“I had the same idea,” I look up at her. “You keep this up, I’m likely to push you into getting your licence. I could use a good strong mind as a partner.”
Genevieve giggles. “Oh, Tom, you know as well as I do if I became your partner, I’d be too busy detecting to look after you.”
I laugh and stand from my desk. “I suppose that means I would have to get on finding a wife then.”
Genevieve walks out to the lobby. “I suppose it would.”
Chapter 2
The Hunt
The streets of Red City are busy with people with nowhere to go. While The Legion of Twelve, the twelve major corporations in the city, managed to keep the significant effects of The Depression from entering Red City, joblessness and the dour faces of the hopeless line the streets. There’s nothing anyone can do for them, and they know it.
The neighbourhood Missus Sutton calls home is one of the wealthier places in Red City. Instead of small drab apartments, the people in the area live in two-storey houses. From the look of them, they were likely built before The Depression. From what I got from Missus Sutton, I’m surprised she can afford to live in a neighbourhood like this. I considered that money may not have been near as tight as she’d claimed.
My hard-boiled exterior doesn’t match well with the sort of people the suburbs attract, and I receive stares from passersby. Walking by, I begin to put together a narrative about each one: a history of luck and immoral business actions permeated through them.
I turn down Montgomery Way, where The Suttons live and pick the first house to start my inquiry. My hopes are not high in finding any relevant information, but I have to exhaust a lead before moving on. I step up to the first house and knock on the door. I hear some slight rustling inside before a young woman opens the door. It’s still early morning, and she already has herself dolled up.
“Hello?” she asks.
“Sorry to bother you, ma’am, but I’m looking for someone,” I say as I tip my hat, doing my best to remain composed and unintimidating. “Do you happen to know Howard Sutton?”
“Sure,” she says. “I think most everyone on the street knows Howard and Ruth. Nice people, but they can sure get loud at times.”
“Loud?”
The woman’s eyes widen before looking back into the house. “What’s this about?”
I pull out my buzzer and licence from my pocket and show her. “My name is Detective Thomas Baxter. Howard is missing, and I’ve been asked to find him. May I come in so we can talk?”
She looks out to the street and nods. “Quickly, though. I don’t want anyone seeing you coming in or out; what would the neighbours think?”
I ignore the rhetorical question and enter her home. I’m immediately taken with the size of the entry and the open living area. Brown fabric couches sit in a U shape, allowing for guests to sit, drink and converse without anyone having to strain.
“I’m sorry,” I say, “I didn’t get your name.”
“Margarete Dean,” she says, holding out her hand.
I take her hand and give her a slight bow. I’ve never been too sure about how to address people of wealth. She gives me a bemused smirk and leads me to the living area.
“May I take your coat and hat?”
“I don’t aim to be here too long,” I say.
She nods. “Coffee?”
I smile. “I won’t say no to that.”
Margarete moves to the kitchen to prepare the coffee, and I follow. The kitchen is almost as large as my office and lobby together. She puts some water in a kettle and sets it on the stove. “So Howard just vanished?” she asks.
“That’s how it would seem.”
Margarete shrugged. “I can’t say I’m surprised. Though, with how loud those two get, I’m amazed Ruth even bothered with hiring a dick.”
I pull my notepad from my pocket along with the pencil. “What do you mean?”
“You should hear the two of them, a different row every night.”
“Really? What about?”
Margaret shakes her head. “Hard to say. We’re a few doors down, so we don’t get the details. But, between you and me, I think they’ve only stayed together for appearance’s sake.”
I appreciate married dames; their loneliness opens them up to gossip whenever given a chance. It makes my job all the easier, provided the gossip is on the level. It can be hard to tell sometimes, especially if the word has come through several mouths.
The kettle begins to whistle, distracting Margarete from her thought. She pours the boiling water into a coffee maker and brings it to the table. As the water moves through the grounds, she brings two small cups for herself and me.
“Do you take cream or sugar?” she asks.
I shake my head. “Just black is fine.”
“Anyway,” she continues. “It’s been some time since we’ve heard Ruth and Howard fight. We always thought Ruth sent him packing or even maybe gave him the kiss-off.”
“Do you believe she could have done such a thing?”
Margarete shrugged as she takes a seat. “Can’t really say for sure. Push someone enough and they’re bound to snap eventually. But it does seem more likely she gave him the boot.”
“Except now here I am.”
Margarete stood to pour the coffee. “Yes, and I don’t know what to make of that. It didn’t seem like Howard to just leave. But how much can you really know a person?”
“True.” I take a sip of the hot coffee and am delighted by the flavour. “Thank you.”
“I’m sorry I can’t be more help,” Margarete says. “Folks around here tend to keep to themselves most often. When we do talk, it’s mostly just for bumping gums.”
“I understand,” I say, taking another sip of the coffee.
I roll my shoulders and stand as I empty my cup. “Thank you again for the coffee, but I should be going.”
“Do you think you’ll find him?”
“If he’s still alive, I’ll find him.”
Margarete gasps and covers her mouth. “You think he might be dead?”
“No, but I’m not willing to rule out the possibility.” I pause and rethink my approach. “He’s alive until I find a reason to believe otherwise.”
Margarete follows me to the exit and closes the door behind me. I didn’t get near as much information as I wanted, but I can’t say I walked away with nothing. The question rolls through my head: why would Ruth want me to find her husband if they didn’t like each other? It’s clear he’d walked out on her and intended to live elsewhere.
I straighten my jacket, keeping the late autumn wind from getting through and chilling my flesh. I walk to the next house; I’m sure I won’t walk away with any more information than what I’d gained from the previous house. But the job has to be done, and I have to make sure.
***
It starts to get late when I finish questioning at all the houses on Ruth Sutton’s street. Asking around at Motion Motors will have to wait for tomorrow. The rest of my day won’t be a waste, though; only one clip joint sits between Motion Motors and Montgomery Way, and I intend to check it out. If Howard and Ruth fought often, the man would likely go in for a drink or two in preparation for home life.
The clip joint is not high class but clean regardless. A band plays on the stage, a high tempo beat spreading over the crowd as a dark-skinned canary sings a lovely tune about heartbreak.
I approach the bar; the barkeep’s a large man with a bald head and greying beard. He gives me a wary glance before I approach.
“Whiskey,” I say.
He doesn’t hesitate, grabbing me a shot glass and bringing the bottle over. He fills the glass, and I send the liquid down my throat. The barkeep lifts an eyebrow and says, “You look like a flatfoot.”
I chuckle and say, “What gave me away? Was it the hat?”
“The way you walked in and the way you sat down,” the barkeep replies. “I’ve seen my fair share of people come in and out of my joint, and I c
an tell a flatfoot or a copper when they come in. What do you want?”
“I’m looking for someone.”
“A dame? You’re a bit early for that.”
“No, I’m looking for Howard Sutton. You know him?”
The barkeep snorts. “Know him? That pill’s in here every night, or at least was until about a week ago.”
“Just stopped coming in?”
“Yeah, and good riddance,” the barkeep says. “Guy’s a real greaseball if you ask me.”
I pull out a pack of cigarettes and pull one out. “You don’t say,” I reply, placing the cigarette in my mouth.
“Crumb comes in here and starts trying to pick up any dame walking through the doors,” the barkeep says. I listen, lighting my cigarette. “Normally, I don’t mind; most of my clientele are lonely folks looking to pitch woo with anyone willing.”
“What makes Mister Sutton so special?”
“He’s already married, for one,” the barkeep says. “Can’t say I approve of that.”
“You and me both.”
“But to top it off, he seldom buys a drink or anything for that matter. I got Hannah walking around with packs of cigarettes, and he ignores what she’s selling and tries to get with her. Not that she ever would. She’s a good girl.”
“Did he ever succeed at taking someone home?”
“Yeah, actually, just the one time.”
“Let me guess,” I say. “The last time he was in.”
The barkeep looks in the air for a moment, almost as if he’s looking at something real important. “I suppose it was. He left with that tomato, and I haven’t seen him since.”
“Do you know her at all?”
The barkeep shakes his head. “She’s been in a time or two, but I can’t say I’ve seen her often enough to know her name.”
I take another shot of hooch and reach into my pocket. I pull out one of my business cards and slide it across the bar. “If she or Mister Sutton come back, give me a call.”
I place five dollars on the bar as well as a dollar for the two shots. My look tells him I intended to overpay. He reaches over and takes the money and my card. He reads my card and puts everything in his jacket pocket.
“Of course, Mister Baxter, if they show up, you’ll be the first to know.”
“Much obliged,” I reply.
I remove myself from the barstool and exit the clip joint, convinced I got all I’m going to get.
He did indeed leave his woman for another. I’m getting somewhere, and I’m not sure how much I like where it’s heading. Missus Sutton seems like a nice enough dame, maybe a little more focused on appearances than she should be, but nothing intolerable.
I’ve never been fond of adulterers. It’s not due to some deep-seated sorrow from a former lover’s cuckoldry; nor is it a desire to uphold the seventh commandment. No, no woman I’ve been with has ever been given a chance for adultery; no relationship of mine ever lasted long enough; and my feelings for the man upstairs are shaky at best. He knows why.
No, I despise adulterers because of cowardice. Relationships end. Marriages end, albeit with difficulty. Adultery is an attempt to keep the original relationship while having something on the side. It’s disregarding the feelings of a person and trying to act like they’re better than they are. I don’t get on with people like that.
I shake my head and walk the dark empty streets back to my office.
***
Motion Motors, one of the major corporations that created The Legion of Twelve, holds control of the automotive industry. Garages, dealerships and parts factories fall under the control of Motion Motors. Folks like me don’t care for The Legion of Twelve and the control they exert, though men like me often accept the option of taking advantage of their opportunities.
I received my detective’s licence through one of The Legion of Twelve, The Ares Corporation. The company is known to supply weapons to the military while also having a hand in law enforcement and operating their own detective agency. The Ares Corporation is the only powerhouse capable of keeping The Pinkertons from coming into Red City, and I’m all right with that. I don’t need the competition.
Almost every aspect of positive existence in Red City is due to The Legion of Twelve. Nobody’s willing to say boo about The Twelve despite their feelings, and I don’t say much either.
The front office of Motion Motors is pristine in almost every way imaginable. The walls hold a shade of blue I’ve only ever seen on automobiles. It won’t surprise me if it’s the very same paint.
Small models of cars sit on pedestals in the corners of the lobby. I approach the front desk and eye the man sitting in the chair. I had Genevieve call the day before and set up an appointment to speak with the boss. Nobody wants a detective sniffing around, causing people to ask questions, so getting an appointment is easy enough.
“Can I help you?” the receptionist asks.
“I’m Detective Thomas Baxter. I have an appointment with Mister Oleander.”
The receptionist grabs a large book from a drawer and flips open the cover. He flips past several pages before coming to today’s date. “Baxter . . . Baxter . . . Ah yes, here you are. You’re a little early; Mister Oleander will be down soon.”
I nod and take a seat in the small waiting room. The chair is hard and uncomfortable, no better or worse than my own office chair. The only difference is the lack of movement this chair is capable of. I eye the receptionist while I wait. I try to measure him up, just in case. I’m not expecting a fight and will do everything I can to avoid one. Still, if Mister Oleander has information on Mister Sutton, I’m willing to do what’s necessary.
As promised, Mister Oleander walks through a set of small double doors and grins as he approaches. He’s a well-built man with broad shoulders and large hands. His close-cut hair makes him appear almost bald. From his build, I have no problem believing he worked on building automobiles before running the company.
He reaches out and meets my hand with a firm grip.
“Mister Oleander, I presume,” I say.
“Yes indeed,” he replies. “You’re a detective?”
I pull out my licence and buzzer and let him inspect them until he’s had his fill. “Anything else you need to see?”
Mister Oleander shakes his head, flashing me a disingenuous grin. “No, that should be enough. What can I do for you, detective?”
“I’m here to inquire after one of your employees,” I say. “I’ve got a dame wanting to know where her husband has been going every night.”
Mister Oleander gives me an insulted look. “You saying one of my guys is a philanderer?”
I shake my head and raise my hands. “Not at all. At least, not without proof. You see, Mister Oleander, I don’t make general statements about someone I’m looking for. I just go where the evidence leads.”
“And where, pray tell, does your evidence lead?”
I place my hands back into the pockets of my overcoat and give a sly grin. “I’m afraid that’s privileged information. Between the client and me. You get me?”
“And what makes you think I should tell you anything about my men without any prior knowledge?”
I stare directly into the businessman’s eyes. I grin and back off. “You want to know?”
“I would.”
“Well, put simply, Motion Motors has a reputation within Red City and as a part of The Legion of Twelve. To do anything that would bring a detective to your doors is troubling enough. But to have one sniffing around, especially one who won’t give the press a straight answer past ‘There’s something in there I’m after’ could bring you and your business a lot of trouble. I imagine your board of directors would be irked to learn you played hardball with a flatfoot.”
Mister Oleander’s eyes widen as he takes a step back. “You wouldn’t dare. I won’t allow it.”
“No? How would you get rid of me?”
“I’d call the police.”
“For what crime?�
��
“Loitering.”
I laugh; I don’t even try to suppress it. “You think a copper would tag me for loitering? All I have to say is that you’re interfering with a case, and they’ll leave me be.” It’s a bluff, and I hope to all hell he doesn’t call me on it. “I may not be one of them, but they know a man on a legal job when they see one. They’ll also see you as an accessory to whatever I’m looking into.”
I avoid cringing as I realize I’m overreaching. He’s either intimidated enough not to question what I’m saying, or he’s waiting for the chance to laugh in my face. I doubt it’s the first option.
“Who are you looking for?” he finally asks.
I prevent my face from going smug and retain my composure. “Howard Sutton.”
“Howard?”
“Yes,” I reply. “When was the last time he came into work?”
Mister Oleander cocks his head to the side and narrows his eyes. “He’s been in every day. He’s here now.”
My eyes widen; I can’t believe he’s been coming into work the whole time. “Has anything been off about him?”
“Now that you mention it, there has been a major difference in his character.”
I raise my chin, fully expecting the answer.
“He’s been a lot happier,” Mister Oleander says. “I should have figured there was another woman in his life.”
“There might not be,” I reply. “He might just have left her without saying anything.”
Mister Oleander nods. “That could be true too. In any case, I’m a busy man; feel free to wait for him to get off work.”
“I would much rather see him in person,” I say.
“You will, as soon as he’s off work.”
I shake my head. “I’ll wait until he’s off work to speak with him,” I say. “But it’s important you point him out to me.”
“Why?”
I take in a deep breath and smirk. “Let me tell you a story,” I reply, keeping him from moving and locking eyes with him. “There’s a guy I knew from way back, a friend of my folks. Anyway, since nobody out in the sticks has any moolah, they had to switch to a sort of bartering system. So many chickens for a pig, and so many pigs for a cow and so on. Anyway, this guy had become known as a bit of a grifter in the area. He wouldn’t outwardly con you, but he’d surely find a way to pay less than what was bargained for, usually with low quality animals.
Dead Man Walking Page 2
