I
SHE KEPT STARING AT ME from across the diner. I had been working my way through a couple of eggs—over easy, bacon, home fries, and a dried-out tomato slice. I was famished after a night of chasing down a missing orangutan from a local zoo. I gulped down the last of my coffee and made my way towards her.
“Excuse me, miss, but do we know each other?” She looked up, giving me this look of utter disbelief, as if such a possibility was absurd. And then she told me as much.
“I've never laid eyes on you in my life.”
“Well. I'm sorry to have bothered you.” I made to turn, returning to the remnants of my morning chow, when she reached out, grabbing hold of my arm.
“Are you James Cartwright, the private detective?”
“Depends.”
“On what?” She seemed to have a low tolerance for being ignored.
“On why you're looking for him.” She considered this obvious fact for a moment.
“Please forgive my manners. I'm Julia. Mrs. Julia Martin. We spoke earlier on the phone,” offering a smile with her words that could stop dead—a crash of rhinoceroses. She then extended her perfectly manicured hand, one that had probably never seen a day's work. I shook it. It felt as soft as lamb's skin.
“So, what is it you think I could do for you, Mrs. Martin?”
“A friend of a friend told me you could help.”
“With what, exactly?”
“A missing person. My husband, to be exact.”
“Have you been to the cops?”
“That's just it. I haven't. I figure they would suspect me right off.”
“Suspect you of what?”
“Of murder.”
“Why is that? You said he was missing. So, either he's missing, or he's dead?'
“I'd have to say both.”
I took this last detail in and chewed on it for a few seconds. But it was leaving an unpleasant taste in my mouth, like that dried-out tomato slice I had tackled moments earlier.
Truth be told, I already knew who Mrs. Martin was. And there was a strong possibility that she had killed her husband. It wasn’t by chance our fates should cross at ten thirty in the morning, at a local greasy diner.
A week earlier, I had returned to my office after a case, to find a plain white envelope slipped under the door. It was stuffed with ten crisp Franklins and a note. The note was from a one Albert Martin.
He wanted to put me on retainer in case anything happened to him. He did not give any details, except that if anything untoward should come to him, his wife would most likely be behind it. He left no forwarding address, contact number, or means of returning the money, so I tucked it away in my safe and waited.
Of course, I tried tracking Martin down. But it was futile. The name was the thirteenth most popular surname in the US. I did some preliminary checks on most of the Martins residing within Motor City’s inner core and surrounding Wayne County District. But no luck.
Then a couple of days back, as I was heading out to my favourite breakfast diner, I got a call from a woman claiming to be Mrs. Martin. She said she wanted to meet. Since I was already heading to Frankie’s, I told her to meet me there. I got there before her, grabbed a seat near the front and ordered my usual.
Ten minutes later she showed. I could tell she was nervous and out of sorts—probably more at home during an opera recital at the Metropolitan, then at a jam-packed local breakfast haunt. I didn’t approach her. If she made me, I’d introduce myself and go from there. I hadn't given her a description of myself, so the odds were that she wouldn’t.
I didn’t exactly fit the expectations of a slick, modern day, PI. I weighed in at around two hundred and twenty-two pounds, stood six feet two, and had a snub nose and chiseled face which gave some cause for alarm. I was wearing a black cotton double-breasted suit. My favorite black felt fedora sat on the table next to my breakfast.
I asked her again why she had contacted me. She said she already told me why. She thought her husband was missing, but most likely dead. As I feigned to leave for the second time, she decided it was time to level with me. She told me she believed they had killed her husband for what he knew. That he had uncovered a plot to cover up a murder.
“Who’s murder?” I asked.
“I can’t be sure. It had something to do with a company named Consolidated Enterprises.”
“What about them? Can you give me more details?”
“Only that my husband was a security expert and he was hired by the company to investigate some internal problem.”
“What exactly was your husband’s expertise?”
“Electronic surveillance.”
“Anything else you’d like to add?’
“Well, he also told me to contact you directly if anything should happen to him.”
“How do you know something’s happened?”
“The particular thing about my husband is that he is extremely compulsive. When he’s not at home, he calls me every hour on the hour to make sure I’m OK. I haven’t heard from him now for over twenty-four.”
“I see.” But I didn’t. What began as a simple open and shut case regarding a possible homicide, one which I could have shuffled off to the local cops, had become much more complex and intriguing.
“Alright Mrs. Martin, I’ll take the case.” I quoted her my standard fee, which was two-fifty per day plus expenses. With no hesitation, she pulled out her checkbook and filled in the amount for a thousand.
“I hope this is satisfactory?”
“Hopefully, your husband will be back in a couple of days, and I'll be offering you a refund.” But we both knew that was doubtful. Plus, something just didn’t sit right about Mrs. Martin, and I'd probably come to regret this moment. My gut was usually never wrong.
II
CONSOLIDATED ENTERPRISES was on the eightieth floor of the Buhl building, a Neo-Gothic-Romanesque hybrid located over at Congress W. and Griswold. They erected it back in ’25 over the Savoyard Creek and its confluence to the Detroit River. The Creek at one point was covered up and turned into a sewer before the Buhl’s construction.
I identified myself to the secretary at the reception desk and asked to speak to whoever was in charge. She told that would be a Mr. Hammond, and that if I’d like to take a seat, she’d buzz him for me. I stood instead. I wanted to check out the painting I had spotted hanging against the entrance wall when I first came in.
The painting measured some five feet by four and painted in the tradition of the abstract expressionists from the forties and fifties. I could make out the partial figures of two lovers intertwined, yet torn apart by the heavy impasto, black paint claimed by the painter’s brush strokes. The rest of the surface was composed of dark blue tones offset by hues of burnt ocher. An abrupt and assertive voice from behind interrupted my momentary art appreciation.
“Mr. Cartwright?”
I turned to face the voice, “Mr. Hammond, I presume?”
“How can I help you?” He didn’t get my reference to Stanley’s first words to Dr. Livingstone during their meeting in Africa.
Hammond, by all appearances, had a matter-of-factly air to him. Small talk was definitively not at the top of his agenda. He wore a blue flannel suit, matched by a dull gray tie punctuated by pinpoint navy-blue dots. His hair was shaved to army regulation, and his eyes gave off the impression of someone looking out over the Dead Red Sea at night.
“I just wanted to ask you a few questions.”
“About what?”
“I’d like to discuss that in private, in your office if we can,” motioning with my head toward the receptionist.
“Very well, if we must. Follow me.” I followed him into a large conference room made up of a dozen chairs lined up around a large walnut grain, oval table. Once seated across from each other, he immediately demanded, “what’s this concerning Mr. Cartwright?”
“Do you know a Mr. Martin, Albert Martin?” He pretended to ponder the name for a moment and returned the answer I expected. “No. I don’t believe I do.”
“That’s strange since he was hired by your firm a few weeks ago.”
“To do what?”
“I believe it was regarding security. I was hoping that you could fill me in on the details.”
“Well, you know perfectly well, Mr. Cartwright, that we are not at liberty to disclose any information about our employees—that’s if this Mr. Martin was in fact hired by us. I have no recollection of him having ever worked here.”
“I understand. This is, after all, a large firm,” I said, playing it dumb and to his self-importance. And he jumped to the occasion.
“Indeed, it is. We have over five hundred employees and thirteen offices throughout the country.”
“And what is it that your company does?”
“We do a lot of contract work with the federal government.”
“What kind of work?”
“Again, I’m not at liberty to discuss that.”
“Right then, I’ll get out of your hair and let you get back at it. I also have a lot to do. Investigating a murder takes a lot of time, and a lot of effort.”
“What murder?” He became agitated.
“The murder of Albert Martin,” I threw back.
“What? Albert murdered… I mean… you think my firm has something to do with it?”
“Yes, I do. But I’m not at liberty to discuss any of the details.”
With my last statement, he had become quiet and introspective. And he no longer looked as self-assured as when we had first met. I could tell he was trying to figure how much to say. In the end, all he said was, “I’m sorry Mr. Cartwright, but I can’t help you.” His voice hinted he knew something but was too scared to tell me what. I decided to leave it at that. I got up and left Mr. Hammond sitting alone at his oval table to consider his next move.
III
I DIDN’T HAVE LONG TO WAIT. Five minutes later Hammond exited the building. He was in a hurry, carrying a standard size, brown leather attaché case in hand. He flagged down the first yellow checker cab that came along and got in. I pulled out from the curb and followed, trying to keep my distance and not get spotted, which was tricky—being the owner of a powder blue Cadillac.
After twenty minutes of zigzagging through midtown traffic, Hammond and his taxi finally arrived at their intended destination. Hammond got out and paid the driver. He then made his way down the walk, glancing around him a few times, making sure he wasn’t being followed. Stopping in front of a red brick bungalow, he took one final look around, then pushed open the wooden gate attached to the white picket fence, making his way to the front door. It was opened on the first knock by a young girl that I figured to be in her late teens. She seemed surprised to see him, but after a quick greeting, Hammond disappeared into the house.
I wasn’t sure how long he’d be. And I couldn’t wait. I decided to come back later. I had an appointment with Mrs. Hammond on the other side of town. She promised to let me into her husband’s place of business.
When I got there, Mrs. Martin was waiting for me in a state of panic. She told me someone had broken into the office, that everything inside was in total shambles. I told her to wait outside while I checked things out. I pulled my Colt out, just in case.
Shambles was not the word I would have used. The place looked like a hurricane had hit it. I took a quick look around but wasn’t sure what I was looking for. It was jam-packed with all types and makes of electronic equipment—reel-to-reels, mics, portable receivers, and recorders. There was a large wooden table in the center of the room, which I assumed Martin used as his workbench. But nothing caught my eye. I went back out to Mrs. Hammond.
“Did you find anything you could use, Mr. Cartwright?”
“If there was anything, it was either busted up, stolen, or was never there in the first place. Your husband struck me as an overly cautious man.”
“He was. But how would you know that?”
She had me there. I could have told her it was an educated guess, but figured it was better to level with her. So, I told her about the note I had gotten from her husband, leaving out the cash advance he had included. I wasn’t sure how she’d react to that since she had also paid for my services. I needed her full attention.
“What did the note say, Mr. Cartwright?”
“He told me that if he went missing, you were the most likely suspect.
“That makes sense.”
“It does?” I expected her to protest, as any normal, law-abiding, guilty citizen would do. But she didn’t. She had me stumped. “How’s that Mrs. Hammond?”
“Well, for reasons unbeknownst to both of us, my husband wanted us to meet. So, he gave you the note to find me, to see if I could be of help.”
In my line of work, you hear a lot of crazy things when it comes to alibis, or rationalizations why they can’t possibly be guilty. But Mrs. Martin’s reasoning was a new one in my books. It got me thinking perhaps she was right.
“Did your husband leave you anything, anything out of the ordinary?”
“No. Not that I’m aware of.”
“What about a safety deposit box?”
“We share one. I could let you have a look if you want.”
“Perhaps later. I figure that would be too obvious a place to stash any critical information.”
“You’re probably right, Mr. Cartwright. But if I think of anything, anything at all, I’ll let me know.”
“I’d appreciate that.”
As I drove off, I glanced up into my rear-view mirror. I saw Mrs. Martin standing there, fixed in the mirror’s center—a solitary figure, being swallowed up by the industrial landscape around her. I couldn’t help wondering what her role in all this was. In my mind, she was still the number one suspect. She didn’t seem to be too broken up about her husband’s disappearance, or possible demise. But for the moment, I had more important things to consider—like grabbing a burger and fries at Nicky’s in the East End.
IV
LATER THAT NIGHT I returned to the house I had followed Hammond to earlier. The street was now completely deserted. A few homes were flashing the blue glow of their TV screens through their living room windows. An unusually large harvest moon hung precariously over the night sky; its moonlight caressing the maples that lined the avenue. Off in the distance, a lone dog howled mournfully.
I parked the Caddy a few blocks down and made my way to the house. Upon reaching the gate, I examined it for any telltale signs that it would squeak when I pried it open. I couldn’t find any. And it didn’t. I continued toward the front door. Sitting next to the door was a couple of bags of groceries. I thought it strange but decided to ignore their relevance for the moment. I pushed my ear up against the door, listening for any signs of life—only the sound of my own heart, beating faster than usual, echoed back. I moved to the front windows, but they were curtained off so I couldn’t make out any details inside.
Pulling out my Colt, I extended it in front of me, using it as a guide towards the back of the house. The back door was unlocked. Not a good sign. I found myself inside the kitchen, with the moonlight, my only companion, listening for any telltale sounds to the whereabouts of the household's occupants. Only the howling of the dog, I had heard earlier, replied. I pushed on.
I found Hammond’s corpse, lying face down on a faded oriental blue and white rug, in the living room—a single gunshot to the head. A pool of blood had formed a halo around his head. I did a quick sweep of the upper floors but found nothing. Working my way back down the staircase, I caught a glimpse of some reflective material near Hammond’s body. It turned out to be a small piece of plastic. It had two edges jutting out at right angles. I moved it back and forth a few times in my hand, finally realizing that it was part of a plastic case used to store CDs and DVDs. I pocketed it.
Back at my office, I decided to play a hunch. I gave Mrs. Martin a call.
“Oh, Mr. Cartwright. I wasn’t expecting your call so soon.”
“Sorry to bother you so late, Mrs. Martin.”
“Please James, call me Julia. Such formalities are for strangers. I think we’re past that stage. Don’t you?” It sounded like Julia had been hitting the sauce a bit too hard and was in a friendly, chatty mood.
“Well, ma’am… Julia, I wouldn’t phone this late, but it’s important.”
“Why? Do you have some information about Albert?”
“No. Not yet, but I needed to ask you something.”
“Please do. Anything.”
“Does your husband own a CD or DVD collection?”
“Well, yes, of course, we share one together.”
“Who would you say was his favorite musician from the collection?”
“Miles Davis.”
“What about movies?”
“Well, his favourite director was Francis Ford Coppola, the guy who did The Godfather, Apocalypse Now and The Conversation, you know that film about the surveillance guy who’s hired to… Jesus—” Mrs. Hammond had suddenly made a connection, and so did I.
In The Conversation, a surveillance expert by the name of Harry Caul, played by Gene Hackman, is hired to record conversations taking place between a young couple having an affair. At first, Harry believes he’s uncovered a plot to have the young couple killed. But he’s mistaken. It turns out the couple is plotting to kill the young man’s wife.
“Do you think that’s why Albert was killed? Over something he may have overheard or recorded?”
“First off, we don’t know for sure your husband’s dead. No one’s found his body yet.”
“You’re probably right. I shouldn’t jump to conclusions. Albert always said that I had a habit of seeing the glass half empty,” referring once again to her husband in the past tense. As I was about to hang up, another hunch hit me. Two in one day, I was on a roll.
“Ma’am, is the film we spoke of still in your DVD collection?”
“Hold on a second, I’ll check.” It felt more like five minutes. Finally coming back on, she said, “I’m so sorry James that it took so long, but he filled the film under the letter T and not C. Yes, I have it.”
“Do you think I can drop by to pick it up?”
“Of course, James, and please call me Julia.”
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