Broken Hearts / Broken Dreams

by Artimus Candler

I wished I could say that I was doing something classy or uplifting when the door to my office opened, but the truth is that I was cleaning under my nails with a penknife. Since the penknife was classy – maybe that counts.

Like I said, the door opened and in walked trouble. It'd be more exciting if spies, terrorists, hoods or a beautiful woman entered, but that's not my life. A woman of indeterminate age and mixed ancestry entered confidently. The woman held a briefcase with an assurance that no one would dare take it from her. At first I thought the woman to be fifty / fifty-five, but she was younger and the years had not been kind. The woman was severe – taking herself too seriously in a world that took itself too seriously. The woman's clothes fitted perfectly to a trim frame.

The shame was that the woman could have been attractive with the right touches. Her hair was fairly long and its dark color showed streaks of gray. Her dark eyes held intensity not tempered by humor and I caught myself wondering what she would have looked like with a smile.

I notice details like that. Did I mention that I'm a private eye – yeah really.

“Are you Mr. H. W. Grady?” asked the woman.

“That's what my driver's license says,” I replied – it wasn't any funnier in person.

The woman did not look amused. Something about the way the woman pulled herself up straighter and made her lips thinner made me think of the teachers in grade school. Unfortunately, numerous applications of a ruler across my knuckles had done little to improve my manners or teach me to control my tongue.

“Are you a private investigator?” asked the woman.

“That's what it says on my license.”

“Had not a police detective recommended you, I would take my business elsewhere. Although I suppose you probably have some business arrangement with the detective.”

“The first thing that you might as learn about my profession is that cops don't like it much. If a detective referred you, it means that was one of my few friends or they thought your case was a no-go and didn't want to waste time on it.”

“Are you going to invite me to sit?” asked the woman.

“Sit,” I invited.

“You certainly are not much for manners,” noted the woman – something about her tone and inflections said private school, but she sat in a client chair facing my desk.

“Look,” I said, taking my feet from my desk and leaning forward in the most sincere, I'm here to help pose that I could summon up. “If you're looking for manners, I'm that some big outfit with former federal agents as investigators could meet your high standards.”

“You're right, the police think that this a ‘no-go',” replied the woman. “I believe a firm such as you describe would be happy to take my money – results or not. I was told otherwise about you.”

Yep, definitely a private school grad , I thought.

I pulled a small pad from the desk and clutched a pen at ready – the prepared investigative profession at your service.

“Maybe we should start with what the case is.”

“It's my daughter Eliza. She's been murdered.”

“Mrs. _____?”

“Ms. Olivia Lee. I kept my maiden name for professional reasons,” replied the woman.

“Ms. Lee, the police take murder quite seriously as they take private citizens interfering with a murder investigation.”

“The police have decided it was suicide, but I know she was driven to that.” She replied with a sigh.

I spent this time starting a list of names and relationships on the pad. Who knows, you might need a scorecard to keep the players straight when all was said and done.

“Was there a note?” I asked.

“No written note, but we can't get into her computer – it's password protected. In any case, the police said that suicide victims don't always leave notes.”

“Check computer,” I wrote on the pad. I found that writing things helped. Maybe I should get a big board and set it up in my office and discuss important aspects of cases. The only problem is that worked by myself, and I probably impressed perspective clients enough with eccentricity without talking to myself.

“What makes you think that she was driven to suicide?” I asked.

“Our family simply would not resort to such an act without duress,” replied mom.

“Everyone can become despondent.”

“Not our family. There is too much to live for and too much responsibility for such a selfish act.” I was beginning to see why suicide might be the easy way out.

Ms. Lee opened the briefcase that she had brought. A sheaf of printed pages was withdrawn. At first I thought they related to the suicide, but this would not be my last mistake in dealing with Mrs. Lee.

“Mr. Grady, tell me why I should engage you to look into this matter?”

“I suppose the fact that I'm my not overly impressed with your money is a start.”

“How do you know that I have money?”

“Hair. Clothes. Nails. None of it was cheap. Finishing school diction and a manner that tells me that you're used to others obeying your commands.”

“Good. Tell me about yourself.”

“Grew up in the North Georgia Mountains . You know what a weekly is?”

“Small town newspaper?” she asked

“Right. That was my life. Pushed a broom as soon as I was old enough. Learned the press. Learned the paper. Learned to write. Learned computers.”

“That accounts for your articulate speech.”

“Yes, we were the most articulate poor family in the county.”

“So that's where the H.W. comes from,” she stated rather than asked.

“Yep. I guess he thought if I had the name of great newspaperman like Henry W. Grady, I'd become one. Maybe I could get a hospital, a high school, and a college of journalism named after me,” I replied with more bitterness in my voice than meant to show.

“What happened?”

“By the time I was sixteen, I rebelled. I could blame it on the wrong crowd, but I was old enough to make my own poor choices. When I was seventeen, a friendly judge gave me the choice between joining the Army or having my juvenile misdemeanors put together for a felony charge. I chose the Army.”

“What then?”

I found myself wondering how she was getting me to say so much. After all, I'm the investigator. I'll admit that I can talk a lot and say very little.

“I did my time, got my discharge and used my benefits to go college.”

“What did you study?”

“Undeclared major for as long as I could. Then I applied and got on with the campus police. It was more like security guard than cop, but I was certified. Going to the police academy impressed me more than college. I declared my major in criminal justice, finished my bachelor's and applied to the Atlanta Police Department.”

“And was hired,” Mrs. Lee stated, referring to her sheaf of papers.

I wouldn't give her the satisfaction of knowing how curious I was about that, so I said, “Yep. Five years in uniform patrol.”

“But that's not where you stopped.”

“No, I put in for The Red Dog Unit.”

“What exactly is The Red Dog Unit?” she asked.

“It's an abbreviation for Run Every Drug Dealer Out of Georgia

“You were highly regarded by you superiors and colleagues. Yet you left after ten years.”

“On a case I met the daughter of a rich and powerful man. Dad liked me and offered me a job with four times the salary I made with APD. I fell for it and married the daughter. After two years, neither the marriage nor job looked as good. When I announced I was leaving the job, she announced she was leaving me and taking our child,” I said with a shrug.

“A boy or a girl?”

“A boy who I imagine was indoctrinated with her views by his third birthday.”

“So why should I engage the services of H.W. Grady, Confidential Inquiries?”

“You already made up your mind to hire me before you came through that door.”

“What makes you think so?”

“Just a hunch, but I'm not usually sorry when I listen to my hunches.”

“Good. This is a background report prepared by one of those large agencies you mentioned with you as the subject,” she said holding up the papers. “I wanted to see if you would be truthful about yourself.”

“Did I tell the truth?” I asked, oddly unoffended by the tactic.

“For the most part. What was refreshing is that you were rather modest. You received several citations in the military for bravery including one for above and beyond the call of duty when you pulled comrades from a burning vehicle while under enemy fire.”

I didn't have any response to that, so I said, “Now my turn. Why me and why should I take the case?”

“The answer to both is the same. Your namesake – Henry W. Grady – was a great man who wasn't afraid to face the issue of color in the South when it wasn't popular. I've heard the same of you. I had an African American father and white mother at a time that it was hazardous for both. Both were great people who went on to gain wealth in order to gain power. I was sent to the finest schools, as were my daughters. I know that I am strong willed and it is not easy to be the spouse or child of such a person, but someone or something took my youngest child and there needs to be a reckoning.”

“How does her father feel about this?”

“Her father long ago returned to Europe . Lord, he was more beautiful than I, but he lacked many essentials for a good father and husband, so I sent him upon his way with a sizable check and the understanding to stay gone.”

“Could he be involved?

“I think not, but that is one avenue that you can explore if need be,” she stated reaching into the briefcase and withdrawing more papers and an envelope. “Here is a cashier's check for a retainer. I will expect accurate accounting before issuing another. There is also a confidentiality agreement that you will need to sign.”

“I never said that I'd take the case.”

“You will. My investigation included your credit history. You don't have the highest score – not because you are dishonest, but because you don't make as much money as you could and you spend as though you did. My mother used to call it champagne tastes on a beer budget. Do well on this and I will introduce you to movers and shakers who cannot only pay your worth but will keep you busy with their infidelities and wayward children. You dress well, speak well, and will make a good impression if you can control that mouth of yours.”

She rose to leave. “Well, will you be the voice of my lost daughter? Will you find the truth?”

I answered by signing the confidentiality statement and handing it to her. Pride is fine, but it won't fill your car with gas or your stomach with food. Besides she was right. I did have champagne tastes.

“When can I come by and get your daughter's computer?”

“You may come this evening.”

“How about seeing her room?”

“If you feel that is necessary,” she replied, dipping again the bottomless briefcase. “This folder contains all of the information you should require to get started. There is my cell number and the home address. I will expect you at ten o'clock sharp. You're coming that late may reduce the wagging tongues of neighbors.”

Without another word, I watched her leave. The footsteps echoed down the hall of the ancient office building that housed such services as repo companies, credit repair companies, and struggling PI's. I walked to the window in time to see her emerge in the cramped parking lot that seemed dwarfed by a white limo. The driver hustled to open the door for Ms. Lee.

I glanced through the folder that she left. The police report was there. The report indicated that Eliza Lee, age 14, had apparently died as a result of self inflicted wounds – she had cut her wrists. The body was found in a tub of her bathroom by her mother upon returning from a social function. The family residence was secure when the mother had arrived home including the security system being armed. There were no signs of foul play. Detective T.J. Thor signed the report. At least I knew now why I had been thrown the case – Thor and I went back. I looked through the rest of the folder. There was even a copy of the medical examiner's findings. To have this much, this quick, she must have clout downtown.

I thumbed through my Rolodex- yes Rolodex – not even electronic – and found Thor's cell number. I called. He answered on the second ring.

I must have shown up on his caller ID, because his first words were, “Well if it ain't Sherlock Holmes!”

“And it's an honor to converse with one of the truly great investigative minds of the Southeastern US ,” I replied.

“Still with the mouth.”

“Only as long as I breathe,” I responded.

“Buy me lunch. You know my favorite place and bring a gratuity for your favorite public servant.” The phone went dead.

I made one other call with some reservations. I'm not a techie. I know how to send an email or find a restaurant on the Internet. Past that, I struggle. Therefore I have a consultant in that field. It sounds better when I say consultant. The truth is that this is third year college student named Lin that has dreams of being a sleuth. The good thing is that she works cheap and is a true techie. The bad thing is that she's 21 with shoulder length black hair, and almond shaped eyes in a perfect face matched to an athlete's body. I throw here some tech stuff and keep her well away from my heavy work. I don't figure dad sent Lin here all the way from China to end up running around playing PI. She was excited at going out on a real case and said I would pick her up at nine-thirty.

I pulled my shoulder holster from a drawer and slipped it on. The Colt Officer's Model in bright stainless was loaded and gave a comforting weight. I have tried many models and carried the officer's model loaded with six in the mag and one in the chamber. I'm comfortable carrying cocked-and-locked with the hammer back and the safety on. It's hard to chamber a round when you're fighting and thumbing back the hammer risks a slip and accidental discharge. I slipped a lightweight, holstered .38 snubby into my pants pocket. The holster was square looking and broke up the “print” the gun made in the fabric so that it wasn't easily identified.

I slipped into the beige poplin jacket with a fine strip woven into fabric that completed my suit and covered the shoulder rig. The politicians and news anchors have rushed out and bought the latest look dark suits with the wide stripes and wide lapels, but I'm comfortable with a traditional look. Besides, they didn't have to dress for Atlanta . I looked at myself in the mirror over my sink. The dark eyes seemed piercing as one girl friend had told me, but of course she thought she was a reincarnated ruler from some ancient civilization. My tanned skin wasn't aging too badly given the time I spend outside. At 5'10, I was pretty average and frequent exercise kept the stomach flat and the arms and legs toned. Not too bad, except for the five o'clock shadow. Unfortunately it was noon. I ran an electric razor over the stubble, but couldn't see much difference. So maybe my vanity wasn't as great as another girl friend had told me. Then again, maybe I had had too many girl friends.

Walking outside in Atlanta in July is an experience. One fellow compared it to walking on the surface of the Sun, but I disagree. It's more like walking on the sunny side of Mercury. Walking the desert at midday in full body armor is more like walking on the surface of the Sun. I walked to my CLK 350. Even with a white car, it was going to be hot. I pressed the keyless remote and gingerly opened the door so as not to leave any skin on the scalding metal. I cranked the car standing outside with the air going full blast.

I swung by the bank with the cashier's check. I went inside and walked up to the teller with check and deposit ticket in hand, trying to act like this was an everyday occurrence for me. The teller was new so there was a chance that I might pull this off. Apparently it didn't work. She told me just a second and disappeared into the back. I could see her conferring with a manager and could have sworn they were giggling. Finally she came back, deposited the check and counted out the thousand dollars in one hundred dollar bills for cash back.

“Walkin around money,” I said, deadpan.

That apparently didn't work either, since she gave me a polite smile and a nod.

I cruised to one of the rundown areas of town. Why is it that the best restaurants and mechanics seem to occupy the rougher areas of town? The buildings quickly became less elaborate. The number of vacant buildings increased. Everywhere there was graffiti. Some say it;s art. They might not think so if their house or workplace was spray painted by someone feeling the need to express themselves.

The restaurant's tiny lot was still full from lunch and I pulled into the package store across the street and started toward the restaurant. Almost immediately a man of Middle-Eastern blood walked out pointed to the sign saying customer parking only.

I walked back and into the store. I bought a pint of blended Kentucky whiskey.

“Can I leave my car here while I eat?”

“Your business done. You go now.”

Maybe that service with a smile attitude was why the store was empty. That's a difficult thing to do given the store's location.

“I'll give you two bucks for parking.”

“Ten.”

“Three.”

Finally we settled on six.

“I'll expect you to watch my car.”

I got a cold stare in response. Given our great rapport, I'd probably be lucky if he didn't slash the tires himself. I cracked the cap on the whiskey by the car and took a swig. The clerk pointed to a sign saying “No Consumption on Premises.” I put the bottle into the car and locked it.

When I got to the restaurant, Thor was already seated with frosty bottle of local ale in front of him. I ordered the same. Thor had been a promising college linebacker until he blew a knee. Ten years later, sports medicine could have probably saved his career, but he finished school and did a tour with the Marines before joining APD.

Like many detectives, he was a sharp dresser. His dark suit could have said stockbroker or lawyer instead of cop, except for chest, shoulders, and arms that were so big and muscled that even tailored clothes were tight. He wore his hair short and not a trace of stubble showed. He had a fierce stare that he claimed came from his ancestors facing down the predators of the African savannah with primitive weapons.

“I don't know what it will do for my rep – being seen with an ex-Marine.”

Before he could stop himself, he corrected it to “former Marine”. Then he used a rude word about my mother for good measure.

We ate in the silence developed between comrades who had seen their share of danger together. Thor packed away a good serving of fried pork chops with fried green tomatoes and collard greens with cracklins. I ate a fried chicken breast with black-eyed peas and green beans. We both washed it down with cold buttermilk. I'd have to exercise hard to burn the calories while Thor never seemed to gain anything except muscle. While we ate, Thor asked for some napkins even though they were in easy reach. I slid across five one hundred dollar bills concealed by the pile of napkins. He never even looked down – just grabbed a couple of napkins and dropped the cash in his lap – all in one motion.

He pushed the plate away and began working on his teeth with a toothpick.

“Looks like you might have a live one with Ms. – not Mrs. – Lee,” he said.

“Nothing fishy with vic?”

“Nah. If it wasn't for her juice downtown, I wouldn't have spent as much time on it as I did,” he said. Noticing my puzzled look, he added, “You don't who she is do you?”

“Should I?”

“Daddy was a contractor back in the day. Started out with an old pickup and a wheel barrel. Then bought up some old property in midtown back when you could get for back taxes. Had foresight. Made a fortune when the Yuppies and artsy fartsy crowd came back to town. He was a part-time preacher and became a fulltime millionaire. He put a lot of money back in the community – had a lot of influence in the civil rights movement. Mama was young white girl from up north – came down to work in the civil rights movement – ended up staying and marrying daddy.”

“How much money?”

“I don't know for sure. A magazine article puts the family fortune at somewhere over seventy-five mil.” I guess the cashier's check wasn't a too big a hit on her wallet.

When I returned to the package store parking lot, my car was still there. Unfortunately, there was also three gang bangers propped on it. Life in the big city.

“Thank God,” I said. “You young men have kept my vehicle safe from the criminal element.”

“I like your benzo. Maybe I make it mine,” said the biggest banger.

“It a bucket. What you want it for, Tiny?” asked the smallest, apparently the leader, calling my car junk.

Before he had a chance to reply, I said, “I'm just thankful that the neighborhood watch is here. You are the neighborhood watch, right?”

“You real funny. We see how funny you be when I stomp you,” said a banger with a durag, ready for a fight. I didn't recognize the gang colors, so either it was a small bunch with just a few members or wannabes, which could be even more dangerous. Many people don't realize that Atlanta 's gang history goes way back – to World War II and beyond. In the late 1940's gangs roamed one of the city's largest park at will.

The three looked past me and by their expressions I knew that Thor had seen what was going on. He walked over to the Mercedes squeezing between and invading their space. He fired up a cigar – ready for the show. Without thought, they moved away from his menacing presence. I pulled off my suit coat.

“That a four-five?” asked the banger about my shiny .45.

“No, Bobby O that a deuce and a half” replied the leaders. They snickered at calling my .45 a .25. I smiled as I passed my shoulder rig to Thor.

“You ain't gonna do a ghost?” asked the Tiny in surprise. I just smiled again at the suggestion that I would run.

They tried turning their attention to Thor. “Hey man, why you hangin with the cracker?”

Thor's answer was interrupted by the appearance of the package store owner.

“You all go. I call police.”

Thor just held up his shield. The owner retreated inside mumbling something in an unknown dialect.

“You 5-O? Probably roust us if we lay a finger on your pet cracker or is he 5-O too?”

“Try not to kill any of them – too much paper work for me,” he said to me.

I tucked my tie into my shirt, showing certain contempt by not even bothering to remove it. I furthered this by walking with my back turned and stopping in front of the brick wall that bordered the storefront. This was practical. It's better to defend three sides than four. For a minute, the three looked puzzled and then Bobby O and Tiny advanced after a nod from the leader.

Bobby O moved in with some fancy and a combination of jabs. I sidestepped slightly, grabbing and twisting a wrist. He went with the aikido throw due to the immense pain he felt in his wrist. He still struggled to rise. I put on more pressure until something snapped in the wrist. I followed him down far enough to put him all the way on to the hot pavement. Meanwhile, Tiny charged and threw a roundhouse punch with such force that I felt the breeze as it passed. Unfortunately for him, I dropped on all fours and his own momentum carried him forward face first into the brick wall. The squishy sound followed by a crunchy sound as he struck was not pretty. Tiny was down for the count.

Bobby O was up, but hurting from the tendons in his wrist that had been stretched beyond their normal limits. Watching him almost let the leader blindside me. He seemed to come out of nowhere as he sprang into the air and snapped a kick at my face. I wasn't able to avoid it entirely, but bent back further then he thought I could. The kick ended up more like a slap across my ear and I knew that it had turned an embarrassing shade of red. The leader stood ready, but didn't push the advantage enough. Also, I had learned enough of his technique to prepare.

I waited. I knew my breathing was a little heavy due to the exertion and heat, so I forced myself to breath in through my nose and out my mouth. I let my arms hand loosely in front. The leader made the mistake of trying the same technique again – I was ready. This time I was facing him when it came and caught the leg and stepped into the attack. Despite incredible speed and excellent balance, he went down hard on the hot asphalt. I kept a grip on his leg and watched for Bobby O. I considered leaving some lasting damage, but the neutral expression let me know that there was nothing to be gained. I released his leg and retreated a safe distance.

“Let it go. Take your wounded. A good leader knows when it's time to retreat,” I said. I looked to bottomless pits that were his eyes – there might have been anger there or hatred, but there was great emptiness too. The kid was on his feet with lightening speed and giving no indication of the fall he had just taken. He signaled with his head and Bobby O helped Tiny up from the ground. Tiny had to be lead since swelling on various parts of his face had blurred his vision. Blood steadily dripped from a broken nose.

“Maybe next time I bust a cap.”

“Don't miss the first shot, you won't get a second,” I replied.

I stared into those bottomless pits for another microsecond and then he turned. They disappeared into a patch of woods next to the package store.

“You're too soft. You always were.” said Thor, returning my shoulder rig. “You should have hurt him, put him out of service for a while. You did a number on that big kid though.”

“I was just afraid he'd kill me if landed a punch.”

The storeowner stepped out. “They not take car.”

Thor looked into an older Buick a couple of spaces from my car and spotted the broken ignition.

“G ride,” he said, using the street lingo for a stolen car. “You do give good entertainment. Thanks.”

He walked back to his city Crown Vic and was gone. I fired up the Mercedes and decided to head home for a while since I had til late tonight with Ms. Lee and company.

I rent the finished basement of a big house from an elderly woman. I tried to slip in quietly. We had agreed that I would do some chores around the place in exchange for half of my rent. The number of chores had increased and the rent had not decreased. I knew she needed the money to supplement social security. Doing the yard work and other chores somehow made me feel like I had permanence here. That's probably why the gang hadn't angered me more – we all need to belong to something. I'd had the Army. That was in the past. I'd had APD. That was in the past. I'd had a marriage. That was in the past. Funny, how you can be lonely in a metro area of five million.

I slipped in the downstairs of the house. Quickly, I stripped putting the suit pants in a bag to go to the drycleaners. Amazingly, my white shirt and tie had survived without damage or stain. I showered and stretched out on top the bed cover. I awoke two hours later with a start. The shadows hadn't grown much longer. I put on a tee shirt and shorts along with ankle socks and running shoes. I didn't like running in the hot part of the day, but I'd be on the way to Ms. Lee's in the cool of the evening. Maybe I should have a deuce and half for runs, but the worse I encountered on the nearby trail was the barking of a squirrel in competition over last year's nuts and this year's snack food containers. I circled back for another shower.

I changed my mind and decided since I was already loosened up, I should go to my dojo for some practice. I entered to nondescript storefront and bowed to the American and Japanese flags mounted side-by-side on the wall. I walked to the back and changed in the locker room. When I emerged, Joey –my sensei came from the office. Whereas I favored a white gi, Joey favored a black outfit with the school's emblem emblazoned on his back. What followed for the next half hour was similar to the parking lot. Unfortunately, I was the loser time and time again. Each time I thought I might have a chance to take the sparring to at least a stalemate, Joey managed a counter move that forced me to tap out as a signal of surrender. I worked out hard – maybe it was my penance for hurting Bobby O and Tiny.

If you met Joey on the street, you would guess that was somebody's grandfather. At little more than five feet, he didn't look menacing – any more than a cobra before displaying its hood. Without a word being spoken, I changed clothes, bowed to the flags and left. Somehow Joey had sensed my need to exorcise demons and honored my silence.

After a shower, I was once again in a suit. This time a charcoal number with a diagonally striped tie and black dress shoes with a high polish. I aimed the CLK350 toward the condo that Lin shared with two other girls. When I arrived, I made a point of parking and going to the door to call on her. Despite women's rights and feminism, I have found few women who object to having a door held or their chair pulled out at dinner. As I walked Lin to the car, I could feel her roommates' stares from spaces in the curtains.

Lin looked more dressed for a date than hacking into someone's computer. She wore a dress of shimmering blue material with a modest front, but bare shoulders. matching designer pumps, and a lacy shawl. Her jet-black hair caressed her bare shoulders. I opened the car door and she slid in with athletic grace. I smiled at this child coming into full womanhood.

The drive took us the short distance from student priced housing to neighborhoods that had been established by the rich and still met their housing needs. As I pulled into the Lee's driveway and circled around the meticulously lawn and to the 1920's mansion, I saw where some of the money had gone. I gathered the folder Ms. Lee had left in my care and got Lin's car door.

A maid – sans the traditional maid outfit - met us at the door. She led us into what might be called a parlor or a drawing room – I'm too poor to know the difference. The room held immense furniture gathered in a semi-circle around a massive fireplace. The gas fire burned behind a glass guard to contain the heat. The air conditioning fought to maintain the temperature.

Ms. Lee rose - offering her right hand while holding a snifter of dark liquid. Martha was nowhere to be seen.

“My, what a lovely child, “ she said of Lin. “Don't tell me you're one of those unseemly detectives.”

“No I do technical stuff for Grady,” replied Lin. “You know, like turning on his computer.” The women shared a giggle and I had a feeling they were communicating on some level that I couldn't comprehend.

“Would either of you care for a cognac?” I accepted. Lin declined. We sat. The cognac went down my throat like liquid fire. Good stuff.

“I will have Matilda show you to Eliza's room,” Ms. Lee said, speaking to Lin once again. “Mr. Grady and I will talk, and he will be along shortly.”

I assumed that Matilda was the maid because she appeared suddenly without being summoned. Maybe the house allowed women to communicate telepathically.

“Yes, a lovely child. Have you slept with her?”

I was dumbfounded because it was like a proper adult talking to an adolescent. I realized that my face was turning red. Former juvenile delinquent, combat vet, and ex-cop, and here I was blushing like an awkward teenager.

“Of course not. You think of her as a child,” said Ms. Lee. “You probably don't even realize that she's in love with you. There could be great passion there.”

I was spared further embarrassment with the appearance – by chance or by Ms. Lee's design – of Matilda.

“Please show Mr. Grady to Eliza's room. Good evening, Mr. Grady. I will expect a daily update. You may forward that to the email address in the file I left with you. Also, the funeral will be tomorrow, if you wish to attend. You will find time, directions, and the church name on that paper,” said Ms. Lee by way of dismissal.

Lin was seated in front of desktop computer. The screen was filled with a password box.

“Any luck?” I asked.

“This only involves a little luck. Most of it depends upon human nature,” replied Lin. “Many passwords come from thirty-two symbols. Here they are.”

She showed me a list on a sheet of paper. “I will use bruteforcing which is password guessing. I will generate test passwords and hash them. Using my PC I can test about three million passwords per minute.”

I understood up to the time she showed me the list. Past that I was lost. I decided to look sage and wise by being silent – which is not easy when you are as confused as I was.

In five minutes Lin had the desktop screen showing on the computer. She logged on to the Internet. Accessing the email was simple. Eliza had left access to the email open – apparently trusting the screen protector to keep out her family.

Lin looked through the inbox. She occasionally opened an email. I wrote girl friend names- Trudy, Mattie, etc. I looked closely. None had been answered for about two weeks before her suicide.

The one that caught my interest was from Guide – that's when the replies had stopped. The email said, “ Just a reminder what can happen again if you decide to tell mommy or anyone else.” The email had an attachment. Lin opened it. A video flickered on the screen. The video started with a young Eliza being dragged in a bare room by a large man. His face was never visible. I recognized her from the file that Ms. Lee had provided. The man slung the her onto a bare, soiled mattress on a concrete floor. Three other males walked into the frame. I knew I held my breath when I saw Bobby O, Tiny, and the leader of the gangster wannabes. The next few minutes were occupied by the boys ripping off the Eliza's clothes. One-by-one they took turns with her for sex and sodomy. In the last scene, Bobby O and Tiny bumped fists like they had had just scored a basket in a pickup game. The screen went black. Suicide was becoming more understandable.

I felt a slight chill. The act was obscene enough. What was even worse was that my encounter with the bangers wasn't a coincidence. They been turned loose on me like a pack of feral dogs. They could have followed me to Lin's place.

Lin gave a little whimper like a frightened puppy. The act of raw, animal was something outside of her experience.

“How…how…how,” was all she could manage.

“Listen, I'm no tekkie, but I know that this came with an email. Can you trace the email?” I asked – not only because I needed her help, but I've found the best way to snap people from shock was to get them busy.

“Yes, if I find the header,” she said, her fingers flying over the keyboard. “Got it, but it's not hard to set up a fake email account.”

That much I knew. So, do things the old fashioned way. Wear out some shoe leather, talk to friends, and hope the answer fell into my lap. I searched the room, found some photos of Eliza with other girls. Some things will probably never change – the faces stared from the pictures from under floppy hats and make-up applied too thickly, but which could not conceal naiveté anymore than bored teen-aged expressions or insolent talk. Someone had taken a child's last days of innocence and used it to destroy her, and I wanted to know why. I helped myself to enough that I had a good array of her friends. I was lucky that each picture had the friends' names written neatly on the back.

I stuck the photos in the folder along with a copy of her yearbook. Lin had printed out some of the emails that had been exchanged by the friends.

“What's a Guide?” I asked.

“It could be friend who stays straight while she experiments with drugs, but I bet it's that animal in the video.”

“Can you copy the video for me?”

She handed me what I recognized as flash drive. “There's the video and a lot of the emails”

“You have your cell?” I asked.

She held it up in reply.

“I want you to call your roommates. Have them pack what you'll need for a couple of weeks. Have them meet us at the in the parking lot of the all night dinner down the street.

“But,” she started.

I held up my hand. “These three have turned up in my life already, which means they may know about you. You're not going home.”

“I'll stay with you,” she said.

“No, I have somewhere for you to stay.”

“Why can't I stay with you?” she whined like a small child.

“I've got to be on my toes – alert. If I'm worrying about you that will distract me.”

She grudgingly accepted that reason. She used her phone to call her roommates. I used my own cell to dial – Dora - a retired female jailer that I have known for years. I made a deal for her to house Lin – for the right price. Although the old girl was a world class lush, she could be trusted to keep her mouth shut and to shoot first if need be.

We gathered up our evidence and departed the dead girl's room. Matilda appeared as mysteriously as before. The door latched behind us and we were no sooner in the car than the outside lights were extinguished.

I took my time getting to the diner, knowing that girls would take a while to get the items for Lin. My car and theirs pulled into the lot simultaneously. After heartfelt hugs between the girls, we departed for the safe house. After introducing her to the retired jailer, I nosed the car for home. In the driveway, I killed the rest of the pint of bourbon.

I tossed the bottle in the trashcan on my way in. I stripped, dropped onto the bed, and fell into a fitful sleep filled with disjointed dreams.

Fortunately the funeral was at two in the afternoon. After killing the pint and probably due to the activitiy of the previous day, I awoke somewhat worse for wear. I showered and dressed in dark suit – appropriate for business meetings and funerals. I sipped a steaming cup of black coffee on the ride to the church in a neighboring suburb. A sky was hazy thanks to high a pollution count – old people and kids avoid prolonged outdoor activity. Thunder caps reached thousands of feet into the summer sky, but probably was much as a tease about rain as a good-looking blond about sex.

The small, stone church housed a non-denominational group. The marquee in front was in English as well as two other languages – attesting to the cultural diversity that was becoming Atlanta norm.

The interior of the church was welcomingly cool and dark. I was early and took a seat at the rear. Ms. Lee sat in the front pew. The casket was already in place. The lid was closed and a picture of Eliza in happier times sat on top. Gradually people filtered in – some stopping to comfort the family – others slipping quietly into pews. I studied the faces – you can learn a lot about the bereaved and their family from a funeral. By two, the sanctuary was almost full. I slid over to allow others to sit.

The preacher appeared in a dark suit. While the mourners were formal, I sensed that church steered away the trappings of larger denominations. Despite this, the funeral service was rather traditional. Something about the service must have must have reached the right ears because there was the rumble of thunder loud enough to be heard in the building. As the service progressed, the tempo and volume of the thunder increased. At the end, the thunder rolled across the landscape and rattled the windows of church.

I had eased toward the door as the service wound down. When I emerged, the sky was clearing and not a drop of rain had fallen. I lingered around the parking lot. My diligence was rewarded when I spotted a young girl emerge with an older facsimile of herself. At closer range, the mother seemed the recipient much plastic surgery. Maybe she had been a terrible accident and had to have her face reconstructed.

“Sorry to bother you at such a time,” I said. “I am covering some details of Eliza Lee's death.”

“Oh yes, you must be the private detective. Olivia told me all about you,” the woman replied, offering her hand. “I'm Madeline Swanson and this is little Mattie.”

“Little” Mattie didn't look too thrilled at being called little Mattie. Go figure. At least they weren't in matching mother-daughter outfits.

“It's my pleasure,” I said, turning on the southern charm as I took each hand in turn.

“Oh, it's just so terrible about young Eliza, don't you think? I mean, who would have thought, but I guess you see all kind of terrible things don't you? It's just so exciting to meet a real detective. Just like they show on television. Car chases and bedding beautiful women?” she said. I stared longer than I should have because I wondered at her lung capacity. Her body language told me that she took this to mean she could be one of the beautiful women that I could bed.

“Were you a professional swimmer, by chance? You seem to have exceptional lung capacity,” I asked nearly causing Little Mattie to burst out in laughter.

“No,” she replied, “These aren't real silly, my husband – ex-husband - paid good money for them.” She jutted her 38C's forward.

Little Mattie rolled her eyes.

“If you're a good boy, I might let you have a peek sometime.”

I smiled. “Have you been able to pay your respects to Olivia? I wanted to, but the crowd was around her. Maybe it's thinned out by now.”

“What a wonderful idea. Come Mattie.”

“Mattie could wait with me if you'd like and you wouldn't feel so rushed,” I offered – servant of the idle and oversexed rich.

“Well, aren't a dear and good looking too,” she smiled. “You might be useful to have around.”

I smiled – one response that I'd been told I should use more often in place of talking. She wiggled her way back into the church.

“Nasty,” said Mattie. “She acts like a dog in heat.”

“So, it's not true that I'm good looking and would be handy to have around?

“It depends how long you could last,” replied Mattie. “She calls her sessions Olympic sex.”

“Gum?” I asked offering her a stick and avoiding the subject.

She shook her head and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. I whipped out a Zippo and lit her cigarette – I don't smoke, but you'd be surprised how handy it comes in when pumping teens for info and trying to bed beautiful women.

“No lecture about my health?”

“I figure you've heard most of them by now, and you'll do what you want.”

“Wow, an adult who understands teens. Somebody had said that to me before, I might not be hooked on these things.”

“Pushing buttons?” I asked.

“You better believe it. Mom is into yoga and charity marathons.”

“How about Eliza, did she do some button pushing?”

“Smooth, but you would be,” Mattie replied. Children – yes I consider a 14-year-old a child – can be very astute in their observations and brutally honest in their comments.

“Doesn't make the question any less relevant,” I said.

“She is – was – okay. She was just sort of mixed up – like a lot of us. She was terrified of letting down her mother – what with her being so important.”

“Did she do drugs with you?”

“Gawd no – drugs – my mother dearest thinks illegal drugs are terrible, but it's okay to go to a doctor and get anything you need.”

“I saw Eliza's emails. She had some from Guide. Do you know who that is?”

“You saw her emails…how could you…they're like private.”

“Grow up to be a lawyer and you can argue the case before the Supreme Court, but I'm trying to find who made her want to kill herself. Want to help?”

“You don't have to be so, like, terrible to me.”

“Suicide is pretty terrible. It isn't pretty. What drove her to it wasn't pretty. I need to know who was behind it.”

“I don't know…honest…she called him her knight in shining armor…. she was always saying lame stuff like that….kinda in fairytale land sometimes.”

“She ever tell you anything about him?”

“Not really…except that he was older and he was going to take her away…like she needs to be taken away from a mansion with servants and all,” replied Mattie with a hint of envy entering her voice.

“How'd you know Eliza?”
“Out families belonged to same club….country club….but we got nothing compare to them.”

“Anybody there who might know more?”

“No way! We're like BFF – you know – like, best friends forever.”

“So how come you didn't know she was going to kill herself?” I said, with little sensitivity, but I was impatient with the teen world already.

“She got weird at the last…she didn't talk to me for like two weeks before…you know.”

I saw her mom emerging from the church.

“Well, thanks Mattie.”

“Did I help?”

“You did fine,” I assured realizing even under the veneer she was seeking adult approval.

I thanked Mattie and her mother for their time and made hasty retreat before mother decided to show me her chest.

Cruising back to the office, I found myself getting depressed. I know it was only twenty-four hours into the case and I shouldn't be expecting results yet, but the ever-expanding level of human depravity could be why I had left the APD.

When I got to the office, I propped my feet on my desk and enjoyed the view of the parking lot with a lowball glass of bourbon on the rocks. It had to be after five somewhere.

The door opened. At this rate, maybe I could afford to get a secretary. And as cliché as it gets, in walked a beautiful blonde. I'm not talking okay – Mattie's mom was okay. This one should have been gracing the arm of a Hollywood leading man or fighting for her share of marital assets from a two-month marriage to an eighty-year-old billionaire.

Despite the sunny heat of the day, she wore a beige raincoat. A hint of shapely legs peeked out of the coat as she seated herself without invitation and demurely crossed her legs.

“Aren't you going to offer me one of those?” she asked in an eastern European accent.

“Wow, beautiful and as big an alcoholic as me…every man's dream woman.” I commented – it wasn't any funnier in person.

She graced her face with the proper smile to show just the right level of amusement and admiration for an alpha male. A trait that no doubt proved useful in a world of professional arm candy and it worked well enough on me to get her drink. As I handed her the glass, our hands touched and the animal sexuality was like a 10,000-volt jolt of electricity.

“Besides being your bartender, what can I do for you, Miss—?”

“Please call me Ivana.”

“So it must be Mrs.” I said.

“Does it matter?”

“Maybe.”

“Your American Georgia, she is so hot,” she stood and discarded the coat. Beneath she wore only what nature had provided and nature had provided well. She reseated herself and resumed sipping the bourbon. She crossed her legs once again but without the ability of being demure.

“You like?”

“Depends upon what you're selling,” I said and too my credit it wasn't croaked out as badly as it could have been.

“Oh you have wrong. I have much money since coming to your America . I bring you gift – the name of the one who made that girl kill herself.”

“Well, you said you don't need money and you want to give me a name I need, but there is no free lunch.”

“I sorry. I not understand this lunch thing.”

“Nobody gives you anything for nothing,” I said by way of explanation.

“Ah, you want to know why I give you name. It is because it is my no good pig of a husband,” she said and I expected to spit in the floor any minute.

She stood and displayed her nude body once again and said, “He has this at home and must still go play with little girls.”

She looked around the office and spotted the couch. Before I could speak she was prone upon it without even her high heels. She waved a piece of paper. I wished I was strong, but life is full of regrets.

After, she handed me the paper with an address in an industrial district and several email addresses.

“You kill him, yes?”

“I'm not a hit man,” I replied – with pride that was at least not one thing.

“I don't understand – sometimes English is difficult.”

“A hired killer.”

“Ahh …an assassin. I'm not worried. He will try to kill you…then maybe you kill him. If not, I find someone else to kill him,” she said with a smile as she donned her coat. With a whiff of expensive perfume, she was gone.

I dressed and took the Mercedes to the address. Industrial was an overstatement – abandoned industrial that conversions to lofts had not reached with the homeless and gangs in abundance. I cruised past. Two junkyard dogs lunged at the fence of a barely solvent business across the street. There was no other sign of activity around the building that had once been a shop or small warehouse. I headed aimlessly back toward my office – trying to plan my next move. Like most of this case, my next case was planned for me when my cell rang – no not some catchy little jingle – the ring that it came with – besides, I don't know how to change the ring.

“Grady,” I growled into the phone.

“Did you like Ivana - my little gift?” asked a stranger with a similar accent as Ivana.

“I've had better,” I replied – smart mouth to end.

“Haven't we all, but she was good, no? Great body. Much better than when I found her in a back street in some lousy East Europe town. Your American plastic surgeons do good work.”

“Well, what do you expect – we don't have socialized medicine.”

“You I like. Too bad we have to be opposite sides.”

“Don't molest children, and we won't. Why did you have Eliza gang raped?”

“To keep her – how do you say - in line. The Internet, it is good way to get little girls for me. Then when I get bored, I put them on street and make much money. Eliza, she threaten to tell mother, she had to be taught lesson.”

“Well, I guess it's one way to crush worker unrest. You learn that in the Soviet Army?”

“Yes, you I like. No, not Soviet Army. Army in Bosnia – hunting worthless Serbs.”

“Well, talking international commerce and politics is just making my day, but I assume you have another reason for call,” I said.

“Good. Now to business. You say I leave little girls alone, okay. How about twenty-one year old Oriental- pretty girl- driver's license says name is Lin.”

I cursed under my breath. Now I knew a world-class trophy wife had been aimed at me like a torpedo. I whipped the Mercedes around and headed to the retired jailer's house.

“Good. I hear you take car to check – very smart. I have time – we meet after dark – parking lot where you humiliate my boys. Be there and maybe I trade you for Lin. If not, we hunt you down and kill you. Then I keep Lin until I get bored. We make dirty movies and then I put her in street so full of drugs that she not remember how she got there.”

The line went dead. I pushed the car, but knew in my heart he was telling the truth. When I got to the house, EMTs were there. Dora held an ice pack on her head.

“Good thing she's got a hard head,” said an EMT.

“Don' let the door hit you on the way out,” said Dora by way of thanks and the EMT just shrugged on his way out.

“Get me a drink. You owe me,” said Dora to me.

I went to a cabinet and selected a small glass – shouldn't drink with a head injury – ha! I pulled bottle of vodka from the freezer. She filled the glass and killed a couple of fingers worth.

“You ready for payback?” I asked.

She went to the closet and pulled out a Remington 870 shotgun. I didn't ask her why she hadn't used it on the intruders for fear she might turn it on me.

Time crawled while we waited for nightfall. I considered running or going to the dojo, but my heart wasn't in it. Dora stopped with one drink and dressed in dark clothes. She seemed to be preparing for battle. I emailed Ms. Lee and updated her including that I would meet the man who caused the suicide. At last it was time. I drove to the rundown neighborhood. I found an alley that ran behind the package store.

“Can you handle trouble quietly if something comes up before the meet?” I asked. She answered by showing an evil looking hunting knife.

“Right.”

I cruised around to the front and parked. I saw movement to the side. Bobby O stepped out and waved me over. I killed the engine and followed him around the corner. Tiny held Lin by the arm, a big revolver held by his side. The wannabe's leader stood to the side. A figure in expensive European attire stood separate from the others.

“You good friend to girl –come give your life for her,” said the European.

“He got a four-five in a shoulder holster,” said Bobby O.

I held my suit jacket open. As Bobby O reached for my Colt, I shot through my trouser pocket with the .38. He was so close that the shot hit in the inside of the leg. The rapid stain on his pants leg let me know that I had hit the main artery. I clawed the .45 out as a shotgun blast roared from the dark and hit Tiny in the back. I dropped to a crouch and fired at the gang leader. He returned fire with an auto, but hadn't tried to make his profile smaller like I did. I did a double tap in his chest with the .45. He fell limp.

The European snapped a couple of wild shots with what sounded like a 9mm and ran for his car. Unfortunately for him, Dora appeared with the shotgun. Before he could bring the 9 up to bear, the shotgun spit fire. She didn't have to fire again. At last the rain came – like tears from heaven for Eliza.

Sirens wailed in the distance. After an army of uniforms disarmed us and eyed the scene with disbelief, Thor appeared.

“What a mess,” he said, firing up a cigar. “Looks like a clear case of a drug deal gone bad. Get outta here. I called Ms. Lee already who called a city councilman. Come around tomorrow and give your statement. I'm sure she'll have the best mouthpiece there that money can buy.”

I ushered Lin and Dora into the Mercedes.

“Take me home,” was all that Lin said.

I dropped her and watched as her roommates surrounded her and took her into the condo. I'd failed to keep her away from the dangerous stuff. I hope she learned that the PI game is more ugly than glamour.

“Dora, you still got some vodka?”

“For you yeah, but you still owe me for this knot on my head.”

“We'll work something out.”

I was able to slip Thor and Dora both plenty because another cashier's check was delivered by messenger without any note from Ms. Lee. I hope she got some comfort from the ending. Lin won't return my calls, I hope she's okay. I wonder about how many fourteen-year-olds are on the Internet.

The phone rang.

“Got one coming your way. Meet me for lunch after,” said Thor and the line went dead.