AHMM, July-August 2007

by Dell Magazine Authors

  He looked around and said, “Nice office. Cozy."

  "Thanks. It works."

  "I would think that an investigator in your position ... might be more comfortable working out of your home."

  I smiled and decided I really didn't like Agent Carr. Tried to one-up me by knowing my whole name, and now telling me that he knew how much I made and no doubt how much I had in the bank. “Thought about that at first, but I decided that some clients, well, I didn't want some clients being in my private space where I live. Besides, the landowner gives me a break on the rent: He owns the restaurant next door, and I help keep an eye on the place during off hours now and then."

  He grinned. “Really? Didn't think there'd be much crime in a place like Purmort."

  "Not enough to reach the FBI statistics desk, but there's more than enough vandalism, break-ins, and the general stupid people doing stupid things to keep some of us busy."

  "I see."

  "And speaking of stupid ... What can I do for the Department of Justice today?"

  Ouch. That left a mark. While his grin remained, his face colored a bit as he reached over, picked up his briefcase, put it on his lap. He snapped the lid open and said, “We want to hire you."

  I tried not to laugh and admired myself for succeeding. He waited for my reply, I suppose, and I said, “Go on. You've got my interest."

  "Good. Glad I've succeeded, Karen."

  A snippy tone but I let it pass. “For how long? And where? And why?"

  "This weekend. Day after tomorrow. Friday evening to Sunday morning. The where is a farmhouse near the end of a dirt road called Dutton Hill Road. Number eighteen. Familiar with the road?"

  "Road, yes. Farmhouse, no. What's the deal with the farmhouse?"

  "We'd like you to conduct a surveillance on the house for that period of time, Friday evening to Sunday morning."

  He pulled out a sheet of paper, examined it for a moment, and said, “Your normal rate of pay is eighty dollars an hour. The period of time we require your services is thirty-six hours, for a total of two thousand eight hundred eighty dollars. We'll offer you three thousand for that work."

  Not a bad nut, I thought. Exhaustive work for thirty-six hours, but I could pull it off. And it would really help fatten up the old bank balance. Still, when the government comes calling, why not answer with enthusiasm?

  "All right. Call it four thousand."

  Another little bit of color was added to his face. “You seem pretty confident of yourself."

  "I'm the only good P.I. within quite a distance."

  "There's Roger Valliere. Out in Montcalm."

  This time, I didn't succeed. I did laugh. “Roger's a retired deputy sheriff. Nice old buck, if you want a car repossessed or a lawsuit served. For a thirty-six hour surveillance ... he won't last, sorry."

  "Thirty-five hundred."

  Oh, what the heck. “Deal. What's the surveillance? Keeping an eye on who's living in the farmhouse, or who's going in and going out?"

  "The place is empty. We want you to see if anyone shows up during that time frame."

  "Who?"

  "Anyone, that's who."

  "Sounds intriguing. All right, you haven't answered the most important question."

  "Which is?"

  "Why?"

  "Sorry?"

  I shifted in my seat. “Why? I've been in business long enough to know that private work and public work rarely meet, and when they do meet, they usually don't get along. So why is the FBI wanting to hire lil’ ol’ me?"

  "Resources."

  "Really?"

  "Really. You know what's been on our mind since 9/11. White-collar crime, bank robberies, computer fraud. It's all taken a back seat to counterterrorism. We don't have the manpower anymore to do routine work. Which is why we're looking to hire you for those thirty-six hours. We have information that someone of ... someone of interest might be in the area."

  "Someone bad?"

  "Let's just say someone of interest and keep it at that."

  "Do I get to know who he or she might be?"

  Another chilly smile. “If you take the job, you'll be given a secure, prepaid cell phone. If someone shows up—even somebody delivering a package or reading a gas meter—you'll give us a call."

  I thought about the job offer, thought about my bank account, and looked at Agent Carr again. His face had a mocking look about it, like he was daring me to take the gig.

  "And you're saying the farmhouse is empty?"

  "Quite empty,” he said.

  "You sure?"

  "The FBI says its empty. We'll leave it that."

  I tried not to show my lack of enthusiasm for the FBI's capability to determine very much unless it was presented to them wrapped up in bright red gift ribbon.

  "All right,” I said. “You've got me. Thirty-six hours beginning this Friday evening."

  I went to a side drawer of my desk to pull out a standard client contract, but he beat me to it. A sheaf of papers came out of his briefcase and went across my desk.

  "A contractor agreement,” he said. “Please review and sign. And note the nondisclosure and confidentiality clauses in the last two pages."

  I suppose I should have sent him on his way and then spent an hour or two with a friendly local attorney to see what I was getting myself into, but I still liked the thought of thirty-five hundred dollars for thirty-six hours of running surveillance. I skimmed through the form and signed the bottom, and Agent Carr did some magic of his own, and then passed over a cashier's check for half of the amount.

  "Standard, am I correct? Half in advance."

  I slipped the check into a side drawer. “Quite standard."

  Two more items were now on the desk. A cell phone and a business card. “My business card, if you need to contact me. And the encrypted, prepaid cell phone, to make the contact. Any questions?"

  A whole bunch, but only a couple came to mind. “This he or she. Dangerous?"

  "You have to make your own judgment,” he said quietly. “The fact that this someone is a person of interest to the FBI should give you the necessary guidance."

  "All right,” I said. “Do you want a report when the surveillance is done?"

  An amused shake of his head, as if I were wasting his FBI-man time by asking such silly questions.

  "No, no report necessary. If we don't hear anything from you, we assume no one showed up. And if someone shows up, you'll make the call, and we'll take it from there. Anything else?"

  Well, I thought. This was sure going to be a day to remember.

  "Nope, I think we're all set, Agent Carr."

  He snapped his briefcase shut and stood up. I stood up as well and shook his outstretched hand. He said, “I'm pleased this went so well. Country manners, am I right?"

  "Excuse me?” I asked.

  "Country manners,” he said. “I'm originally from Boston, got assigned to the Chicago bureau when I graduated from the Academy ... I like the pace, like the nice country manners up here. It's a nice change."

  "Glad to hear it, Mister FBI,” I said, putting on my most innocent smile.

  And I waited until he got out of view before looking down at my center desk drawer, open since Agent Carr had first walked into my office. And nestled there, above a checking account statement from the Purmort Cooperative Savings Bank, was my Ruger stainless steel .357 revolver. For whenever a sole male comes into my office, I always have the center drawer open, just in case.

  Country manners, indeed.

  * * * *

  So after a while, I decided it was time to leave my office and get home to see Roscoe, my male better half, to see how he was doing and to tell him about what had happened with the FBI. I got a free cheese pizza from my neighbors next door—being in a conservative small town, I leaned toward conservative eating when it comes to pizza—and a five-minute drive got me home. I parked my four-year-old Ford SUV in the dirt driveway, and apologies to all, but an SUV gets me out of trouble during rainy days
, snowy days, and muddy days here in Purmort, and balancing dinner in my hand, I went home. My home, small and lovely, is a cottage of sorts on two acres of land on the Hanratty River, and it belongs to me, Roscoe, and the Purmort Cooperative Savings Bank. I got the door opened and yelled out, “Honey, I'm home!"

  No answer. Typical.

  Through the small living room into the combo kitchen and dining room, I put the pizza box down and said, “Roscoe, come on, it's not nice to tease."

  Approaching footsteps. Finally.

  I grabbed a Coke from the fridge and went to the countertop that served as my table, and sitting on a tall stool, washing a paw, was a black and white short-haired cat that was the size of a small raccoon.

  I scratched his head as I opened the pizza box and popped open the Coke. “And how was your day, hon?"

  In reply, Roscoe started purring. He's not a lap cat, not a cat overbrimming with ootchie-cootchie cuteness, but he can always be counted on to start rumbling with pleasure when on the scene.

  Which meant, in my universe at least, that he beat out most male bipeds.

  As I munched on the first slice, I said, “So. Get this. There I am, minding my own business, wondering what to do for the rest of the day, when the FBI shows up. A representative from one of the top law enforcement agencies comes into Purmort and requests my services. Can you believe it?"

  The purrs grew louder. “No, I can't believe it either. If the FBI really wanted to do a freelance surveillance and not tie up their own resources, they'd bring in contract people, already vetted and experienced. Like retired military or FBI. Not a local yokel, as attractive and smart as she might be."

  The purrs seemed to slow. I finished one slice and reached for another. “I hope your purr drop-off isn't a comment on my looks and abilities.” I took a smudge of tomato sauce and let Rosoe lick it off with his raspy tongue. Our own secret, never to be shared with his vet.

  "So what does that leave me?” I asked. “It means we're en route to make a nice piece of change that can get the house painted before fall ... for doing just a bit of surveillance work. It also means we're involved with something slippery with the Feds."

  I thought some more, started to reach for a third slice, hesitated.

  "And, my friend,” I said, rubbing his face with both of my hands, “it means we're being set up for something. I don't know what it is, but I don't like it, money or no money. This whole deal stinks, ‘cause when the Feds are there, they got the bigger guns, and you know what they say. God is always on the side with those with the heaviest artillery."

  Then it seemed chilly for a moment, and I picked up Roscoe and hugged him tight and said, “Lucky for me, we've got a weapon or two hidden away."

  * * * *

  The next day was Friday, the day my surveillance was set to start, but I had a little private work to take care of before I officially clocked in on the Fed's payroll. After my morning exercise routine—roll out of bed, shower, breakfast, pet the cat—I got out and went to the Purmort Town Hall, where I had an interesting few minutes with the town clerk, Mrs. Pam Dawkins, who helped me make sense of the town's tax records.

  "So,” she said, looking at me over her half-spectacles from behind the waist-high counter that separated the small office from the town hall lobby, “what interest do you have in this farmhouse on Dutton Hill Road?"

  "Professional, what else? And I suppose I can count on your usual discretion."

  "Sure,” she said, winking at me. Last year I had helped her locate Mr. Dawkins, who had skipped out of town and had a philosophical opposition to paying child support. However, after I had located him, he found a higher philosophical opposition to having his cheating butt in county jail, and since then, the child support checks have been regular and on time.

  Pam flipped through a bound computerized printout, running a thick finger down the columns of names and numbers, and she said, “Ah, here it is. Eighteen Dutton Hill Road. Two bedroom home ... owned by something called Grayson Corporation. Property tax bills paid promptly, every six months."

  "How long have they owned it?"

  "Hmmm ... looks to be ten years. Before that it was owned by Muriel Higgins, she used to be the principal of Purmort Regional High School, and it'd still be owned by the Higgins family, if it weren't for her two worthless sons. Morons decided to start a business doing day trading on the Internet, and when they finally crashed and burned, they had to sell their mom's place to pay off the tax bills and penalties."

  "I see,” I said. “And what's Grayson Corporation?"

  "Don't know,” she said. “They're not local. The bills get sent to a post office box in Allentown, Pennsylvania. No phone number, no contact person. Sorry, Karen."

  "No problem,” I said, gathering up my bag from the countertop, but before I turned to leave, Pam said, “Want to know more?"

  "Excuse me?"

  "I said, do you want to know more about Grayson Corporation?"

  "Sure,” I said. “What do you have in mind?"

  She smiled, flipped the tax book shut. “I'll give it to Stephanie."

  "Steph? Your daughter?"

  "Absolutely,” she said. “She's not old enough to drive yet, but Karen, she knows how to dig out info from the Internet."

  "Pam..."

  She raised up her hand. “Please. Even though we settled up our bill, I still owe you. And I'd rather have Steph spend her computer hours doing something productive, instead of looking for boys to chat with. Deal?"

  I smiled back at her, thought about Agent Carr. Well, he was right about one thing.

  Country manners.

  "Deal,” I said, and I left Purmort's seat of government.

  * * * *

  Dutton Hill Road started off paved, and after a couple of miles, became a dirt road. A typical rural road out in this part of New Hampshire, there were wire fences set on each side of the road, interspersed with rock walls that were about as old as the town. Small homes and farms were set off at a bit of distance, most of which had a few horses or cows or some chickens out there in the yards. Nothing that was really a working farm, but small homes with folks that liked to keep their hands in the rural tradition of their parents and grandparents.

  Lucky for me, the mailboxes out here were numbered, and it took me about ten minutes of driving before I reached number eighteen. It was on the right side of the road, and the mailbox was black, with white numerals neatly painted on. The driveway was dirt and the home was about fifty feet away. I pulled to the side of the road, let the engine run for a bit.

  "Well, Tyler,” I said, speaking to an empty vehicle. “Time for you to make another appearance."

  From the passenger's seat, I picked up a dog leash and a home-made flyer, showing a mournful Labrador retriever's face, with the words LOST DOG at the top, with a description, name—Tyler—and my phone number, off by one digit. I switched off the engine, got out of my SUV and went up the driveway, calling out, “Tyler! Tyler! Where are you, buddy?"

  With dog leash in one hand, flyer in the other, I certainly didn't look like a P.I. checking things out; I just looked like a concerned young lady seeking her lost pooch. One of the many advantages to being a female P.I. Strange men bopping around a neighborhood tend to be observed and recorded. Odd women doing the same are usually overlooked, especially if they're women looking for a lost dog, or women conducting a door-to-door survey, or women looking for an address. Nice bit of tradecraft that gives us a slight advantage, especially since male P.I.'s, when doing surveillances, can usually do their business with empty soda bottles when their bladder gets too full. I, on the other hand, know the location of every rest stop, gas station, and kind motel owner within fifty miles.

  So up the dirt driveway I went, calling out poor Tyler's name—a dog whose picture I had downloaded off the Internet months ago—and checking things out. The first thing I noticed was the driveway; it was dirt, which is usual for this part of the state, but this one was in very good shape, a nice mix of
dirt and gravel, nice drainage off to both sides. I went up to the farmhouse.

  "Tyler! You around here, buddy? Tyler!"

  Quick look around the place. Two story, maybe a hundred years old or so, with unattached garage and a barn to the rear. I went around to the outbuildings, dangling the leash. The buildings were empty. No rakes, no farm equipment, nothing.

  "Tyler!"

  The yard was in poor shape, with weeds and knee-high grass, but the buildings didn't reflect the landscaping. They were in okay shape. Hard to explain, but if the place hadn't been lived in for a decade or thereabouts, you'd expect things. Cracked windows. Shingles falling off. Siding cracked and worn. The place wouldn't make Town and Country magazine, but it was in better shape than one would expect.

  "Tyler!"

  Off to the house. Knocked on the door. No answer, of course. But procedures had to be followed. I made notice of the door. Nice and solid, lock and dead bolt. First class, all the way. Went to the side window, peered in. Place was empty. The big room had wide planks for a floor, and I could make out a kitchen counter off to the rear. Everything looked too clean, too neat.

  I juggled the leash again. Empty house, well maintained, nice driveway up and back.

  Like it was waiting for someone, someone to stop by for a quick visit on his or her way to someplace else.

  The someone being my surveillance target?

  Perhaps.

  I went back down the driveway to my SUV. Looked at the flyer.

  "Thanks again, Tyler. Can always count on you."

  And I went into the SUV, closed the door, and said, “But don't tell Roscoe I said so."

  * * * *

  Home, getting ready for my thirty-six hours. A small knapsack, digital camera, telephoto lens, cassette recorder, notebook, spotting scope, and iPod. Looked to Roscoe, scratched his head for good luck, tried to ignore the growing feeling in my gut, like a little field mouse, busily chewing away on my innards. I was getting into something, and this something I couldn't quite figure out.

  Then my phone rang.

  "Hello?"

  "Karen? Pam Dawkins here. How are you?"

  "Doing fine,” I said, scratching Roscoe's head one more time. “What's up?"