False Impressions

A Bo Fexler Short Story

Clair Dickson

The woman barely looked up from the stack of papers she was sorting and filing.  "Can I help you?"

"I hope so," I managed to get out.  The painkillers they'd given me at the ER had me feeling dopey and slurring my speech more than the impairment normally does. 

She looked up at me, eyes widening.  "Let me get Mary Duncan." 

I had no response so I watched her set the filing aside and patter hastily down a back hallway until she disappeared into a side room.  I touched my fingertip to the split in my swollen lip. 

After a moment, the secretary, whose nameplate said “Fran Jerich,” returned with Mary Duncan in tow.  Or so I presumed.  She was a short woman with dark hair parted straight down the middle and hanging just past her tiny ears.  She smiled at me in a sad but friendly manner.  "Please, come with me."  Then, she turned and headed back down the hallway.

"You're Mary Duncan." 

Over her shoulder, she answered, "Yes."  She held an arm out and I entered the room as instructed.  She shut the door, took a seat, and said, "What's your name?"

"Bo Fexler."  I took out a business card for her.  "Licensed private investigator."

Her entire expression changed.  "What happened to your face?"

"I got punched in the face."

"By whom?"

"Don't know."

She frowned slightly.  "I don't believe that, Bo.  I think you do know."

"Look.  I came here looking for a young woman by the name of Denise Halix.  I believe she came here."

"I don't talk about the women who use our services."

"What services do you offer, exactly?"

"We help women who are in bad domestic situations."

"Like Denise?"

"I'm not going to talk about any of the women who come through here.  I don't appreciate--"

"Appreciate what?  What did I do that was so wrong?"

"Came here under false pretenses."

"Really.  Which pretenses were those?  Because, all I remember saying was that I hoped the secretary could help me.  And all I meant by that was that I was hoping she could help me to find a woman who's gone missing.  The last anyone knows about Denise is that she argued with her live-in boyfriend.  Neighbor says she mentioned you . . . fine folks here at LEDA in case she needed to get out.  I figured there'd be some restrictions on what you might be willing or able to tell me, so I was going to just see if she did use LEDA's services."

Mary Duncan folded her hands together.  "As long as you're being straight with me, who assaulted you?"

"Look, I am the last person to need the services that LEDA provides.  The man who did this is currently in the ER getting six stitches in his face from where I nailed him with the beer mug."

"What was this, some sort of bar brawl?"

I smiled crookedly, which caused my lip to ooze again.  I licked it, pressed my mouth closed, and nodded.  "Something like that.  Apparently there were some guys at this bar that didn't like the things I was saying about Denise Halix."

"What were you saying about her?"

"Things that were intended to be antagonistic.  Seeing as how I heard from some guys at the factory where she used to work that she liked to hit that bar on her nights off.  And that she had a few guy friends.  Now, apparently the boyfriend didn't much care for her going to the bar, but since she made sure her nights off were the ones he had to work, there wasn't much he could do about it."

"You said she's not working at the factory anymore," Mary said, watching my face as intently as I watched hers.

"She was last time you saw her.  Wasn't she?"

Mary sighed.  "I shouldn't talk about Denise.  I'll admit-- she was here."

"Don't you get it?  She's gone.  Now, she either flew the coop or she's got herself into trouble."

"All I can tell is that, yes, she worked at the factory the last time I saw her."

"Which was?"

"About three weeks ago."

"Did you check with the factory?"

"No.  I just spoke with Denise at her apartment."

"Apartment?"

Mary nodded. 

"But you're not supposed to tell me anything more about that."  I crossed my legs and arms.  "Can you tell me how she afforded this apartment?"

"With her job at the factory."

"She left there almost six weeks ago.  No one at work knows anything.  No one at the bar where she hung out on her days off knows anything.  You don't know anything."

Mary's gaze flicked aside. 

I made a point of twisting in my chair to look at the spot on the wall.  Turning back, I asked, "What?"

"What?"

"You looked over here all the sudden."

She blinked.  "I-- I don't know."

"Have you had any contact with Denise since you last saw her?"

"I shouldn't talk about this."

"You've already gone this far.  What threat do I present to Denise?"

"Why do you want to find her?"

"Because her brother's worried about her.  He was worried about her with that thug she called a lover, but now she's gone.  He's convinced Thug has done something to her.  It's my job to find out if Thug just made her run away, or made her lay real still."

"I sure hope you don't think a morbid comment like that is funny!"

"Do you see me laughing?" I countered.

She didn't answer.  "If you seriously thought she was in danger, you would have gone to the police."

"While I commend your effort, there's a few problems.  First, what makes you think I didn't?  Second, what evidence do I have of foul play?"

Her mouth opened, then snapped shut.  She shook her head, waving a finger at me.  "Oh no you don't.  You almost tricked me into saying something, but I'm not going to."

"You do of course realize that you give away plenty with your determination to give away nothing."

"I think our conversation is done."

"I don't think it ever really got started.  I wish I could thank you for your help.  My client thinks that Denise is in trouble.  I only hope that I'm right instead."

Mary nibbled the bait.  "What do you think happened instead?"

"I think she skipped town.  I think she took the money your organization provided her with and skipped.  She hated her job and hated being tied down with her ex.  She felt like she was settling for a boring life.  Something like her parents had.  Something she vowed she'd never end up in."

"That's a rather far fetched story.  You have quite the imagination."

"Perhaps.  I hope your day is better than mine."

I walked down the hall, letting my footsteps fall hard.  Even with my beat up sneakers, it made a statement. 

Outside the door, I stopped long enough to light up my cigarette.  Then, I slid back into my car.  I'd had a plan when I'd arrived at LEDA, but sitting in front of their carefully lettered wooden sign, I wasn't sure what step to take next.  I ran my tongue over my swollen lip while thinking. 

My phone chirped from its place on my hip so I answered it.  It was Denise's ex.  I'd stopped by when he was drunk, which got me nowhere.  My favorite business destination.  Beats the ER, though.  I'd also left my card and a trio of messages on his answering machine. 

"If I talk to you, will you stop calling?"

"Probably.  But only if you let me come to your house.  It is the same place you lived with Denise, isn't it?"

"I didn't have anything to do with her leaving."

"Good.  Then I won't come over with a bullet in the chamber."

"You pack heat?" 

"Only when necessary."  I didn't give him my all-inclusive definition of necessary.  "Is it the place you shared with Denise?"

"Yeah."

The house was a tiny two bedroom square that couldn't have held more than 700 square feet inside it.  The tiny porch on the front was proportionate.  So was the flowerbox-sized front lawn.  I parked on the street and walked up the remains of a bit of sidewalk to the front door. 

I didn't have to knock.  He opened the door once both of my feet were on the porch.  Brandon looked at me from beneath a thick scar that roped across his forehead.  Maybe from a prefrontal lobotomy. 

"So you're the spy."

"And you're the charming ex-boyfriend with the criminal record that everyone thinks left Denise in some corn field with a couple holes in her pretty head.  Lucky for you, I don't take much to rumors or first impressions."

"What if I do?"

"I could take off my shirt and change your mind."

He stared at me, a retort surely perched on the end of his tongue waiting for him to decide if I was serious.  He opened his mouth, then broke into a huge grin.  "I might just have to let you in if you'll do that."

I extended a hand.  "Bo Fexler."  I gave him a card.

He stepped back to let me inside.  "You already know I'm Brandon Rustle."

"I do."

"Yeah.  Sorry about the mess."

I simply moved the wad of clothes off the easy chair and took a seat.  "You do, of course, realize that it's in your best interest to help me find Denise."

"To clear my name?  Will that hold anything with the cops if you do?"

"I won't pretend I get any special privileges, but it might."

"Oh, that's real reassuring."

"I'm an investigator.  Not a professional hand-holder."

"Beer?" 

"Not right now."

He shrugged and got himself one from the fridge.  The kitchen was probably only ten feet from the chair where I sat.  He plopped himself on to the couch, which wheezed with worn springs under his weight. 

"So.  When did you last see her?"

He scratched low on his beer gut.  I was glad it wasn't any lower." About four weeks ago.  She said she was fed up with me and thinking about leaving."

"Just thinking about?"

"From what I recall.  I got drunk and we fought later.  I think about that, but I don't really remember since I was shit-faced.  Guess a neighbor called the cops.  But we'd cooled down by then."

"And that's the last you had to do with her?"

"No.  Well, yeah, but no.  She left.  I called her work a couple times asking to talk to her.  Wanted to find out if she was really leaving.  We been together for years, you know.  Didn't seem like she would really go.  First couple times, they told me she was busy.  And that she'd call back.  Then they said I needed to stop calling.  Said she didn't work there anymore."

"So you realized it was over?"

"The relationship was over, but I wasn't done with her yet.  Or maybe she wasn't done with me?  I don't know.  This woman called and asked if Denise could come and get her things.  I said Denise didn't leave anything, but whatever.  I don't know.  Lady said she was from LEDA?  You know of 'em?"

"Yes."

"Aren't they that domestic violence group?"

" ‘Let's End Domestic Abuse.’  Yes."

"Look-- I never touched her.  Shit.  Even when I get drunk, and you can ask her, when I get drunk I just yell.  I don’t . . . I don't think I even call her names.  I did actually like the girl.  Wouldn't have let her live here for six years if I didn't.  I'm not gonna pretend I'm this great guy.  I got a temper.  I yell.  Punched walls.  But I don't punch girls."

"Are you finally done with her?"

"Thought I was.  Didn't hear anything for a while.  I mean, her friends didn't call the house or anything anymore.  Then I got the credit card bill."  He slid it out of the stack of envelopes like it was the first block removed from a Jenga tower.  He bent forward for me to take the bill.

I slipped it out of the envelope and unfolded it.  Scanning the charges, I noticed that the town of Bad Axe appeared on the bill about three weeks ago.  Appeared en mass.  Charge after charge, well over the so-called credit limit-- which just incurred extra fees and penalties.  Something I had learned the hard way back when I was a new private eye.  .

"What's in Bad Axe?" I asked.

Brandon shrugged. "Hell if I know." 

"She's not from there?"

"Don't think so.  I thought her folks lived in Fenton."

"And her brother in Highland."

"Yeah.  I think he might be.  You been at this a while, huh?  Been a PI long?"

"That would depend on your definition of long."

He just shrugged.  "I don't know who she knows in Bad Axe."

I took out my card and stood to hand it to him.  "Give me a call if you hear anything.  Might look good if you help with this investigation."

"Yeah.  Right."

Back at my laptop, I didn't find any phone listings in Bad Axe for the missing Denise.  I called my client.  I asked him about Denise's connection to Bad Axe, but he only gave me "Huh."  Which was about as useful as a car without wheels.  Then he listened uncommonly well as I explained the information I had found.  I left out the beating I got from the guy at the bar as well as the misunderstanding at LEDA. 

"Bad Axe?" he asked again when I reached that part in the story.  As if I hadn't mentioned the city in the thumb at the start of the conversation. 

"Yes." 

"You know."  He must have been part sloth.  "I think Denise might know someone there."

I rolled my eyes.  Probably the strongest, most exercised muscles in my body. 

"I think she had a boyfriend who moved there after high school."

"Oh?"

"Yeah.  I think maybe he got a job there, or something.  But he and Denise had broken up by then."

"Do you perchance remember the guy's name?"

He thought about it for a few moments.  "Randy."

"And his last name?"

"Hm.  Don't know.  I think he sat next to her in Biology."

I thanked him but I didn't mean it.  At the high school, I found the yearbooks and started flipping through them.  If I were one of those people with good luck, I would have found that Randy Hacker lived in Bad Axe.  His surname alphabetically close to hers, it would have made sense that he would sit next to her in Biology.  Instead, after cross referencing names in the yearbook with numbers on my phone disks, I finally found Randy Van Blaircom.  A graduate of Brighton High School, he currently had an address in Bad Axe.  Heading back to my car with eyes too weary to focus, I reminded myself, "I get paid by the hour.  I get paid by the hour.  I don't get paid enough, but I do get paid by the hour."

After a quick stop back home and a quick three hour drive, I was in Bad Axe.  I found the apartment as day was falling asleep and streetlights were waking up.  I knocked on the door.  And knocked again.  After the fifth knock, someone was kind enough to shout, "He's not home, dammit!" 

"Do you know when he'll be home?"

"None of my goddamn business." 

Technically, it wasn't any of mine, either, but that's never stopped me before.  I got my book from my car and found a nice piece of sidewalk to sit on while I waited.  Finally a scruffy looking man came walking up the walk.  He wasn't happy, but it was hard to tell if it was about me or something else.  Maybe it was because his razor broke. 

I extended a hand.  "Hey."

"What do you want?"  His lip was twisted in a scowl.

"I was looking for Denise Halix."

His hand was on my neck.  He held me against the door without compromising my air supply.  I touched his arm lightly with my fingers.  Finally, he spoke.  "You just stay the hell away from me."

"Perhaps you misunderstand—"

"You've got something to do with . . . with her.  That's enough for me.  You come near me again, and I'll kick your ass."

"I don't doubt that.  I just want to find Denise."

"Why?"

"I was hired to."

"A private dick?"

I nodded.  As much as his hand would let me.  His other hand came up and nailed the side of my face.  "What the hell was that for?"

"For all the trouble she's caused me.  First the arrest, now a dammed private eye tailing me.  You stay away from me!"

"Tell me where Denise is and I'll be happy to."

He finally moved his hand from my throat.  Grabbing my arm, he flung me into the yard, unlocked his front door and slammed it shut once he was inside.  At least I'd landed on the grass.  I took up surveillance on the street, figuring that eventually I would have a Denise Halix sighting. 

Apparently Denise was out of season.

Instead, the law came knocking on my car window. 

He shined a flashlight into my face, then leaned down for a closer look.  "Could you step out of the car, ma'am."

"Yeah."  I complied, leaning against the side with my thumbs hooked on my pockets. 

"Are you all right, ma'am?" he asked, shining the light to see my face better.  I'd almost forgotten about the bruising I'd gotten the day before.  Plus whatever visible wounds Randy had given me. 

I nodded and shrugged.  "Yeah."

"Could I see some ID?"

"I'm flattered, but I don't think I look young enough to have to worry about curfew," I said as I tugged my wallet from my front jeans pocket.  I handed over my driver's license.

The officer didn't smile.  But he didn't frown either, which I took to be an encouraging sign.  "Not from around here.  What brings you here?"

"Business."

He straightened, letting the light blind me for a few seconds.  I'm sure it was as accidental as the bombing of Hiroshima.  "What kind of business?"

"I came by to talk to Randy Van Blaircom.  723 Franmore."  I pointed to his half of the duplex.  He was fucking standing in the window. 

"About?"

"About his favorite sexual position," I shot, irritated.

"Miss Fexler, if you'd rather, we can go down to the police station and talk about this."

"Look-- let's cut the shit.  He called the cops, didn't he?"

"I'm asking the questions."

"Do cops have to pass a test to make sure they know how to be assholes before they can get a badge?"

"No, ma'am.  They make sure we're assholes before we get to the final test."

I reached for my pocket, but stopped when he jerked.  "Can I get a cigarette?"

He stared stonily at me.

I pressed my lips together-- though the neurological problem that fucks with my speech made my mouth twist a few times before laying still. 

"Yeah." 

I lit up.  After taking a long drag, I held it, then asked,  "What was the question again?"

"What did you want to talk to him about?"

"Denise Halix."

"You know her?"

"Nope."

"Then what do you want with her?"

"I'm a licensed private investigator.  I was hired to find her."

"She'll be easy for you to find.  You'll get to share the holding cell with her until she gets booked on formal charges."

"What's she being charged with?"

"You don't want to know about your own arrest?"

I let out a breath of smoke with a little jerk of my head.  "What's she been arrested for?"

"Forging checks.  And from what I hear, you're in on it."

"You have nothing to back that up.  Hell, you don't even have anything legit you could arrest me on."

"Loitering."

"You can't interfere with the legal pursuit of my business."

He started to stammer something out, then stopped himself, narrowing his eyes at me.  Perhaps he realized I knew what I was talking about. 

"Look, I can find out who called the cops on me.  Or you can just tell me.  The latter would be easier, but I'm used to dealing with hard-assed control-fuck cops."

"You need to move your vehicle," he said, as if the last half hour conversation had never happened.  It wouldn't have been the half hour I would have picked to erase from time, but I'd take it.

"Yes, sir."

"Have a good night, ma'am."

"You too." 

I drove down the road to the McDonald's parking lot.  I called the police station, got redirected, and finally managed to verify that Denise Halix was being booked on charges of uttering and publishing, retail fraud, and giving false information to a police officer.  Apparently, she mistakenly claimed that her name was Mary Duncan and that she lived in Howell.  Her prints were on file, though.  Her bail was set at $2,500. 

My client would have had the money if he didn't have a rather hefty private investigator's bill to pay.  I made sure to tally my hours and tell him that part before I mentioned the arrest and the bail.  For perspective. 

On my way to deposit his more-or-less prompt payment, I stopped by LEDA.  I gave them a short report about Denise Halix.  She'd deceived LEDA, sold the furniture in the furnished apartment, and tried to use Mary Duncan's name and identity.  I also included a handful of business cards.  In case they might be interested in my services. 

I go through more business cards than Band-Aids the way I hand the things out to everyone over eighteen that I have some sort of passing contact with. 

But early the next week, Mary Duncan left a message on my voice mail.  It could be the start of a tolerable business relationship. 

MEDIUM-WELL

A Bo Fexler Short Story

Clair Dickson

            Officer Blackstone handed me the photo.  The little grin at the edges of his mouth came from the expectation that the pretty lady would be repulsed.  I kept my face impassive as I viewed the photo of a badly burned man.  I took a long look before handing the photo back.  Maybe if he was a little more well-done I would have been bothered.  But probably not.

          Blackstone was obviously disappointed and launched into a bored recitation of the facts so far.  "The body was found by the lake.  There was a campfire nearby.  There were no cars in the parking lot."

          "Was he dead before he burned?"

          "No.  He died from the burns."

          "Was an accelerant used?"

          "An accelerant?" Blackstone repeated, carefully enunciating in a way that my speech impairment prevents me from doing.

          I nodded.

          "Preliminary results indicate it's likely gasoline was used.  Whether it was accidental from lighting the fire or intentional, we're not sure."

          "Could I get the missing person's list you've come up with?"

          "Why are you on this case, anyway?  Business that slow?"  He gave me a sneering grin. 

          "Actually, my client is Mr. Ezekiel Lastrum."

          "As in Lastrum Oil?  As in the guy worth millions?"

          I nodded. 

          "What does he care?"

          "He read the story in the paper, but there was no ending.  He said he prefers that things be wrapped up neatly.  So, he decided to hire a private investigator--"  I left out the part that he likes to hire me just to get me in his house and play grab-ass. 

          "Waste of his money.  There's nothing to find."

          "Can I get the missing persons list you came up with for this case?"

          "I heard you the first time.  Yeah, I'll get you the list."

          "Who was the most promising person on that list?"

          "As opposed to the most promising person we randomly picked from the line up outside the DMV?"

          I gazed at him.  Blackstone never liked me, and having to fetch police reports for me always made him act like he needed more fiber in his diet.

          A pair of minutes passed while he looked at me, corner of his mouth twitching again.  Again, I disappointed him.  "The most promising was Luke Horace.  Nice guy.  Matched the victim pretty well.  Went missing about four weeks ago.  Family said he'd never gotten into trouble.  Can't find any dental records for the guy.  And he doesn't have a tattoo."

          "Which the body does?  You can tell that-- as crispy as he is?"

          "Show a little respect, Fexler.  Yeah.  He had a tattoo on his upper arm.  Only first degree burns there.  Not bad enough to cover the tattoo."

          "Obviously, he could have gotten a tattoo."

          "He's not the type to get one.  Especially not one that appears to read 'Life sucks then you die.'"

          "Doesn't rule him out."

          "Doesn't mean it's him."

          "Granted."

          "You do realize this isn't 1922, right?  No body talks like that!"

          "Sorry.  Been reading too much Chandler and Hammet lately."

          "Should I know these guys?"

          "Writers.  From the twenties and thirties."

          "Trying to show off?  You're still just a blond private eye."

          "Better than being an old, balding cop with no future and no hope of getting laid by anyone besides a twenty-dollar prostitute."

          "And you think I'm going to give you the police report after a comment like that?"

          "Let's not add unprofessional to my list of descriptors for you."

          He snorted.  "Wait here.  I'll get to it when I get a chance."  The pneumatic closer stopped him from slamming the door shut.  I took a seat in an orange molded plastic chair that could have come right from my elementary school. 

          Time passed.  Eventually, he returned with the papers.  I gave him a broad smile and a gushy, "Thanks so much!"  It made him bristle.

          I win. 

          Luke Horace was not the only top candidate for the crispy man found on the beach.  There was another man, William Stapenwier.  Obviously, the men were six foot tall, slightly muscular with mouse-colored brown hair.  Luke's nose was larger.  I read through Luke's history—he was a fairly transient fellow, having lived in all four corners of the city and many places in between.  He left work on Friday, but never showed up again. 

          I pretend I can't think without a smoke, so I lit up.  Another similarity between the men was the short list of kin.  I left some messages and pleas with the answering machines and any recipients who didn't hang up on me.  

          Luke lived on the other side of the city, in a shabby apartment building with several boarded up windows.  I've lived in places like that, in spite of the health and code violations that should stop even the desperate. 

          I ambled up the stairs to apartment 3C and knocked on the door.

          To my surprise, I heard movement inside.  I knocked again.  The door opened and a hairy man looked out at me.  His matted hair hung into his eyes and he had several weeks’ worth of beard on his chin.  Dirty fingers rubbed at his eyes as he looked out at me.

          "Yeah?"

          "Luke?"

          "Nah.  He said I could stay here a while."

          "When did you see him last?"

          "I'unno.  A couple weeks ago, maybe."  He snorked something from his nose into his throat and swallowed.

          "Can I see your ID?"

          "Huh?"

          "Can I see your ID.  I'm a licensed private investigator," I added, hoping he wouldn't realize that my license alone incurs no authority. 

          He squinted at me.  "You're not a private eye."

          "Oh.  Well.  Silly me.  Here I thought I was, after having passed the exam and receiving my license in the mail."

          "You're too pretty to be a private eye.  Everyone would remember you."  With the dirty and rotten teeth in his mouth, the big smile he offered wasn't very pleasant. 

          "Thank you.  I'll show you mine if you show me your I.D."

          Once he got it, he laughed.  "Yeah, sure.  Hold on."  He shut the door most of the way.  I stepped inside anyway.

          He returned with his driver's license held out in front of him.  "Bob Wilcox." 

          "So, you share this place with Luke?"

          "Nah.  He was going to visit some family for a couple weeks.  Grampa or Great-grampa or someone was dying.  In Montana and he went to go visit him."

          I cocked my head.  "He's been reported missing."

          "Oh.  Really?  Like, someone went to the police and said he's gone?"

          "Have you heard anything from him since he left?"

          "No.  But he never was big on calling.  And it's Montana.  Don't nobody hardly live there."

          I was in the presence of a truly educated man.  "When did you last see him?"

          "I'unno.  I guess it's been maybe four weeks?  A month, I think.  I saw him St. Patty's Day."

          "Has anyone paid the rent since then?"

          "Huh?"

          "The rent.  On this fine apartment.  Did you pay it?"

          "No.  It's Luke's place."

          "You know, I'd pack your things because I suspect you'll be moving out soon."

          "Why?"

          "Because Luke is missing and I'm fairly certain no one paid for this place."

          "Oh.  Well, actually, I guess I thought you meant something else.  But the landlord came by the other day and asked for his money and I gave him what I had.  Told him I'd come up with the rest.  So, it's good."

          I crossed my arms over my chest and gazed steadily at him.  "Do you have the number or the address for where Luke's staying in Montana?"

          "Nah."

          "Do you know Luke's last name?"

          "Of course I do!"

          "It's Toros, right?"

          "Yeah."

          "Oh.  Not Horace?"

          He jabbed his finger at me, as if a stubby, fat, dirty finger on a half-baked derelict was threatening.  "What're you trying to pull here?  You're trying to trick me."

          "I don't have to try very hard.  Does Luke have a tattoo?"

          "I'm not talking to you anymore."  He crossed his arms over his chest. 

          I just fixed him with a piercing gaze. 

          "You can't scare me.  You can't do anything to me." 

          I lifted an eyebrow.  Then smirked, turned and strolled down the stairs.  I sat on the hood of my car, munching on cheese crackers for the police to roll up about twenty minutes later.  I waved at Bob as he was placed into the back seat of the police car.  If I were to check the arrest report later, I guessed that it would have some claim about drug possession.  After all, some anonymous informant reported that Bob Wilcox offered drugs. 

          But the mild, passing delight of screwing up Bob Wilcox's day was only part of the reason I stayed around.  The other reason was to get into Luke's now-vacant apartment.  I took the stairs in pairs on my way back up, keys jangling from the clip where they hung from my belt loop beside my cell phone holster and pocket knife. 

          The door was tight in its frame.  I'm not a movie star, so I knew that sliding a credit card in the jamb would be about useless.  I jogged down to my car to retrieve my tire-iron, which works just as well as a crowbar for everyday prying.  Under a slight pressure, the frame cracked once-- cracks that were hardly noticeable in the collection of scuffs and chips in the doorframe.  I pushed the door open and walked in, noticing the sharp smell of old sweat.  And a hint of something rotting in back of the fridge.

          There wasn't much to search. 

          A few clothes, a handful of kitchen items, some food, most of it leftover take out.  A handful of CDs were stacked on the floor next to an empty entertainment center.  I would bet ten bucks that whoever Bob was, he was also selling Luke's things for cash.  I sorted through the CDs.  Light rock.  Elton John.  Billy Joel.  Eurythmics.  Marilyn Manson.

          Everything that remained in Luke's apartment suggested that he was a middle of the road guy.  I was about to conclude that the Marilyn Manson CD belonged to Bob but I looked closer at the sticker on the front.  It said from Mandy.  With a heart. 

          A massive breakthrough like that required a happy dance.  At least it would have if the sticker had also included a last name and a social security number.

          I took one last look around the apartment before letting myself back out.  I pulled the door shut, held my tire iron over my shoulder and headed back down the squeaky stairs. 

          Check stubs indicated that Luke had worked at an office supply store.  A fitting place for a man as adventurous as he, what with the hazards of wayward sticky notes.  His coworkers didn't know any girls, let alone any named Mandy, that Luke would be acquainted with.  But I was directed to the bar where Luke usually spent his hours after work. 

          The bar was just opening when I arrived.  I ordered a diet pop and sat at the bar so I could talk with the bartender. 

           It was a short conversation, with some flirting and some new information.  I learned that Mandy was a regular, usually there by six.  She dated a lot of guys, but usually went home alone.  And she may have dated this rather quiet kid who might have been Luke.  I took my drink, moved to a corner booth, opened my book and read to pass the time.  I ran out of book just before the young woman with a wild mop of red hair sauntered into the bar.  She ordered from the bartender.  He asked her something, than pointed her to me.

          "So.  You're looking for me?" she asked, her tone bordering accusatory with a hint of tough-girl.  Her whole body was soft and squishy. 

          "If you're Mandy, I might be."

          "You might be?  Yeah—I'm Mandy."

          "Do you know Luke Horace?"

          She gave me a feral grin.  "Yeah.  I know him.  Why?  You don't like me moving in on your territory?"

          "You know he's been reported missing."  I kept my face impassive.

          "What?"  Her brow furrowed so tight that it cast a shadow on her dark brown eyes.

          "No one's seen him in a couple weeks."

          She slid into the booth opposite me.  "I haven't seen him neither."

          "What was your relationship with him like?"

          "We dated.  I wouldn't call it serious."

          "You're awful young for a serious relationship."

          She liked that and grinned even larger.  This time it was less predatory.

          "Does Luke have a tattoo?"  I could see that Mandy had permanently inked one of her ample bosoms with some sort of heart or flower design. 

          "Yeah.  He got one a little while ago."

          "You remember what it says?"

          "Life sucks and then you die."  She nodded with an approving smile.  "I helped him figure out what he should get."

          "You don't usually go for guys like him, do you?"

          She looked at me, then glanced around the bar.  "No."  She bent her head in a practiced gesture that made her hair fall over her face.  But my heart's made of marble.  "He was different.  Quiet.  He wasn't . . . all over me.  I mean, I could tell he liked me."  She smiled suddenly at some memory.

          "Did you sleep with him?"

          "Gawd—who asks a question like that?"

          "A woman who understands."

          She studied me.  She might have concluded that I was like her.  She'd be very wrong.  "Yeah.  I slept with him.  Him and damn near every other man in this place."

          I said nothing.

          "And he was different.  He was . . . pathetic.  Didn't know what to do with himself.  I thought, maybe, I could make him more exciting, but no.  I haven't seen him in a while.  I just figured that I scared him off.  I've scared off other guys too.  The quiet ones don't know what to do with a woman who knows how she likes to take it."  She laughed too loudly.  Like a woman who craves sex because she's afraid to be loved. 

          "Did you ever go to his apartment?"

          "Yeah.  Once.  It's over on Jackson Street." 

          "What's the story with the tattoo he got?"

          "I told him he should live a little.  Drive fast, get a tattoo, try something new and exciting.  What's the point of living if you don't enjoy yourself."

          "Have you heard anything about Luke?"

          She shook her head.  "Not in a couple weeks."

          "He may have been killed."

          "Like, murdered killed?"  She hugged her arms to herself. 

          "Yeah."

          "I don't know anything about that.  I haven't heard anything."

          "Any idea who might want to do him harm?"

          "I . . .  I don't know him that well.  He didn't really talk much about himself, either.  That's not really what we did, you know, when we were together."

          "Can I get your number?"

          "I guess."  After writing it on a napkin, she handed it to me.  It was a successful night—I had a girl's phone number.  I thanked her, shook her hand, and she slid out of the booth.  She took a seat at the bar, shoulders hunched, and ordered a beer.  She also rebuffed the first man who spoke to her. 

          It could have been a scene from a reality show, without the cut to the confessional where she explained what was going through her head.  Outside, the air was marginally less hazy, but probably more toxic since inside was just cigarette smoke but outside was a line of factories. 

          I had just started my car and turned the CD player up to a level appropriate for Tool's "Schism" when my phone chirped and vibrated.  I fumbled for the pause button and the phone at the same time and ended up greeting my caller over the sound of the chorus.  Then I got the music silenced so I could hear the other end.

          "Bo Fexler?  It's Lynn Teske.  You called me earlier about William.  My cousin."

          "Yes."

          "I wish I could tell you that I've seen William and he's okay."

          When she didn't continue, I prompted, "But?"

          "The last I heard from him, he'd met this girl that he was head-over heels in love with.  William's always had trouble with girls.  They usually found him . . . kind of boring really.  I mean that in the best way.  I mean, he's my cousin and I know that he's really a good guy.  But he's not very exciting or adventurous.  Or even very romantic, actually."

          I waited.

          "He met this girl one night.  At the store, I think.  I talked with him on the phone a couple weeks ago, but that was the last I heard.  He said he had a great time with her.  He said she was the one."

          "I don't suppose you got a name?" I finally interjected.

          "Yeah, I guess that would be the important part.  He said her name was Amanda.  Um.  Amanda.  I'm not sure of her last name, but it was Lee or League or something like that."

          I twisted in my seat and strained for my laptop.  "Did you ever meet her?"

          "No."

          I settled back into my seat.  "Do you have any idea what she looks like?"

          "No.  William didn't say much about her, actually.  Just that she was the girl he had fallen in love with.  He believes in love at first sight and true love and all that."

          My computer took an agonizingly long time to boot up.  "So, you wouldn't know her if you saw her."

          "No.  Really, I don't know anything about her."

          "Did he ever call her Mandy?"

          "Um.  I don't think so.  I only remember her saying her name was Amanda."

          "Did he always go by William?  Not Will or Bill or something else?"  My computer was finally ready.  I opened my phone disc and started the search.

          "He really went by William.  All his life, actually.  I mean, some of his friends called him Will.  Or Willbilly.  I always thought that was kind of funny."  She laughed nervously.

          "And to your knowledge, Will never had a tattoo."

          "I can't even imagine him getting a tattoo.  He was really against that sort of thing.  Didn't even understand when guys would shave words or pictures into their hair.  You remember when they were doing that?"

          "Amanda G. Leith?"

          "Maybe.  Why are you investigating this?"

          "I'm being paid to."

          "But—by who?  I'm sure I would have heard if someone in my family had hired you!  I don't think any of them would ever even consider hiring someone."  Her voice rose and fell with confusion.

          Ezekiel Lastrum always asked for privacy.  "I can't tell you that.  Would you like me to call you if I find anything?"

          "Would you?  Please?"

          "Yeah."  I hung up the phone.  Then, I shut off the car and trotted back inside.  I tapped Mandy on the shoulder.  "Amanda, we need to talk."

          She tipped her glass up, emptying it.  "What about?"  She wiped the back of her hand across her mouth.

          "William Stapenwier."

          She recoiled.  "You sure get around."

          I took a business card from my pocket and handed it to her.  "When was the last time you saw William?"

          "I never said I knew him."

          I leaned very close.  "Bullshit.  When was the last time you saw him?"

          "First you come asking me about Luke, then you ask about William, I don't know what kind of girl you think I am."

          "You don't want me to answer that."

          "Is she giving you a hard time?" a tall, wide man asked Mandy from the other side.  I straightened up to look him in the eye.

          Mandy craned her neck to see him, then glanced at me.  Her mascara was smudged.  It didn't look like she'd been crying so much as rubbing her eyes.  Eyes that might have watered from weariness.  Or guilt. 

          "Whaddaya say, Mandy, we could do a threesome with him," I drawled with a crooked smile.

          "If she's bothering you—" he offered again, but the malice had melted from his tone.

          Mandy looked back and forth again. 

          The man reached past her and grabbed my arm.  "I think you'd better leave her alone."

          "Yessir," I hissed.  I could wait.  Mandy had to leave the bar eventually.  Probably alone.

          I sat in my car listening to the CD player and going through police reports for the seventh time in search of new clues.  Finally, Mandy stepped out of the bar.  She had a man with her.  I cursed. 

          But he got into a massive pick up.  And she walked across the parking lot alone.  I slipped out of my car, closing the door quietly as if the sound of a car door shutting would be suspicious in a parking lot at a moderately popular neighborhood bar.  I stepped up behind her as she walked between two cars.  Grabbing her arm, I spun her hard around. 

          "When it comes to playing games with people, I always come out on top," I hissed.

          She tugged at her trapped arm. 

          "Tell me what's going on and I'll let you go with minimal injury."

          "You think you're so tough."

          "Maybe it's because I am.  When did you last see William?"

          "A couple weeks ago, I don't know."

          "Why did he leave?"

          "I don't know!"

          I closed the gap between us and glared down at her.  The bravado vanished when the fear showed up.  "You know what, I'm done playing.  Tell me about your relationship with William."

          "I went out with him, like, twice.  He was really, really possessive.  I told him to leave me alone.  And he did."

          "That's a little too neat of an ending.  This isn't a sitcom.  Possessive men don't just vanish."

          She glanced away and tugged again at the arm I gripped.

          "Who did you date first—William or Luke?"

          "William."

          "You saw him after you last saw Luke."

          She wet her lips.  Swallowed.

          "He did it."

          "What?"

          "William killed Luke."

          She shook her head.  "He couldn't—gawd, he was just as boring as Luke was."

          "Where did William say he was going?"

          "He didn't tell me he was going anywhere!"

          "Luke was found on a beach.  By a campfire."

          "You think I lured him out there?  Look, I didn't have anything to do with that!"

          "How did you usually contact him?"

          "Called him."

          "From home?"

          "Yeah."

          "Wanna clear yourself?"

          "What—?"  She stared at me as the gravity of my accusation fully settled onto her round shoulders.  "Yeah."

          "Then call your phone company and ask for a record of your local phone calls from last month.  Deliver that to me."

          "I didn't have anything to do with it."  The tears streaked already smudged mascara.  "I was just. . . dating guys who might be fun."

          "Did William ever get a tattoo?"

          With a swallow, Mandy said, "No."

          I finally released her.  "Get me that phone record."  She hurried away.  I lit up a cigarette. 

          I left there and went to William's house.  It was a small ranch, narrow and stuck on the front of a decent-sized lot.  The driveway was barely large enough for a single car, so I parked on the street.  I checked the mailbox for mail, scanning the overdue bills for something useful by the light of a flashlight. 

          Then, I rounded the back of the house.  Unfortunately, the sliding glass door had a secondary lock that prevented my entry.  There was no way to get in without actually breaking and entering. 

          Next morning, I returned with a key that William's mother had and let myself in the front door.  I was surveying the living room as I shut the door.  Then, a hand slammed me against the door, shutting it with a house-shaking impact and pressing my neck dangerously narrow.  I dropped my hand to the pocket knife at my side and slid it from the sheath, snapping the blade open.

          Spots danced before my eyes.  I showed William the knife.  He pressed harder so I jammed the blade into his wrist.  He yelled, released me, then clubbed me with his other hand. 

          I staggered to the side, knocking a table lamp with my flailing arm.  It smashed on the floor.  I straightened and faced William again.  He was barely larger than me in any direction.  His arms were thicker, though, and muscular. 

          He held his wrist, but the blood seeped out.  Finally, words did too.  "Who are you?"

          I simply told him, "Mandy called you, didn't she?  Or I suppose to you she was Amanda."

          His face flickered emotions until he reverted to angry.  He lunged at me.  I scrambled, smashing my shin into the coffee table before falling over it.  Then he was next to me.  He looped his arm around me, locking my chin in the crook of his arm.

          He hauled me into the garage and threw me hard to the ground.  As I moved painfully to my knees, ready to continue the fight, he threw a bucket of something over me.  Gasoline.  It irritated my skin.  I had to fight the urge to lick the droplets off my lips. 

          Gas seeped into my eyes, stinging like hell.  William foolishly turned his back on me, maybe thinking that I would be stunned by the gasoline in my face.  I've been through worse.  Slowly, I got up and moved towards him, like sneaking up on a housefly. 

          Then my cell phone chirped. 

          William spun around.  This time, I lunged first.  I knocked him back into the workbench.  We fell to the ground and he grunted with the fall.  I punched him a few times in the face, glancing at the workbench for something harder than my fists.  Something to subdue him with.  A crescent wrench sitting on the workbench surface would work.  I grabbed, swung awkwardly but hit.  Blood seeped quickly through his hair and his head started to bob woozily. 

          I patted his pockets for house keys.  Finding none, I pushed myself away from him and went back inside.  I locked the garage door and the front door. 

          If I was a good person, I would have dialed 911.  Instead, I pressed *69 on William's phone and jotted the number down.  It wasn't Mandy's home phone number.  After that, I did finally call the police and tell them that there was an injured man in the garage. 

          While I waited, I did what private eyes do best.  I snooped. 

          In William's bedroom, I found a creepy cornucopia of clues.  A crumpled wad of notes written on receipts, napkins, edges of newspaper pages, and the occasional full sheet of paper was stuffed in a desk drawer.  In these notes, William had recorded Luke Horace's phone number, his job, his address, his neighbors.  Even his work schedule.  And his email address. 

          There was no computer in Luke's place—perhaps a result of Bob's tenancy—but William had one.  I heard him pounding on the garage door as I booted his computer up.  To my delight, he used a computer-based email program that logged in when the computer started. 

          In the email inbox was a reply message from Luke.  William had sent him an email inviting Luke to come to the beach.  William said that Mandy was already coming and that Amanda, William's girlfriend would be there, too.  Though his notes showed that he knew, William neglected to mention that Amanda and Mandy were the same person.  There was no immediate indication that William was planning to kill Luke, but it sure set up motive, means and opportunity.  After all, William didn't seem to like that he and Luke were dating the same girl.  Of course, the solution was to kill Luke, not deal with the girl.  Maybe that wasn't the plan, outright, but William had several notes about how Amanda was supposed to be with him.  And a picture of her with "MY girl" written in thick marker, the "my" emphasized with extra underlines and extra bold letters.  

          And Luke agreed to come, not realizing that the fuel for the campfire was going to be him. 

          There was pounding again, this time at the front door.

          "Police!"

          Oh yeah.  I forwarded the email to myself then shut the computer down before answering the knock. 

          Unlocking the front door, I suddenly recognized the phone number that last dialed William.  It was his mother.  She'd even reported calling every couple of days, including the previous afternoon. 

          I had a lovely talk with the police over several hours.  At least after the first hour, one of the officers was nice enough to let me go home to wash the gasoline of my poor irritated skin.  There was no permanent damage to my good looks and fair skin. 

          William denied what he did, but he couldn't offer an explanation that was even remotely plausible for the notes—the stalking.    

          I delivered my report and my invoice to my client.  He was pleased.  Said he might be interested in retaining my services for further investigations. 

          Luke's family was happy to know what had happened.  My client, unbeknownst to me, even made sure that the papers made mention of my role in the investigation.  Ezekiel Lastrum, in spite of what people hear about him, is more than just an eccentric old skirt-chaser.  He likes to help people, but he doesn't want any attention for it. 

          It seems to work pretty well for everyone.  I like the paycheck best.