Plateful of Murder
Plateful of Murder
The Terrified Detective: Book One
Carole Fowkes
M
ichael Adler had no idea when he first walked into my cramped, West Side of Cleveland office that the only investigating I’d done involved getting the goods on cheating spouses. Working a criminal case went beyond my career goals. Besides, my Master’s degree in Mass Communications didn’t include any courses on fighting the underworld.
Still, I was thrilled with the potential of a new client, a rarity for my agency. Those who did employ me were for the most part paunchy, middle-aged men with unfaithful trophy wives. Something told me this guy, who was as tall and thin as a strand of spaghetti, wasn’t looking to find out some dirt on a cheating lover.
“Can I help you?”
My potential client’s eyes darted around the room. “I’m Michael Adler. Is this Gino Francini Investigations?”
I jumped up from my office chair, banging my knee against my desk. “Yes, and I’m Claire DeNardo, chief private investigator.” I stood as tall as my 5’2” frame allowed. “What can I do for you?”
I gestured to the worn chair by my desk and studied him. Pale face, mid-thirties, losing his hair but trying to disguise it. Black-rimmed glasses, fish-bowl thick. No wedding ring.
He pushed back an errant strand of hair. “My sister, Constance, is a manager at Triton Pharmaceuticals at W.115
th
and Detroit. She’s very accomplished, but she doesn’t exactly…” He cleared his throat. “Have good people skills.”
“Can you, um, be more specific?”
“She may have rubbed someone the wrong way.” He pulled a couple of wrinkled letters from his jacket. “These are the second and third threats she’s received.”
I read the top note aloud. “You’ll be sorry if you do the wrong thing.” The other had a similar theme. Both were blunt enough to give me an unpleasant worminess in my stomach. “Have you taken these to the police?”
He nodded. “The first letter. They said we should take it up with Triton’s human resources department.”
A headache crept from the back of my head to my temples. “Was the first letter along these same lines?”
“Yes. Except it told her to do the right thing before it was too late.” His Adam’s apple shifted on his long, Ichabod Crane neck. He pushed his glasses up with his index finger.
My potential client closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and folded his hands in his lap. His eyelids fluttered, and he picked up where he left off. “I’d have brought you the first letter as well, but I don’t know what she did with it.”
Something was missing. Why was he here instead of Constance? “Why didn’t your sister come to me with this? Or at least come
with
you?”
His face flushed, making the scarcity of his white-blond hair even more noticeable. “She refuses to pay some stranger to do what she thinks she can do herself.”
I gritted my teeth. The average Jane watches a few detective shows on television and figures she can battle crime too. Someone should write an exposé on every wannabe detective who catches the criminal without so much as messing up her tight, see-my-cleavage outfit. “Does your sister have a plan?”
“Something unwise, I’m sure.” He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes.
Not bad-looking without his super-thick spectacles.
He clenched his jaw. “She doesn’t seem to realize the danger she’s in. I love my sister, but sometimes she’s so stubborn. She thinks she can bulldoze her way through anything.” He paused. “Please. Money is no object. I recently sold my business at a huge profit.” He turned even pinker. “My apologies. I didn’t mean to brag.” His expression was similar to a puppy caught chewing his owner’s shoe. With the Gino Francini Agency showing no sign of growth and a lot of bills going unpaid, Mr. Adler suddenly had my rapt attention.
I’ve always held a strong belief life should be fair. More than the-same-size-pie-slice fair. I wanted justice, the kind everyone no matter how rich or poor deserved. Maybe the countless old gangster movies I watched with my mother created then fed my desire. Every time a bad guy got filled with lead I cheered. While other girls played with dolls, I played get-the-crook. Of course, the hero was always me, hauling the scumbag to jail and recovering the stolen purse containing the elderly victim’s entire life’s savings.
Right now, that itch to help the helpless and keep things balanced needed scratching. Plus, if I didn’t get an inflow of cash soon, I’d be living out of my 1998 Toyota, Bob. Bob was a good car and although he was pretty comfortable, I didn’t relish making him my home on wheels.
But this case was scary enough to make me want to hide under my desk. Not that being afraid was something new. Lots of things terrified me from childhood. Balloons bursting, roller coasters, hairpieces, even getting big hips like my aunt’s.
My gut screamed for me to recommend another PI. Dealing with an ocean of tears and denials from cheating spouses was one thing. Stepping between a crazed letter writer and his intended victim made my mind see the word,
danger
, in flashing lights.
Ultimately, my desire for justice and desperate need for money held sway over my decision. To clamp down on any rising sense of foreboding, I told myself whoever sent these letters probably wouldn’t be armed with anything more than a stapler. “Okay. I’ll take your case.”
He gave me a relieved smile, pulled his sister’s photo from his wallet and laid it on my desk. She was pretty, in a snooty sort of way. She looked like the kind of woman who cuts someone out of her life if they belch out loud. Blonde hair pulled back tight. High cheekbones. Except for the similar coloring, I wouldn’t have guessed she and Michael Adler were brother and sister.
He filled me in on the details of her daily routine.
When he concluded I asked, “How do you want me to proceed?” My hope was he’d want me to shadow his sister and report back to him on anybody acting suspicious. Surveillance work suited me. Most of the people I shadowed weren’t even aware of being observed until the incriminating photos showed up. Being invisible was my biggest talent.
Adler’s light, almost white, eyebrows knitted. “We should set up a meeting with you and Constance. If she found out I had you protecting her without her knowledge, she would crucify me.”
I took a deep breath to calm myself. The author of the letters could just as easily be some nerdy mail clerk who got mad when Constance refused to lick her own envelopes.
“
Okay, Mr. Adler. Let’s meet at The Irishman’s Café on West 140
th
and Detroit Avenue at 6:00 tonight.”
“Please call me Michael. Constance and I will both be there.” He wouldn’t get a ribbon for enthusiasm. Still, he put half down. The rest of the payment would come when I found the Ernest Hemingway who wrote those letters to Constance.
The remainder of my day was spent shuffling papers and mulling over my budget. I deposited Adler’s check and arrived at the café a bit before 6:00.
By 6:30, no Michael and Constance Adler, and, what remained of my tea, had grown cold. I was on my way out when Michael called. He sounded hysterical.
“Constance. She’s dead.” His breath caught. “I went to her office to pick her up. It was torn apart and…” He sobbed. “Please, come.”
My mouth fell open. Those letters hadn’t been idle threats. “Michael, where are you?” I kept my voice firm to push through his sorrow and shock. “Did you call the police?”
“In Triton’s lobby. Police are in her office. I need your help.”
Every molecule of my skittish innards told me to refund his money and go back to finding cheaters. But Michael’s grief-stricken plea touched my heart. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.” Unable to stop myself I added, “That is, if you’re sure you really, really want me to come.”
He did.
O
n the way over, I rehearsed how to back out of our contract. I was scared. Now that this case had morphed into a murder investigation, I wanted out. The police could handle Constance’s slaying. My role would be to offer my sincere condolences and a full refund.
Fearfulness was a familiar feeling. I come from a long line of anxious Italian women. My mother’s screams of “Don’t do that, you’ll hurt yourself,” still ring in my ears.
It might seem strange for someone as faint of heart as I am to be a PI, but my investigatory career started with me playing the part of an administrative assistant to my father’s second cousin, Gino Francini, who owned the PI firm. Later, Gino taught me how to take pictures of people in situations they shouldn’t have been in. Patience and a good long-range lens were the only things needed. That suited me fine.
Two years ago, Gino got tired of the harsh Cleveland winters and retired to Miami. He left the agency to me. Since my Master’s degree in Mass Communications didn’t put me high up on any employer’s list, I took it on. Not that it was much at that point. The profitable worker’s compensation cases had slipped through Gino’s fingers after he got into a fistfight with a deadbeat, claiming a back injury. Since I’d been the one photographing cheating spouses, it made sense for me to carry on the business. Despite some dry spells, it was enough for me to eke out a living without jeopardizing my life.
But staying on this case put me too near that line between making a living and getting killed. The most danger I cared to face was driving through the wild and busy intersection at W. 25
th
and Clark.
Then, one look at Michael convinced me resigning from his sister’s case just then would be cruel. Poor guy looked like someone took out his spine and left his body to flop about. Sort of like those balloon men snapping in the wind at grand openings of car dealerships. His red-rimmed eyes and drooping shoulders showed the depth of his sorrow. Sympathy tears sprang to my eyes and I blinked them back. I’m a hugger but this time I restrained myself. “Michael, please accept my condolences.”
Poor guy reminded me of Raymond, a kid in my third-grade class everyone picked on. That boy also wore thick glasses. I should have stood up for him. Before he climbed that tree to escape and fell. Fear stopped me, like it had so many times since. Maybe helping Michael Adler would be my chance at redemption.
The guy with Michael, looking every inch a police detective with his strong jaw and ‘sweat a confession out of them’ attitude, spoke up. “And you are?”
I peered into the bluest eyes I’d ever seen outside of a Paul Newman movie. Too bad their owner was staring at me over a dead body. Any other time I’d be batting my eyelashes for all they were worth.
Better to play it straight.
“Claire DeNardo. Mr. Adler hired me to protect his sister.”
I could’ve sworn he muttered, “Yeah, hell of a job.” The scowl on his face was loud and clear. “Don’t get in my way.” He flashed his badge. “Detective Corrigan, Cleveland PD. This is our investigation now.”
Michael blew his nose and focused his eyes on me. “I should’ve hired you after the first letter.” The muscles in his jaw tensed. “Although if the police had taken that letter as a serious threat, there would have been no need to hire you at all.” Sorrow mixed with anger rippled through his last words.
The detective kept his voice low, sort of like a psychiatrist with a gone-off-his-meds patient. “The best thing we can do now is find out who did this and lock them up.” Corrigan glanced at his notes. “One last question, Mr. Adler. Do you know why your sister’s office was tossed or what he or she was looking for?”
Michael stared off into the distance. “No idea.”
Detective Corrigan studied him for a minute, put his notepad away and pulled a business card from his pocket. “If you remember anything else call me.” With an eyebrow cocked, he nodded to me, turned and strutted off.
Gentle as an undertaker, I asked, “Michael, is there anyone you can stay with tonight?”
He gazed down. “It’s only me now. Parents died years ago.”
My family flashed through my mind. I couldn’t fathom having no one. It would be so…quiet, and not in a good way.
Before I thought it through, I was offering to have a drink with him. God, someone should’ve reported me to the bad PI league. Rule number one, according to Gino: “Pity is a real sucker’s game.” He must have known I’d be tempted to get involved on a personal level with a client.
Once at the bar, I sighed and vowed to make the drink a quick one. Ignoring another of my fears, getting hips like my aunt, I ordered a chocolate martini.
He ordered a single malt bourbon, then stared down at his hands. “I can’t believe she’s gone.”
Despite his quivering chin, he picked up his drink and managed to drain it. “If I’d just gotten to her office sooner.” He slammed the glass down on the table so hard my drink sloshed a bit over the rim.
“You would’ve been killed, too.”
He waved my comment away. “The police will never find the killer.”