The phone
chirped twice just as I was sitting down with a nice Scotch and a book. It
wasn’t quite as sophisticated as that sounds: it was 10am and the book had
plenty of pictures. I had decided on a quiet morning until the hair-of-the-dog
had killed off the brain cells that had found the softest tissue behind my eyes
and were trying to burrow their way out.
It felt more like late evening with the cold grey light dribbling in
through the large paned windows of my apartment. The room seemed chilly. Even
with the heat cranked up high, it was impossible to fend off the tag-team of
frigid air and dim light that sums up about 90% of a Kansas City winter.
Getting out of the chair that was starting to warm to my presence wasn’t
particularly appealing but the money men called. So with a sigh and a draw on
the liquid courage, I pushed up.
My work phone was still laying on the nightstand, umbilical attached to
the wall socket. I shuffled a few steps across the room and picked it up,
thumbing on the display.
The message popped up, along with the sender’s number.
442-025-1146 : E 7 11 A
I didn’t recognize the number but, then again, I never did. The company
that I worked for as a “Security Supervisor” rarely called directly. Somehow,
they spoofed a number and left a message that seemed garbled. I had called the
number back a couple of times and gotten odd folks around the country that had
no idea they had sent me a message.
The number and the message independently meant nothing. Together they
gave me the following:
Meet someone about a suicide (442) at 1146 East 7th Street at
11am. Pays $25,000 (025)
I was still waiting for that first payment digit to be anything other
than zero. Not that 25k was anything to sniff at.
I looked at the phone clock, which said 10:10. The meeting place wasn’t
far, so I flicked off the phone, threw it on the bed and headed to the warming
embrace of the shower, the rest of my Scotch in hand.
---x---X---x---
I pushed
through the peeling green door with a couple of minutes to spare. The dull grey
of the outside gave way to the nocturnal hues of The Dog House bar. The air was
hot and humid like the place was built under a comforter. Stale beer and urinal
cakes scented the air. Smelled like home.
Wandering into the musky atmosphere, I took off my woolen hat and gloves
and slid the jacket zipper down to reveal my calling card: a red plastic
carnation on my shirt pocket.
The barman was doing his best to be aloof and not be disturbed from the
TV by the arrival of a customer. One of the stools at the counter had a pile of
unwashed laundry on it that was drinking a beer.
The only other occupant was an elderly man, grey hair combed neatly, in a
dark grey suit, which looked a few thousand dollars too expensive to be
touching the chair he was sitting in. He raised his head that had almost been
resting on the rim of his beer glass, focused on my fake decoration, and nodded
in my direction.
The floor sucked at the soles of my shoes like it would pull stray hairs
from your clothes if you rolled around in it. However, you would come away with
a lot worse than a few hairs attached to you if you tried. Probably something
permanent and malign.
I ordered a bottle from the bartender who had seemed more open to serving
me when I pulled the wallet from my jacket. The clothes pile rustled, a couple
of eyes panning over me before they returned behind a dirty lapel.
“Mr. McMillan?” said the smartly dressed man in hushed tones as I reached
for a chair at his table.
“That’s me,” I replied. It wasn’t, but I had a series of aliases that the
company had set up for me. Less of a trail should the Police, or the Mob, or
whoever, come looking for me after a job.
“Do you mind if I see some identification?”
I rifled through my wallet and pulled out the correct ID from the small
stack. A manicured hand took it from me when I offered, the other hand resting
flat upon the tabletop. It could have been a fake ID, though I was fairly
certain most of my clients didn’t want more than to appear serious about the business
that we were to discuss.
He handed the card back to me and started talking as I took my seat. His
gaze never once rose from the surface of the pale brown liquid in his glass.
“I need you to find out who killed my granddaughter, Elizabeth Williams.”
He slid his hand over the table and left a photograph in front of me. The
smiling face of a teenaged girl in a Missouri River State shirt and shorts
beamed out at me. She was waving as she stepped into a large, red brick building,
groups of people milling around her with backpacks and brochures.
“That was taken a year ago, when she started at MRSU. My son and his wife
and I were there,we were so proud of her. She was the first in my family to go
to university, you know. A big day for all of us.”
He paused, whether to collect
his thoughts or brace his heart, I couldn’t tell.
“She had just started her second year when it happened. She moved in with
some girlfriends, to a townhouse off-campus.”
Townhouses aren’t cheap in the city and I had begun to open my mouth when
he pre-empted me.
“I was helping her pay for it all. You might have guessed I’m not a poor
man. She is, was, my only grandchild and I would have given her everything I
had.”
His voice cracked a little on the last word, emotion starting to color
his words. I gave him a minute to compose himself with some deep ragged
breaths.
“About six weeks in, she started having problems. She never said what or
why, but she was missing classes and calling her mother in tears. Staying at
her parent’s home overnight became more frequent. She had depression, you see,
so we were all worried about her, though she claimed to be taking her meds. We
watched her when we could, offered to let her commute from home, but she was a
stubborn, determined child and wanted to get through this in her own way.”
A hand moved over his face while the other reached for the beer. He
didn’t take a drink. It was just to have something tangible to hold onto.
“Four weeks later she was found in her room. She had hanged herself from
the ceiling fan using a couple of belts. The door had been locked from the
inside. Her roommate’s boyfriend helped beat the door in after she hadn’t been
seen all day.”
He could have been reading my mind, probably because the thoughts had
passed through his own so often.
“I know what you’re thinking and it’s what the Police concluded: Suicide.
But I just don’t know, Mr. McMillan. Something else had been going on with her
and until I’m sure that someone else wasn’t involved in this, I won’t believe
she did it to herself. She had depression, yes, but she was so full of life and
I can’t believe it was her own choice.”
His voice had taken on a much more determined tone by the end of his
speech, as if he was sure of this, above all else. He believed what he was
saying and he believed it $25,000 worth.
“So you want me to find out what problems she was having? See if someone
was harassing her?” I asked.
“Yes, yes, and whether you think it drove her to do it. I may not get her
back but I won’t let someone get away with taking her from me.”
He did not mention taking my answers to the Police and I didn’t ask. I
had my job and whatever came afterwards, my fee did not cover.
---x---X---x---
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