'Do you mind telling me what this is about, Detective...'
'Ryder.' More like Detective Donut, Evan thought. 'We'd like to ask you some questions, Mr Buckley.'
'Sure, go ahead, why not.'
'Do you know a Mr Kevin Stanton'
That was the second surprise in less than five minutes. Faint alarm bells started to go off in Evan’s head. 'Yes, why?'
'We'll get to that in a minute. Can you tell us what your relationship is with Mr Stanton?'
'He's a client.'
'A client.' He managed to make it sound like something to be ashamed of.
'And what exactly do you do for your client, Mr Stanton?' Ryder said, flashing a cold smile at Evan.
'Why do I get the impression you know all the answers before you ask the questions?'
'Just answer the question please.'
'Actually that's between me and Mr Stanton.'
Ryder gave him a long suffering look but didn't press it. Seeing as he knew the answer anyway, he didn't need to.
'Okay. Can you tell us when the last time you saw him was?'
'Last night. Here, in my office.’ He pointed to the glasses on the desk. ‘If you want to dust one of those glasses you keep staring at so disapprovingly, you'll find it's covered with his fingerprints.
'So you were having a party, were you? Do you do that with all your clients?'
'Not a party, just a few drinks.'
The detective made a show of sniffing the air. 'More than a few by the look - and smell - of things.'
Evan sighed wearily at the relentless jibes. His head was pounding; that was punishment enough. He didn’t need any of this. 'Is this going anywhere, Detective?'
'Not for Mr Stanton it isn't. I'm sorry to have to tell you that Mr Stanton committed suicide last night.'
Evan took a step backwards as if he’d been slapped and dropped heavily into his chair. He felt suddenly cold. He shook his head in disbelief. It couldn't be true. Stanton hadn't been suicidal when he went home. Something must have happened at home. Ryder was saying something else, his mouth turned down in disgust.
'Sorry, what was that?'
'I said, it appears that Mr Stanton had spent the evening drinking heavily. We now know that at least some of that was done here with you.' There was more than a hint of accusation in his voice. 'He then seems to have gone home where he spent some time looking at pornographic images on his computer.'
Evan groaned inwardly. His heart was pounding. His mouth was dry and he needed a drink of water. He didn't want to hear what was coming.
'Not just the everyday porn your average Joe can get off the internet, either. Bespoke, you could call it. Pictures of his own loving wife being screwed stupid by another man.' It was a full blown accusation now. 'And when he'd had enough of that, he went out to the garage and hanged himself.'
He almost shouted the hanged himself, and then paused to allow time for the full, dreadful implications of his words to sink in.
'Which is where his wife found him this morning. Luckily for us, she became hysterical and ran straight to the neighbors. She was so distressed, poor thing, she didn't think to go into his study and remove the evidence that pointed to her starring role in this sorry little tale.'
Evan sat there completely dumbfounded, unable to think clearly, although one thought was all too clear - he should never have given Stanton the memory stick with the photos.
'It was also in his study that we found your business card,' Ryder continued. He managed to make business card sound dirty too as if it was one of the ones you see pinned up in public phone booths. 'And seeing as we're detectives we sort of worked it out.'
He held up his hand and flicked out a not very clean little finger that looked like a short, fat sausage. 'One; here's a depressed man who just hung himself after looking at pictures of his wife screwing around.' He flicked out a second, sausage-like finger. 'And two, what have we got here - some low rent peeper's business card. So, yes, Mr Buckley, we do already know the nature of the work that you did for Mr Stanton. Although how anyone can call what you do work is beyond me. I bet you even charge the poor saps for ruining their lives.'
He was so worked up that flecks of spittle showered Evan as he spoke. Ryder stood in front of him, looking down at him in his chair, daring him to contradict his words. The look of disgust on his face made Evan want to punch it, but he knew he had to keep his temper under control. They would've liked nothing better than an excuse to work him over and toss him into the cells. Ryder wasn't finished yet.
'That's why we came down here to this stinking shithole that you call an office this morning. To get confirmation from the horse's mouth - more like the horse's ass if you ask me - and to see if you can provide any further information. If you're not too busy snapping dirty pictures, of course.'
'I can tell you who the man in the photos with his wife is.'
'We already know that.’ Ryder snapped. ‘You might be the lowest type of bottom feeder, but at least you know how to use a camera. We got his licence plate from one of your pictures. We'll be talking to Mr McIntyre shortly.'
'I hope you give him just as hard a time as you've given me.' It was out before he could stop it. Evan could have bitten his own tongue off. He sounded so pathetic.
Ryder put his hands on his hips and snorted. 'Hard time - who are you kidding. I've called you a few names, that's all. At least I don't go round ruining people's lives. Christ, haven't you got any pride?'
Evan wished he could have argued. Unfortunately it sounded too much like the voice he heard inside his own head every day. 'Are you sure it was suicide? He didn't seem suicidal in the slightest when he left here.'
'How the hell would you know? You were as drunk as he was.' Ryder shouted, his face reddening. He cracked his knuckles loudly. 'To answer your question, there is absolutely no evidence whatsoever of foul play. I'm afraid he topped himself,' - he emphasized the words - 'because he couldn't face life after looking at your pictures. I know it would make you feel a whole lot better if he hadn't committed suicide, but he did.'
Evan thought he'd finished, but he hadn't. 'And it's your fault,’ – he jabbed his finger into Evan’s face – ‘so you better start learning to live with it.'
Evan pictured himself grabbing the finger in his face and snapping it at the knuckle. It helped. 'Did he leave a note?'
'Yeah, he left a note. His tramp of a wife threw it in the trash but we dug it out. It was torn but it wasn't difficult to read seeing as it was only one word in nice big capital letters – BITC – we figured the rest out.'
He must have known it was you who was going to be investigating.
Ryder and his partner, who hadn't said a word the whole time, turned to go. But Ryder just couldn't let it go. He hesitated at the door.
'I just can't understand why anyone would want to spend their lives doing this shit.’ He made a sweeping arm gesture taking in the whole room. ‘Helping people ruin their lives day in day out. Why don't you do something to help people for a change? Find missing kids or something worthwhile like that.'
Something snapped inside Evan. A sudden surge of heat flushed through his body and he felt a rush of blood to his head making it feel like it was going to explode. Ryder had touched a raw nerve and he couldn't stop himself. He jumped up from the chair and lunged at the fat detective, screaming into his face.
'You sanctimonious bastard. You have no idea what you're talking about. You know absolutely nothing about me.'
Ryder's partner stepped between them and put his hand on Evan's chest. It was a big hand and he was a big man, broad in the shoulders, narrow in the waist. His eyes held Evan’s. 'That's enough. Calm down now.'
'Calm down! I've had to listen to this holier-than-thou, fat prick insult me from the moment he walked in and now he tells me I should spend my life doing something useful. He wouldn't know what useful was if it bit him in the ass.'
'I don't know what you're getting so riled up about,' Ryder said f
rom behind his partner. 'You do what you do, you gotta expect people to hate you.'
'Do either of you two idiots know the first thing about me? My name doesn't ring any bells? Come on, you're the great detectives.'
'I don't know what you're talking about,' Ryder said again. 'Why the hell would we know anything about a lowlife like you.'
Evan lunged again, but Ryder's partner pushed him back. 'Five years ago. Sarah Buckley. My wife. Disappeared off the face of the planet. Ring any bells yet?'
Ryder looked at him like he was talking gibberish. There was a faint glimmer of recognition in his partner's eyes. 'I seem to remember something about that,' he said.
'Well, allow me to refresh your memories a little. One day, out of the blue, she disappeared without trace. I reported her missing. You lot were about as much use as a one-legged man in an ass kicking contest. What was worse was you didn't give a damn either. Back then I had a proper job, but I couldn't stand just sitting around waiting for lazy idiots like him,' Evan said, jabbing a finger at Ryder, 'with their heads up their fat asses doing sweet F.A.'
'You better watch your mouth, Buckley,' Ryder said. But Evan was too far gone to stop now.
'Or what, you fat bastard? Or what?‘ He was almost screaming now, a red mist engulfing him. ‘I packed in my real job so that I could start doing yours. And no, I didn't find her, but at least I tried, which is more than you did. And I'm still trying, and I'll keep on trying.'
He paused to gulp some air into his heaving lungs. He could feel himself shaking against the other detective’s hand. 'So when some useless tub of lard comes in here and spends ten minutes being abusive before he tells me to do something useful with my life, I get a little uptight.' He spat the last word into Ryder's face over his partner's shoulder, and pushed harder into the hand on his chest.
'On top of all that I still have to pay the bills, and that means I have to do whatever my clients pay me to do, however distasteful the sainted Detective Ryder might find it. It's called the real world, and you should go there some time. See how you get on without a badge to hide behind.'
He sagged visibly; the outburst had drained him completely. Ryder's partner could see the fury had gone and he dropped his hand from Evan's chest.
'Okay, okay, we're going to leave now. If you can think of anything that might be useful, or you just want to talk, give me a call. The name's Guillory.' He gave Evan his card and they left.
After they'd gone Evan sat down at his desk and rested his head in his hands. This all seemed like some terrible nightmare, but he knew he wouldn't be waking up from it any time soon. This was his life now. He didn't like the things Ryder had said but he couldn't fault the logic. Sure, it was Stanton's wife and McIntyre who were the root cause of it all, but it was his whisky and his photographs that had pushed the man over the edge.
He should never have given him the memory stick.
Up until he got home, Stanton had only seen the first picture of the two of them standing outside the motel, still wearing all their clothes. There was still room for an innocent explanation. He'd asked Evan about the others but he hadn't wanted to see them. But then, sitting at home, full of whisky and with the memory stick burning a hole in his pocket, he hadn't been able to stop himself from looking. Evan imagined him getting it out of his pocket and turning it over in his hand; maybe he threw it in the trash only to go back and dig it out again, knowing all the while that in the end he would have to know, just like Evan had said.
And what he'd seen had robbed him of the will to live. Ryder was right; it was his fault and he was going to have to learn to live with it for the rest of his life.
CHAPTER 4
There was another, softer knock on the still open door. Evan looked up and saw Tom Jacobson filling the doorway. Jacobson was a huge man with a grizzled beard who’d played college football before he tore the ligaments in his knee badly enough to end his career. His teeth were crooked and uneven which always surprised Evan since he carried on a dental practice in the office downstairs. Evan often thought he could hear the drill and the patients screaming. He also owned the building making him Evan's landlord.
'Tom, come on in. I think some root canal work would just about round off my morning. You don't happen to have any novocaine on you, do you?'
Jacobson smiled and looked at his watch - it was still only eight thirty in the morning. 'Not a good day so far then,' he said, sitting down in the visitor's chair. 'I heard some shouting so I thought I'd come and see if everything's okay. I passed a couple of guys on my way up - they looked like cops.'
Evan could see it didn't look good. If he was a landlord, he wouldn't want a tenant like him. The whisky bottle and glasses were sitting on the desk not more than six inches from Jacobson's left elbow. The sleeping bag was still on the floor and the air in the room was stale despite the open window. Cops were involved and there'd been a lot of shouting. Perhaps he was worried someone would get shot in his building next. Evan decided he might as well come clean.
'You're right, they were cops...'
Jacobson held up a large hand to stop him. The fingers looked like they could pull teeth without needing pliers.
'I can see something's been going on, Evan, but I've got a patient at nine. You look like you could do with getting it off your chest. Why don't we get some lunch together and you can tell me all about it then.'
'Yeah, that'd be good,' Evan said. Jacobson was right; he did need to talk to someone, especially after Ryder had touched a raw nerve and set him off about Sarah. He also needed to get Jacobson on his side because he knew his income and ability to pay the rent were about to take a nosedive.
Jacobson got up to go and grinned at him. 'I'll give you a call about twelve thirty. And if you still want a root canal afterwards, we'll see what we can do about that too.'
They went to a nice place round the corner from the office, called the French Washroom or something like that. The sort of place frequented by successful dentists, rather than struggling PIs, where they won't let you have ketchup. The prices made Evan's eyes water but Jacobson had insisted up front that it was on him.
The maître d’ looked at Evan as if the last time he’d seen him was when he’d caught him taking a shit in the alley outside the kitchen door. Evan could see he didn’t want to let him in, despite being with Monsieur Jacobson. He felt a lot better when he saw his bow-tie was not only askew, but a clip-on and not properly tied. He tapped his own collar and smiled as he passed. He knew it was stupid – the first thing the maître d’ would do would be to scoot into the kitchen and order extra phlegm for Monsieur Jacobson’s guest.
It got better still when they got to their table. The waitresses all wore short skirts and frilly white blouses that had shrunk in the wash. The waiters all looked a little light in their loafers. A couple of them looked like they wanted to wear the same outfits as the women. Evan’s silent prayer was answered as a young and pretty waitress came over to serve them. She brought them their drinks and a couple of bread rolls that looked like they were made from whole vegetarians. Evan felt healthier just looking at them.
There was a small plate of olives on the table. He took one and ate it and fished the pit out of his mouth. He never knew what to do with them; certainly not in a place like this. If it hadn’t been for Jacobson, he’d have flicked it at the maître d’.
'You know that song Novocaine for the Soul,' he said, once he'd taken a swallow of his drink, 'well I feel like I need a large dose of that, right now.'
'I don't know it,' Jacobson said, 'but I guess this is a whole lot more serious than a couple of cops giving you a hard time.'
'It is. You know I'm a private investigator, a private eye or whatever you want to call it.'
Jacobson nodded but didn't say anything. He took a sip of his mineral water and waited for Evan to continue.
'It probably doesn't come as any surprise to hear that it's not quite as glamorous or exciting as it's made out to be in the movies.' Evan took
a large swallow of his Margarita and licked the salt round the edge of the glass. It was the best bit. 'Do you know what I spend most of my life doing?'
'I would guess it's divorce work.'
'Exactly. What one of those cops called snapping dirty pictures of some guy or other screwing my clients' wives. Or vice versa. It doesn't make you feel very good about yourself.' He slumped back into his chair and ran a hand through his hair.
'I don't suppose it does.'
'But you get over it. This helps.' He held up his almost empty glass. 'It's uncomfortable and embarrassing when you give them the photos or whatever else you've dug up. Some of them cry, some of them get angry and shout at you like it's your fault. But then they all get up and go back to what's left of their lives and you never see or hear from them again.'
'But not this time?'
'Definitely not this time.'
He drained his glass and looked round for the waitress, and then remembered Jacobson was picking up the tab. Jacobson waved a hand and told him to go ahead, it sounded like he needed it. Then Evan told him all about Stanton and how they'd sat drinking together and how Stanton had gone home seeming as good as could be expected in the circumstances. And how the next thing Evan knew, Stanton was swinging from a rafter in his garage.
'And you blame yourself because you made him take the memory stick home?'
'Wouldn't you? That's what tipped him over the edge.'
'I don't know, it's impossible to say; but I do understand how it would make you feel that way.'
The waitress brought their food. She really was very pretty. Evan was sure she was smiling at him more than the other diners. He got stuck into his steak. It was excellent. So were the fries. He wouldn’t have put ketchup on them even if they’d allowed it. At least he hadn't lost his appetite.
'I can see why you want that novocaine,' Jacobson continued, 'but I'm afraid time is the only thing that's going to make you feel any better.'
Cruel Comfort (Evan Buckley Thrillers Book 1) Page 2
