Grave Misgivings

by Kristen Houghton

  “Anyway, he literally bumped into me on the street and spilled coffee on my dress. It was a silly accident but he was so concerned and everything; he offered to pay for my dress to be cleaned. He said his executive board meeting was an important one but that helping a lady,” she smiles remembering, “was much more important than sitting with his stuffy colleagues. He called his secretary on his cell phone right then and there, right in front of me, and said he would be in later that day. He insisted on getting me the Uber car service so I could go home and change. Edward wrote down his address on a notepad, wait, I have it here.” She takes out an expensive Tory Burch wallet and hands it to me. “I kept it as a memento of our first meeting.” I look at a sheet of vellum paper embossed with the Wells and Cummings logo, the name Edward L. Penn, and several other partners’ names. Edward’s neat handwriting gives his home address and phone number. Everything looks legitimate. “Anyway, Edward and I found out that we lived only two blocks away from each other. He even called me later to see how I was.”

  “Jennifer, how well do you know Edward?”

  “I know him very well, Cate. Why do you ask? He’s a good man and very kind to me.” She’s immediately on the defensive and seems annoyed that I would question Edward Penn’s honesty and integrity. With her limited experience with men that’s not surprising; most of them had used her. Edward was probably the first kind man she had ever been around. I soothe her ruffled feathers with a smile and say, “These are just routine questions, Jennifer. I have to be thorough and rule out anyone close to you. I’m sure that Edward is a good person and you certainly deserve his kindness. Just a couple more questions for a timeline, okay?” She relaxes and sits up straight like a schoolgirl to answer my questions.

  “When did you tell him about this threat to your life?” She looks sad for a moment and her hands clench around her purse. “Two months later. I felt so comfortable with him. He was wonderful and concerned. And he insisted that I move in with him. He said that the hit man might be more cautious about doing anything if I wasn’t alone. Edward even made all the arrangements to have my condo rented out. Then there was that message from the…the…hit man.” She chokes on the words and I hand her a bottle of water to sip before continuing.

  “Remember I told you that Edward went to the police when I received that first cryptic note about twenty-five being special? After he came back to the condo, he said that he felt they

  GRAVE MISGIVINGS 111

  weren’t concerned enough to really be of much help. So he told me that he would find a good

  private investigator for me and he did.” She looks at me and smiles. “You.”

  ๕๕๕

  I asked a few more questions about Edward and their life together. Later after she had left Catherine Harlow, Private Investigations, I called Wells and Cummings brokerage firm to get a confirmation that Edward was indeed associated with the firm. The person who answered confirmed that, yes, the name Edward L. Penn was a legitimate name on their letterhead. “Anything else I can help you with?” she said sounding bored and in a hurry to do something else. I said no, nothing else thank you, and she said, “Okay-thank-you-for-calling-Wells-and-Cummings-have-a-nice-day” in a rush of words and hung up. Wells and Cummings must have hired someone’s needy relative as a receptionist. As I placed my phone on my desk, I silently thanked the gods for Myrtle and her crisp professional style and crossed Edward off my list of possible suspects.

  Now I look at the file on the Brooks-Warren case and search for something in the questions and answers about Edward that I might have missed. Nothing pops. Is it possible that Edward somehow managed to contact the Eliminator and offer him more money to kill Jennifer? I muse. But that doesn’t make sense. The Eliminator was going to kill her anyway, right? So why offer more money to do a job for which the person had already been paid?

  Then there’s Adrian, a man I’ve known for five years, a man who went through the police academy with Will; is there something sinister that I don’t know about him? But what? Is he a secret mercenary? I know very little about his personal life or even where he is when he’s not working a job for me. But still, nothing makes sense and I want to discount Adrian as a suspect just on the fact that he always seemed as legally upright as Will. That’s not a good reason however, and until I can prove otherwise, everyone is a suspect.

  And that building manager, a man who seemed a little too interested in the building’s tenants. Is there a connection there with Jennifer? Is that annoying, rather mousy man, a hit man? Three men, three voices, all clear and well-spoken; whose voice is the one the homeless woman, DeeLee, heard the night of the coffin pick-up?

  I set my desk phone to record the voices of the three men, one of whom is a potential murderer, and make the first call to Adrian. My question concerning security for Jennifer and Edward has him talking about the problem for a good ten minutes. Then I call Edward and have him detail Jennifer’s depressed condition. It’s amazing how willingly people will talk when asked simple questions. Next I call the manager of the condo building, am put on hold, and listen to Stevie Nicks sing “Rhiannon” while waiting for him to pick up.

  “Sorry Ms. Harlow. I can talk now, very busy day, new tenants, and all. How can I help you?”

  “Yes, thank you for speaking with me. Just one quick question. Have you seen anything at all that you might consider to be suspicious this morning?” He talks for half an hour.

  Now that I have the voices of all three men recorded all I need is my “hearing” witness. Myrtle agrees to stay late tonight while I go to search among the street people for my source.

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  “What else do I have to do, Catherine? It’s not as if someone is waiting to have dinner with me,” she says obviously referring to Harry and his nighttime excursions. Seriously, I have to get involved in the Myrtle and Harry caper as soon as this Eliminator case is tied-up.

  ๕๕๕

  The streets around Luca Memorial Services are filled with commuters leaving stores and office buildings. As for the street people, except for a few of them begging on the sidewalks, they are invisible. I can’t find DeeLee anywhere, which means I have to search the alleys and the basement stairwells of empty buildings. That means rats, roaches, and risk, the three nasty R’s in the life of a New York City private investigator.

  I ask people slumped in corners of buildings and in make-shift, cardboard shelters if anyone has seen DeeLee. Either they say no or I get no answer at all. Several drunks offer me a sip from their bottles. “Have a drink with an Iraqi war vet, pretty lady?” says one haggard young man wearing a camouflage shirt. He must have been a good-looking man before going through hell; his looks remind me a little of Giles. “I got some good weed too. Come on, sit with me and I’ll tell you war stories that will scare the shit out of you.” I politely decline and feel sad. The street people, each one with their own story of how they got here, they get to me every time.

  “DeeLee,” I call out in an alleyway where I see several huddled bodies. No answer. I continue to several dark stairwells where I see rats scuttling down the stairs. The stench of urine and feces burns my nostrils. I go down a narrow passage between two buildings and shine the flashlight embedded in my new phone. “DeeLee? Have you seen DeeLee?” I ask several women slumped near a window. One of them rouses herself enough to look in the direction of my voice.

  “You can’t be here. This is Big Annie’s alley. You are not one of my people,” she says moving forward menacingly. She’s a big woman. I stand my ground and ball my fist behind my back.

  “I’m just looking for DeeLee, that’s all. I mean no harm to anyone. I’ll leave if you tell me where I can find DeeLee.”

  “You a cop? I can smell cops.”

  “I’m not a cop. I just need to talk to DeeLee about something that happened down by Luca Memorial Services. It’s important and could save a woman’s life.”

  Big Annie looks me over assessing whether I’m a threat to
her alley. She must decide that I’m not because she says, “Go check La Quinta bodega. They dump their food out at five. It’s DeeLee’s turn to wait there by the dumpster today and bring the food back here.”

  La Quinta bodega is on the corner of a block full of dilapidated buildings, most with broken windows and boarded-up doorways. The bodega lights are on outside but I don’t see any surveillance cameras. I follow the smell of discarded food around to a narrow alleyway and find the dumpster. DeeLee is perched precariously on a broken vegetable crate, the top half of her body invisible inside the dumpster. Besides the odor of stale food I distinctly smell alcohol. “DeeLee?” I say this softly so as not to frighten her and make her fall backward. “DeeLee? It’s me the woman who spoke to you about the…” I hesitate and try to think of something that will spark a memory in her liquor-addled mind, “the radio voice man. Remember me?”

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  She lifts her body up, her arms full of opened Styrofoam cartons oozing tossed barbecue and salad-bar remains. The smell is overwhelming. DeeLee carefully steps back off the crate and one carton falls from her grasp spilling chicken wings and ribs. Once down, she places the other cartons on the ground and scoops the contents of the spilled one back into the container. Food is food and if you’re starving, some dirt isn’t going to stop you from eating food from the ground.

  “DeeLee?” I say again, fishing money out of my back jeans pocket. All I have left is a five and three ones but it’s better than nothing. I’ll buy some burritos for her and the people who are waiting for her to return with dumpster dinner. “Remember me?”

  Stacking her cartons one on top of the other she eyes me with suspicion then nods. “You’re the one who found that radio voice man. You owe me money.” I watch her stuff the dumpster cartons into a large plastic garbage bag.

  “Yes, I do owe you money but you have to come with me to get it.”

  “Why?” She shifts away from me.

  “Because you have to listen to the voice again. It’s on the phone in my office. I need you to come with me back there and I promise you I’ll pay you a lot more money. I’ll even get dinner, a real dinner for you.”

  But she isn’t having any of my offer. “Yeah, no. I have to get this food back to Syl and Louise and Big Annie. They’re waiting for me. Tonight’s my turn to bring food.”

  “Listen, DeeLee, I’ll buy fresh food for them too. Even before we go back to my office, I’ll get some burritos from that food truck down the block. We’ll bring them back to your friends and after you identify the voice at my office, I’ll buy a whole bag of food and you can bring it all back here. Come on DeeLee, you can trust me.”

  She looks me up and down the same way Big Annie did before answering me back in the alley. “If I come with you, you got to leave something with Big Annie so she knows that you’ll bring me back here.” She points at my wrist. “You got to leave her your watch.”

  I glance at the old Tag Heuer, an heirloom I inherited from my Nonna Rita, knowing that I probably will never see it again if I leave it with Big Annie. This watch and a gold bangle bracelet she brought with her from Italy were the only expensive pieces of jewelry she owned. For me it isn’t about the expense, it’s the emotional value attached to it. Nonna Rita gave the watch to me when I entered college. I hesitate and sigh deeply. The exchange better be worth it. Finally I say, “Deal. Let’s go, DeeLee.”

  Chapter 22

  AFTER DELIVERING SIX burritos and the contents of the garbage bag back to Big Annie’s alley, DeeLee and I drive my Edge back to the office of Catherine Harlow, Private Investigations. The stench of body odor and alcohol makes driving with the windows open a priority. I would like to take DeeLee to a women’s shelter so she’d have access to a shower, shampoo, and clean clothes but I know she’d never allow that to happen. I can’t help but think about the people who live on the street. The plight of the homeless is a shameful blight on our society; so much more should be done to help them. They fear cops, social workers, and hospitals because they don’t want to lose their freedom. They prefer, and I can’t say I really blame them for this, living precariously on the streets rather than living in supervised shelters. It’s a no-win situation.

  My personal connection with the homeless began with Bo, the man who lives near my office in the basement of an empty building. I give him a weekly twenty dollar bill and I know Myrtle brings him food from her home and buys him snack food as well. I count Bo as one of the lucky ones because he has people who look out for him but what about those like DeeLee and her friends? They pretty much fend for themselves.

  Once inside my office I tell Myrtle to call Enzo’s and place a large order for ten subs and iced teas. Then I hand DeeLee a burrito and a bottle of water. Myrtle brings over a box of cookies and DeeLee eyes her suspiciously. “Is she a social worker? Some nosy social worker gave cookies and hot coffee to my friend Carl. He went to the shelter with her and we never saw him again.”

  “No, this is Myrtle Goldberg Tuttle. She’s my assistant and she will be staying here with us while you listen to the voices. Myrtle, this is DeeLee.” Myrtle extends her hand and, after a second, DeeLee shakes it. She sits down across from DeeLee who is tense at first and then relaxes. Myrtle has always had a calming influence on agitated clients. The windows are closed so that the noise from the traffic passing in the streets below is muted and the air inside my small office is rank with odor and heat. I need this to go as smoothly and as quickly as possible.

  After she’s finished with her food, I tell DeeLee that I’m now going to play the recording of the men’s voices. “I numbered the recordings one, two, and three, okay?” Only Myrtle and I know the order of the voices. “Here’s a pen and paper. When you hear the same voice you heard last week down by Luca Memorial, write down the number.”

  “The radio voice man?”

  “Yes, you said you heard him on my phone two days ago. Think you can remember his voice now?”

  She looks at me through narrowed eyes as if I am the dumbest person in the world and says, “I told you that already.”

  “Okay, good. I will play each one twice.” I push the button to playback the conversations. “Now listen carefully. This is number one.”

  The atmosphere in the room is tense as DeeLee listens intently to each man’s voice. Not wanting her to feel pressured, I deliberately don’t look at her but keep my eyes focused on the phone. Myrtle stands up and walks to the window looking down into the approaching night.

  “Okay.” DeeLee looks at me and says, “The radio voice man. I wrote the number down like you said. Here.” She hands me the paper with the word “TWO” in big letters. Myrtle looks at me expectantly. I show her the word and she draws in her breath.

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  The radio voice man, the man who picked up the coffin, the one who said, It’s a shame when someone dies so young, has been identified.

  Number two is Edward Penn.

  ๕๕๕

  As much as I believe DeeLee when she ID’d the voice, I have to have proof that the coffin was actually picked up by Edward Penn. If it is Edward, what’s his role in this hired kill? Jennifer Brooks-Warren positively stated that she, and she alone, had the contract put out on her life. A contract that was to be fulfilled on her twenty-fifth birthday. How does Edward Penn figure into this? It doesn’t make sense. I have to think this through.

  Myrtle comes along for the ride when I take DeeLee back to Big Annie’s alley. Before we left, I had explained to her about having to leave my watch with Big Annie as insurance that I’d bring DeeLee back safely. Myrtle raised an eyebrow and pursed her lips but said nothing.

  Three large bags of food and canned sodas from Enzo’s are in the back seat next to DeeLee. She’s anxious to get back and share her goodies. “Big Annie’s gonna be so proud of me,” she giggles. “I never get a whole bunch of food like this!”

  I’m lucky this time and find a space closer to the alley where we all get out and hel
p DeeLee carry the bags. Once in the alley, and before DeeLee can share the bounty, Myrtle asks where she can find Big Annie. A jumble of clothing detaches itself from the other women and says, “I’m Big Annie.” The woman is almost as tall as Will. She looks broad but that might just be because of the layers of clothes and blankets she wears. Big Annie towers over the five foot two Myrtle. “I’d like to speak with you,” says Myrtle primly shaking hands with her. “It’s very important.” Big Annie leads Myrtle farther down the blackness of the alley.

  They seem to be gone for quite a while. I put my hand on the back of my jeans where I have my gun and wait tensely. Come on, Myrtle! What are you doing back there? A few minutes later I breathe a sigh of relief as I see Myrtle walking toward us. Big Annie is following her. “Let’s go, Catherine.” As we leave I see Big Annie handing out food to the other women but keeping the bags between her and the building, guarding her stash for tomorrow.

  Even though I parked close to the alley, the walk back to the car creeps me out and I’m on alert for any danger. Once inside the car with the doors locked and with me maneuvering out into traffic Myrtle touches my arm. “Here. I retrieved your watch.”

  “What?” I glance at her hand holding the pretty Tag Heuer. “How?”

  “Oh, it wasn’t so hard. When we shook hands I slipped her a twenty dollar bill to get her to talk with me. Then I simply told Big Annie that I would make a deal with the bodega you mentioned. They’ll supply those ladies with all their daily leftovers and twice a week they’ll give them fresh salads. The leftovers will be suitably wrapped in plastic containers, no Styrofoam, and can be picked up by the back kitchen door. With that deal, it was easy to negotiate for your watch. I know how much you treasure anything from your grandmother, Catherine. By the way,” she continues, “we’ll pay for the fresh salads out of petty cash. I’ll call La Quinta tomorrow and get everything started. I am quite sure that they will be very happy to do this community service for the homeless. It’s good PR for the store and I’ll make sure they know that.”