“Yeah.”
“That …” he said, pointing to the videotape, “is what got us this offer. It cost a bundle to produce, but wait’ll you see it. Their performance is a scorcher.” Frowning at the empty doorway, he yelled “Margo.”
Margo appeared in the doorway, a glossy folder in her hands. She’d thrown a bored look over her face to cover her anger, but she smoldered like a fire under a blanket. Nicky-baby might get a little singed tonight.
I sidled by Margo and took the folder from her. “Thank you, Margo. Ballantine, I’ll see myself out. I’ll call you Wednesday to nail down the final details.” As I passed Margo, she gave me a spine-tingling smile. I didn’t mind her using me to set Nicky on fire.
CHAPTER 3
After stopping to deposit Ballantine’s check I drove home. There I went through the mail, picked up messages from my answering service and opened up a file under the name of Ballantine/Jane Doe. That done, I called Rocky Franklin to thank him for the referral.
Rocky’s voice boomed in my ear. “Leo, how are you?”
“Fine, Rocky. Just fine. I just called to thank you for the referral.”
“Oh, yeah. That Ballantine guy. Sure. Are you going to take it?”
“Yeah. Me and Davey Isaacs.”
“Good. Should be interesting. You ever seen this Jane Doe?”
“No.”
“Ballantine sent me a video of her, trying to close the deal, I guess. What a jerk. You don’t want your security hot and bothered, you want ’em stone cold. I figured you’d be immune to all that nonsense, what with Samantha around full-time. How is she?”
“She’s fine. She’s holed up in her apartment revising her novel, so I haven’t seen much of her recently, but everything’s going well.”
“Good. Glad to hear it. That brings me to something I want you to think about. I’m in the process of buying out Richardson & Bass and taking over their investigative business. I want to branch out beyond security and I need a director to run the shop. Someone who knows investigative work, someone I can trust. What do you say? You aren’t a kid anymore. Why not get off the streets and leave it to the next generation?”
“I don’t know, Rocky. Let me think about it, okay? When do you have to know?”
“Not right away. We’re still dickering over this buyout. How about a week? Otherwise I’ll have to look elsewhere. If you’re interested then we can talk terms.”
I told Rocky I’d give it some thought.
His offer was disturbing. Samantha had recently been working up to saying the “C” word. I’d seen her mouthing it in front of the mirror. Children. Her biological clock was ticking away and she was running out of time for a low-risk pregnancy. When she was ready to raise the issue would I shrug my shoulders and claim that my work made being a father impossible? Would I slip the handsome cloak of necessity over what was probably simple greed? “Can’t” sounds so much better than “won’t.” I’d have to start practicing in front of the mirror too. “Can’t.”
I found myself calling Randi Benson, my sixteen-year-old foster daughter. Three years ago her father and I reached an agreement. I got Randi to raise and he didn’t get jail for molesting her. Her dorm receptionist went to get her.
“Hi, Leo. What’s up?” she chirped into the phone.
“Nothing much. Listen, I have a question for you. Have you ever heard of a group called Jane Doe and the Pleasure Principle?”
“Sure. They’re outrageous. I love The Axeman.”
“The what?”
“The Axeman, Axel Andersson, the lead guitarist. He’s incredible.”
“Have you ever seen them?”
“No, I haven’t,” she said pointedly. “You nixed that Halloween concert last year. Don’t you remember?” I could see her, in my mind, her hands on her hips and her face scrunched up like a skunk had just farted.
“No, I don’t, but I’m sure I had a good reason. What was it?”
“You grounded me because I’d broken curfew.”
“There you go. Do they get much airplay?”
“WHFS plays them a lot. They’re getting onto 107 and DC101 now that their album is out. I’ve heard they’re going to make a deal with a big record company, so bye-bye D.C. Next time they’re in town it’ll probably be at the Capitol Center and tickets will be twenty dollars.” She sniffled theatrically.
“Don’t cry, you’re breaking my heart. I may be able to make it up to you, though. What do you think of Jane Doe?”
“She’s great. I love her songs. I’d like her a lot better if the Axeman would dump her.”
“So they’re an item, eh?”
“That’s what I’ve heard, but then I wouldn’t know since I’ve never actually seen them.”
“Amazingly, though, life goes on.” I picked up the album Ballantine had given me. “Nudity, Profanity and Adult Situations” was the title. The label was Owl Records: A Fly-By-Night Company. I asked Randi if that was their first album. She said no, last year they had released an EP called “Maps for an Uncharted Sea.” I wrote the name down with a note to look for it at Tysons Corner.
“I’ve got to go now. I’ve got a meeting of the literary magazine,” Randi said.
I thanked her and promised her one of those twenty-dollar tickets.
“You do that and I just might let you out of my doghouse.”
“Will wonders never cease. Get going or you’ll be late.”
My last call was to Danny Freeman, a college buddy, freelance music writer, and part-owner of the Launching Pad, a showcase club for local talent. There was no answer.
I went over the itinerary Ballantine had given me and called Davey Isaacs. Fortunately, Donna was out. Davey said he’d lined up a car. I told him I would put a bank check in the mail to him tomorrow morning for his time and the car. I read the itinerary to Davey and he promised to drive it and pick out his routes and alternatives.
I had put off reading the letters as long as I could but there was no avoiding them any longer. I got out a scratch pad and a glass of Irish whiskey, and sat in my recliner with the notes in my lap. I closed my eyes and imagined tying my worries and stray thoughts onto the tail of a kite, then slowly, evenly letting out the string so that the kite rose, dipped and rose again. I watched it soar overhead, rising until it was only a speck in the sky. Then I let go of the string and it was gone. I opened my eyes and began to read the first note. It was dated a month before.
Jane Doe,
That’s cute, but you can’t hide behind that name, I know who you are. I can see right through you. Your time will come. The truth will be told.
I jotted down a couple of questions and picked up the second note, dated two weeks after the first:
Jane Doe–
You greedy slut. You never have enough, do you? Better be careful. You could choke on it.
The last note was one day old.
The Bitch Jane Doe–
I’ve seen what you’ve done, you slut. You ruin everything with your lies. You will be stopped. You must die.
I wrote a few more notes and put the letters away. I’d finally found something to distract me from Samantha’s absence. Three little words. So much hatred.
Buy The Things We Do for Love Now!
Acknowledgments
I would like to thank the following individuals for the gracious donation of their expertise: Ronald L. Thompson, D.V.M.; Carlos Mejias of the Olde Towne School for Dogs; Maurice Vargas, Department of Public Affairs, OAS; F. Barton Evans III, Ph.D.; Neil Ruther, attorney at law; Mark Schutz, M.D.; Officer Adam Schutz, MPDC.
About the Author
Benjamin M. Schutz was an Edgar and Shamus Award–winning author, and was best known for his stories about PI Leo Haggerty. Based out of the Washington, DC, area, Schutz was also a practicing forensic and clinical psychologist, which influenced his writing a great deal. In his lifetime, he authored seven novels and a short story collection. Schutz passed away in 2008.
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Copyright © 1987 by Benjamin M. Schutz
Cover design by Rebecca Lown
ISBN: 978-1-4976-5295-8
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A Tax in Blood Page 22
