looked two years ago and the other was one of her walking with me in Central Park. That was bad enough but last night Jennifer received a bouquet of flowers with that note that says, ‘Can’t wait until your birthday. Twenty-five is special.’

  He pauses then says, “And, as I told you, my fiancée Jennifer will be twenty-five in two months’ time.”

  ๕๕๕

  The flowers Jennifer received were an order that was placed by phone; it had to be a burner one since I can’t trace it. The dictated note was written by a clerk who works in a local florist shop and the credit card used to place the order was a pre-paid, untraceable Visa. All I can find out is that the card was purchased in Arizona but when I call there with the number, no one seems to remember who purchased it. “We get a lot of people, miss. Bad credit and such, that’s why they get pre-paid credit cards. Most only go up to $200. Hard to remember who bought what.” Obviously this hit man knows how to cover his tracks really well.

  For the rest of the morning Myrtle and I work quietly together; me reviewing previous cases and updating my website and Myrtle fending off telemarketers and making an appointment for me to meet with the CEO of a limo service. She puts the company’s owner on speaker so I can hear him say that he wants to hire ‘a female dick, you know, one of those woman detectives to surveille our drivers. Ya got one who can look like a hooker so the guys don’t get suspicious?’ Myrtle assures him that something can be arranged and takes down his information. She looks over at me and says, “Still got those hooker heels from that pole dancing case last year?”

  “Back of my closet just waiting for a chance to emerge.”

  ๕๕๕

  At one o’clock I decide to leave my office with the express purpose of getting something to eat at Enzo’s Trattoria. I haven’t eaten anything since six a.m. and I am starving. Having spoken with Jennifer and her fiancé Edward for almost three hours has added to my hunger; I think better on a full stomach.

  I ask Myrtle to come with me but she says she’s too busy and then adds that she’s not hungry. “Got to watch my weight,” is what she says. I raise my eyebrows. Myrtle is a nicely built

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  older woman who does ballroom dancing twice a week and plays golf in the warmer weather.

  There’s nothing wrong with her weight but I don’t say anything.

  Before they left, Ms. Brooks-Warren and her fiancé had signed the necessary papers that hired me as their investigator then wrote a nice check for my retainer fee. I gave those, and Jennifer and her fiancé, to Myrtle to handle while I made a phone call to a trusted and discreet security company and hired professionals to keep surveillance on Jennifer. The security

  company’s owner has top-notch people working for him so I feel we’re pretty well covered. I also make a mental note to do a background check on her fiancé Edward Penn. He’s probably innocent but I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t have him checked out.

  I promised Jennifer that tonight I would introduce her personally to the woman from the security team who will shadow her every move whenever she leaves her condo. Finally I sent

  Ms. Brooks-Warren and Co. to a sketch artist I know so I can have a reasonable idea of what the hit man looks like. The hit man case is officially a go and I go out the door.

  Outside my office building I see Bo the homeless man who washes car windows whenever someone stops at a light. He knows that I’m good for a twenty each Friday night when I tell him to get some food and not spend my hard-earned money on booze. Most times he does get food to go along with his beer. I live on hope with him.

  Today he’s accompanied by his buddy who inadvertently helped me on my last case concerning the priests’ murders. He still seems to have no name other than “Bo’s friend” or “Hey” as Bo calls him. I walk over and surprise Bo by handing him a twenty. Today’s Tuesday but I’m feeling generous.

  “Get lunch for both of you, okay? But no beer.” I look at his friend. “Hi Bo’s friend.”

  Bo smiles a lopsided grin and says he’ll get them pizza. Bo’s friend hunches deeper into the oversized sweater he’s wearing and doesn’t look at me. I experience a twinge of guilt. I once broke his ribs and bloodied his nose when I thought he was a mugger or rapist trying to get into my car. Sighing I pull a ten out of my pocket. “This is only for you, Bo’s friend. Get some ice cream from that woman over there,” I say pointing to an ice cream vendor. He quickly grabs the ten and nods at me without looking up. I sigh again and continue on my way. Another Cate Harlow attack victim.

  The walk to Enzo’s always makes for an interesting insight into the differences in people. At this time of day I see moms in yoga pants running, holding on to special jogger-strollers, babies inside them either lulled to sleep by the rhythm of the run or wide awake looking ahead at the view in front of them. There are business people, men and women, both in suits and carrying attaché cases, cell phones glued to their ears deep in conversations, presenting a danger to themselves as they navigate crossing the busy streets. I watch construction workers, laughing, sitting on beams opening their lunches and coffee containers, relaxing for a while. And then I see the street people every city has, the ones who are homeless and sad depending on the rest of humanity for life’s very basics, like food. I think of Bo.

  My cell buzzes as I’m entering the small outdoor courtyard of the trattoria. It’s from my ex-husband and sometime sex partner Will Benigni.

  “Hi Will. What’s up?” I laugh at the innuendo of my innocent greeting.

  “Oh you‘d like what‘s up, baby.” God! The man never misses a beat. “Where are you?”

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  “Going into Enzo‘s for some much-needed nourishment. What are you doing?”

  “Just finished taking a statement from some punk we busted on cocaine possession. We think he’s a witness to a murder.” He says this so matter-of-factly. “Anyway I‘m going over to the law library later. You going to be home tonight? I need you to help quiz me on some questions.”

  Will’s studying for the New York State Bar exam once again. The exam is in a few months and he’s been driving me crazy about taking it. I hesitate.

  “Listen, I really do need you to quiz me. What, did you think it’s an excuse for me to come jump your bones? I don’t need an excuse for that do I?”

  “No, you don’t. That‘s not it though. I was figuring on doing research for a new case and I don’t know what time I’ll get back to my brownstone. What time were you thinking of coming over?”

  “Not ’til around eight or so. I’ve got paperwork up my ass here.”

  “Okay. I should be home by eight. Pick up Chinese food from P.F. Chang’s and you’ve got a date and a meal.”

  “Right. Gotta go.” His call abruptly ends but I’m used to that if he’s at the precinct. I pocket my phone and enter my favorite Italian trattoria. Ordering a large antipasto salad with dressing on the side, I sit at a table by the window and wait, letting my mind wander.

  By all accounts I consider myself a lucky woman. I have my own fairly successful business, Catherine Harlow, Private Investigations, am healthy, have some good friends, and have survived having my head bashed in during my missing person case last year. I put a pedophile priest in prison and reunited a sister and a brother. It was a satisfying ending to a convoluted case.

  My ex, Will, and I have a kind of friends-with-benefits relationship meaning that we probably could not ever live together again as husband and wife but we can still enjoy the highly charged sex part of it. Then there’s Giles Barrett, ME. We had a nice thing going for awhile and I still see him but we’ve decided to cool any intimacy between us for now. I think that Giles is waiting for the “Will rush” to run its course and feels that after that, we, Giles and I, will get back together. Who knows really? Will is like a drug but, as any addict will tell you, no matter how addicted you are you s
till know what you’re doing is not good for you.

  In my life, Will, my drug of choice, can be wonderful as well as dangerous. I know he’s not really good for me but I love the rush I get from how expert he is at pushing my erotic buttons. I know the risks but I am with him Will-ingly, so to speak.

  My lunch is brought to the table and I forget about the people in my life for awhile and concentrate only on the pleasure of eating.

  Chapter 2

  THE INFORMATION ON THE FRONT of the business card Jennifer gave me has been deeply scratched out. I can make out a word here and there. It’s a crème-colored vellum card that you can buy over the Internet. I erase as much ink as possible and then gently blot the card with baby oil. The letters h-o-l. Maybe holiday? They’re followed by b-t---. I know that if I work on it I’ll get something good but it is tedious work. It’s almost seven o’clock at night and I’m still working my new case. I spent a few hours checking police records for any homicides that occurred two years ago in the area where Jennifer met the woman who supposedly had her father offed. I check for police reports of a body found that was missing a finger. Nothing pops except a stabbing death of a teenage boy and a murder of a woman by her estranged boyfriend. No mention of a dead body with a missing digit shows up. How the hell was it covered up? Did this mysterious woman have connections in the coroner’s office? Was the severed finger put back on the hand?