Grave Misgivings

by Kristen Houghton

  The sketch artist faxed me the image of the hit man about an hour ago. Jennifer and her fiancé must have gone there as soon as they left my office. I look at the sketch. He has a Nordic-looking face. He appears to be somewhere in his middle to late forties and he looks like a man who spends a lot of time outdoors. Sandy colored short hair tops a rugged, chiseled face. It’s almost like looking at a face from some online dating site for professional eliminators.

  “Nice looking male professional eliminator, forty-ish, seeking sexy female companion for romance, travel, and murder-for-hire joint ventures. Must be willing to carry out eliminations quickly and cold-bloodedly.”

  The term hit man is an interesting one. No one advertises the fact that he or she is a paid assassin. Sometime a hit man is someone who you’d never suspect. The kind of person who has a day job as in the case of a St. Louis dentist named Glennon Edward Engleman. He moonlighted as a hit man for over thirty years and no one, not even his wife, knew about his after hours activities. Or Helene Connors, a social studies teacher in Florida, one of the best “hit men” in the business.

  However, most people think of a hit man as someone who resembles a character from The Sopranos. Certainly organized crime has its share of hit men but what a lot of people don’t realize is that there are men and women who are called professional eliminators, just as the handwriting on the back of the card stated. They’re not doing a job for a mob boss, they don’t hang around in groups or strip joints and talk about their “goomahs”; they’re real, authentic, hired guns, killers and loners who will eliminate someone for a lot of money and who, once the job is done, disappear as if they never existed. Those in law enforcement call them ghosts. No names, no addresses, nothing. They appear and disappear at will. This man is more than likely one of those ghosts.

  I fax the picture to a woman I know, a top-notch hacker. She’s part of that group of individuals who are virtually untraceable, the ones who never leave any tech footprints. This type of hacker works off the Tor, more commonly called the Dark Net, which offers total anonymity and protection. This is done by bouncing your communications around a distributed network of relays run by volunteers all around the world: it prevents anybody who is watching your Internet

  GRAVE MISGIVINGS 13

  connection from learning what sites you visit, and it prevents the sites you visit from learning your physical location. My contact has asked me several times if I want her to hook me up on the Tor and I am seriously thinking about it.

  What she does is illegal but using someone who operates off the grid has never stopped me. If I think what the person does can help me on a case, I’m fine with it. I text her and tell her to run it through photos of known hired killers to look for a match. If this professional killer is really good, I don’t expect she’ll find much but you never know what info will pop up in any area. You’ve got to make sure you cover all parts of a case and get as much info as possible.

  The clock says it’s past seven thirty and I promised Will I’d meet him at my brownstone at eight. I leave what’s on my desk and go check on the doves’ nest on my fire escape. A nice surprise awaits me. The parent doves have come back unexpectedly and seem settled down for the night. They’re a peaceful diversion in my life and I whisper good-night to them. I put my gun in the back of my jeans and hit the double locks as I pull closed the heavy old oak door to Catherine Harlow, Private Investigations.

  ๕๕๕

  Will is waiting on the steps of the brownstone with two large bags and the aromas hit me sweetly as I walk toward him. From across the street I can see he’s not in the best of moods.

  “I don’t know why you won’t give me the key to your place,” is his greeting to me.

  “It’s personal, Will. This is my private haven, I already told you that. If you have a key, then it’s not mine anymore.” I put the key in the lock and open the door.

  “That’s not logical, Cate,” Will says as he walks through the door in front of me heading to my kitchen.

  “You do logic your way, I’ll do it mine. Anyway, you’re a detective, you know how to break and enter.”

  He looks offended. “I would never do that. Not unless I thought you were in trouble. I just think that it would be so much easier if I had a key, that’s all.” He looks all put out and everything. “I mean, come on now, we do sleep together although the word sleep is a misnomer for what we do. But, hell, Cate, making me sit outside waiting for you to come home was a royal pain in the ass tonight. Just give me a damn key.”

  “No. Subject closed.” I smile sweetly at his scowl. “What’d you get us?”

  A bit unwillingly he smiles back and with his mind on the food in the bags, tells me what feast he bought while I open a chilled bottle of merlot. A nice Italian wine with Chinese food—great combo.

  After dinner I sit back on the couch and quiz Will on torts and criminal law, New York State style. He’s good on some answers and hesitant on others. I don’t think his heart is really in the lawyer thing. Other people, me included when we were married, have always encouraged him to pursue law. His mother, the elegant art historian Francesca Sutton Benigni, has always hoped that he would take up law someday; her father was a lawyer. Even his superiors in the precinct had given strong hints about him becoming a lawyer and then a tough DA.

  KRISTEN HOUGHTON 14

  And to be honest, Will did envision himself as a crusading DA type. He liked the idea too and that’s why going through night school wasn’t the drudge for him that it seems to be for most people. His dreams of being a lawyer turned DA were just that; dreams.

  Dreams are good for all of us but then reality has a habit of smacking you in the back of the head. Take my line of work for an example. Everyone thinks that being a female PI is somehow glamorous. You know, you always look great and sexy, you’re fearless in getting the job done, and then you have fantastic romantic encounters with some hot guy you met on the job. I admit I daydreamed those thoughts myself.

  But the truth is much different than what is portrayed in movies and on TV. I rarely look great and sexy on the job except when I’ve had to play the part of a hooker, I have a healthy fear of the dangers that can happen to me on a case, and my romantic encounters never evolve from any guy I do meet while I’m working. Dreams vs the reality: reality wins every time.

  Will and I go over tedious law terms until almost one in the morning. The boredom is palpable. I’ve been up since five thirty and I’m having a hard time keeping my eyes open. I keep nodding off. Will comes back from a bathroom run to find me with my head slumped against the back of the couch, eyes half-closed. He sits next to me and blows air toward the ceiling in frustration. In another minute he closes his eyes and is out. I nod off and a muffled snore wakes me.

  “Hey,” I touch his arm sleepily. “We need to stop for tonight. Go home and sleep. Or, better yet, sleep on the couch. I don’t want you driving if you’re too tired.”

  He opens his eyes and nods toward my bedroom door. “What, I can’t sleep in the bed?”

  I stand up feeling wobbly and lean against the couch. “Will, I am exhausted. You come into that bed with any thoughts of a sexual escapade...”

  “Who, me?” He smiles that hot smile I know too well then gives away his own exhaustion in a loud yawn.

  “Yes, you. I’m so tired that, if you even attempt to do anything, it will be as if you’re having sex with a dead woman. Seriously, not tonight. Tomorrow, absolutely, but tonight I am wiped.”

  Another yawn. Looking at me he says, “Well, God knows that I am not someone who is into necrophilia so I’m taking the couch just for tonight.”

  He gives me a tiny smirk when he says the word necrophilia. It’s his nasty little way of getting a dig in at my former love interest, Giles Barrett. Giles is the best medical examiner in New York State and being with him was sweet. For Will to make that crack about “doing it with the dead” is unworthy of him and I tell him so.

  “Look, smart-ass, that wa
s so uncalled-for. Giles is very respectful of the bodies down at the morgue. He’s a doctor, he’s a professional. You are such an...”

  “Whoa! Hey! Did I say Giles? Did you hear me say his name? Seriously, would I really insinuate that Giles would do something unnatural with a dead body? Oh, Cate, you really are tired to think I meant Giles when I said I wasn’t into necrophilia. I’m hurt, seriously hurt.”

  I am tired and my only retort as I head toward the bedroom is, “Go to Hell.”

  To which my ever-sarcastic ex-husband says innocently, “Hell will have to wait, babe. I’m going to sleep first.”

  Chapter 3

  I WAKE UP TO a loud purring and soft meows from my cat Little Guy who is sitting next to my face on my pillow. His cat buddy, Mouse, is at the bottom of the bed looking intently at me. They’re hungry.

  And next to me, sleeping the sleep of the justly exhausted is Will wearing only the Rolex watch I gave him on our second anniversary together. Something inside me is glad he still has it; it took me a year to save up for it. I gingerly lift his wrist to check the time. 6:02 a.m. Damn!

  Will mumbles “Baby” and grabs my thigh. The man does not ever change. I push his hand away and quickly slide out of bed.

  “What the hell time is it?” he mumbles, eyes closed.

  “Shhhhh. I’m just going to the bathroom. Be right back,” I lie smoothly. “Go back to sleep.”

  He mumbles something else unintelligible and I sneak out of the room grabbing a shawl draped over a chair. Mouse and Little Guy run ahead of me as I open the door.

  In the kitchen I put on coffee and then fill small bowls with cat food. I take a quick shower while the coffee brews. When I come out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel, the two cats are the only ones who greet me; Will must be more exhausted than I thought.

  I pour cream into the bottom of a mug, add coffee to about an inch from the top, and then more cream. The first sip is perfect. Carrying my coffee into the corner of the living room where my laptop lives I check my e-mails. The Hacker has gotten back to me. She’s one of my best sources.

  “Hey Harlow. Long time. Zero matches on pic yet but working on it. No sweat. Soon.”

  I smile; she’s known only as TRUST, all caps, and she is very reliable. She’ll let me know where to send her fee when she’s ready.

  I am pouring a second cup of coffee when I hear movement in my bedroom. The door opens and Will sleepwalks into the kitchen muttering, “Coffee,” then goes to sit down on the window seat overlooking the street. The cats make room for him and head-butt his shoulder and arm. They adore him.

  “What time are you going to the precinct?” I hand him a steaming mug of coffee with just a drizzle of cream.

  “Nine or so. Your office?”

  “Not ’til after ten. I have a few stops to make before I go in. Why?”

  Will has his eyes closed and his head resting against the curtained window.

  “Will?” No response.

  “Hey! Will? You awake, baby?”

  “Huh? Did you say something?” He answers me without opening his eyes.

  “Yes, I said that I have a few stops to make before I go to my office and asked why you want to know.” A slight snore is the only answer I get and I rush to grab his coffee mug just as it starts to slip from his hand. “Will?” Not getting a response I nudge him gently, then not so gently.

  His eyes open to slits. “What? I’m, yeah, just let me get started. I’m okay,” he says as he closes his eyes and lolls his head against the window.

  “Will, how much sleep are you getting? You are zonked!”

  GRAVE MISGIVINGS 16

  He opens his eyes, which are bleary and swollen with exhaustion. “Not a helluva lot. Working non-stop and studying for this bar exam is going to kill me.” He stretches his arms toward the ceiling, rubs his eyes, shakes his head, and stands up a bit unsteadily.

  “Go back to sleep,” I say and begin to lead him toward the bedroom. “It’s only just after six thirty. I’ll wake you up in an hour, I promise.” He doesn’t protest, just stumbles along and falls into my bed. As I close the door, I hear a sigh and then steady breathing.

  ๕๕๕

  I arrive at my office close to eleven and am surprised to see that Myrtle isn’t in. She’s a stickler for that nine thirty arrival time. A quick check of her desk, and the un-straightened files on mine, tells me she hasn’t just ducked out for a few minutes; she hasn’t been in at all. A little odd. I’ve noticed that lately she hasn’t been acting like her usual self. Probably nothing, but my professional experience tells me that when someone isn’t acting in their usual way there’s some type of personal issue going on. I’ll try talking to her later. Right now, I need to get busy finding the Brooks-Warren hired killer.

  Most people don’t realize how simple it is to hire a professional killer. It’s really easier than you think. It may seem weird to some people but there was actually a website called Hire-a-Killer.com. It was supposed to be a just-for-fun site that posted fake assassins along with virtual scenarios and clients. There were even bogus testimonials from these “clients” and people who visited the site started to write about it on Facebook. Everyone, and I mean everyone, thought the Hire-a-Killer site was something similar to other interactive sites such as Grand Theft Auto or The Living Dead.

  Even law enforcement didn’t take it seriously until a young cop, home at the end of a maternity leave and getting antsy to be back at work, decided to contact this site she’d heard about just for something to occupy her time. She wanted to see what the big fuss was all about. Once there she toured the site and in the spirit of interacting, pretended that she was a woman who wanted someone to off her husband. Then bored, she signed off. Fifteen minutes later, she got an untraceable e-mail that stated that it would cost fifteen thousand dollars and gave her a place and time to meet. She got in touch with her superiors who in turn called the Feds.

  Needless to say, when the FBI tried to investigate the site’s owners, they found a highly sophisticated system, untraceable people and e-mails, and so were never able to make arrests. The site was part of a very elaborate, completely pro operation. They were way off the grid.

  The man Jennifer Brooks-Warren hired seems to be off the grid too. I can only hope that TRUST is able to use her formidable hacking skills to find him. Sitting at my computer I read through the e-mails that have accumulated. I am amazed at the e-mails that are sent at all hours; 12:35, 1:17, 2:52 all in the a.m. Doesn’t anybody sleep? I remember a client I had last year who was actually very annoyed that I hadn’t answered his 2:00 a.m. e-mail within an hour of receiving it. Go figure.

  The door opens and I see Myrtle coming in with a bag of Timothy’s coffee. She looks tired and slightly disheveled. My heart skips in my chest. Oh, God! I hope she’s not sick.

  KRISTEN HOUGHTON 17

  “Hey! You okay?” I ask getting up from my chair.

  “I’m fine and dandy. Here’s your coffee and a bagel from Timothy’s,” is all she says as she goes to put on water for her tea.

  “No goodies from Harry?” I ask slightly disappointed. Harry makes wonderful pastries. In the past year since he started seriously baking, I’ve had to hit the tennis practice wall an extra day a week to work off the added delicious calories. It was all worth it; Harry can duplicate any pastry recipe he sees on the cooking channels with ease. He’s even had a small professional baker’s oven installed in their kitchen.

  “No,” she says testily, “no goodies today. Harry didn’t make anything because he didn’t come home last night until very late. Then he went right to sleep.”

  That’s strange in itself. Usually Harry and Myrtle are joined at the hip at night. They do everything together. Their whirlwind social life of Broadway shows and dinners at upscale restaurants is something to be envied. The only time he’s not available at night is during tax season, January to mid-April, when this semi-retired accountant turns his and Myrtle’s spare bedroom into a temporary office.r />
  This is almost May. Harry out without Myrtle?

  “Oh, really? Where was he? Some accountants’ get-together or something?”

  “I do not know where he was or with whom,” is all she says. Her look tells me to mind my business.

  The electric tea pot dings a tinny sound to announce that the water has boiled. Myrtle grabs her cup and turns away from me. I take the hint: subject closed for now.

  In my business I can ask all the questions I want but if a client or suspect doesn’t want to give me information the Q & A session hits a dead end. So it seems is the case with Myrtle. I’ll try talking to her later. Getting through to her now is not going to happen.

  I work the rest of the morning trying to clean up the business card Jennifer gave me to see if I can get some information about the woman in the bar. Just before noon, my wünder-hacker, TRUST, sends me a text.

  “Harlow- face has aka name but no address. Intel attach. Code-Red this one, Harlow. Mean Mo Fu you got here. Bonus for torture. And he’s what we call a White Death so watch ur ass. Checking more. Soon.”

  White Death is a term for a killer who comes in like a white fog, gets the job done, and leaves without a trace. No need for any personal interaction from clients except the contract to kill. Job done, he disappears. I open the attachment to see that the hit man’s face really does have a name to go with it. The name is Marc Croft. This can be an alias or not. It’s a common enough name. The intel on him is short but definitely not sweet. He was a soldier of fortune from 1995 to 2008, a man who offered his services in any conflict to the side that paid him the most. He had no allegiance; his killing skills were sold for a hefty price. His code name is Duchovny, which makes me laugh. That name is Russian for ghost or spirit.