I’m always happy to meet an attractive woman. But when Margot Lewis came to my door, I never expected that her problem would lead me into the deeper problems of modern mankind. Yet I eventually confronted at least two of them—the cheapening of human life and the demeaning of the police. She had called in advance, and when she stood at my door, I beheld a woman in her late thirties with a still youthful figure.
Her problem, as it happened, involved the recent murder of her husband. She arrived with a copy of the police report and her own typed notes.
“I can’t get over this,” she said as she sat down with appropriate grace. “And I can’t get over the indifference of the police.
Her late husband, Meyer Lewis, a lawyer, had been gunned down in his own doorway—in the early morning. A neighbor noticed his body lying halfway out the door, with blood visible on his clothes.
“You weren’t at home?” I asked.
“No—Meyer didn’t want us home alone. He thought we might be in danger. So I and my youngest daughter went on a Caribbean cruise. We were summoned home from Trinidad.”
“What did he fear, and why?”
“He wouldn’t say exactly—but I do remember that when a strange SUV showed up one night, he called the police to report it. The SUV was all black—even the windows were darkened.”
“Did it stop, or just pass by?”
“It parked for a while out front. Then it pulled into next door’s driveway.”
“Did he get its license number?”
“No—whoever it was kept the lights off.”
“Did the police arrive?”
“Yes—but the black SUV was already gone.”
I thought about all this for a few silent moments and said, “If it shows up again, call the police.”
“Yes, I will—but why so concerned?”
“I can’t be sure—but please do as I ask.”
“Certainly.”
“Your husband was practicing law at the time of his death?”
“Yes—Meyer Lewis Associates was his firm. It’s still in business.”
“Can you describe your husband’s recent activities?”
“Actually, for the first time, he was reluctant to discuss his work. He became annoyed when he did so.”
After a few more questions we ended that first meeting, and I traveled to the law offices of Meyer Lewis Associates. They were located in a downtown neighborhood infested with lawyers. I had to pay to park my faithful Sunbird. Yes, I still held the distinction of owning Detroit’s worst lemon. I found the appropriate office door two stories above a row of storefronts. The outer office with its front desk was ringed with cubicles, each one occupied by a lawyer busy at his desk. I spoke to the paralegal at the front desk. She was pretty and eager to help until I explained my visit.
“I’m a private investigator. I’d like to talk to someone about Meyer Lewis.”
“Oh—well,” she said. “I think you should talk to Quentin Keyes. He and Mr. Lewis were working together.”
She pointed to one of the cubicles. I thanked her and went to meet Mr. Keyes, a small man, probably in his sixties, with thinning gray hair.
“Mr. Keyes,” I said as he looked up from his desk. “My name is Ned Bryson, I’m a private investigator, and I’m seeking information about Meyer Lewis.”
“Oh, yes—Mr. Bryson, I’ve heard of you. Mr. Lewis and I were working on a strange case.”
Quentin Keyes had a wrinkled face that seemed to grow more wrinkled as he spoke. His worried eyes were large and shifted back and forth.
“How strange was it?”
“Well, I can tell you that the case involved a man accused of irradiating someone—with X-rays. The purpose was, of course, to shorten that person’s life.”
“I’ve heard of that being done, especially in New York City.”
“Yes, Mr. Bryson—there are people who, though reluctant to kill someone instantly, would pay to have them targeted with damaging rays.”
“Was this man guilty?”
“He still enjoys the presumption of innocence.”
“Do you know anyone who might have wanted Meyer Lewis dead?”
“Uh—well, he was tough in the courtroom.”
“I thought lawyers admired tough opponents.”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to harm Mr. Lewis or his family—with X-rays?”
The question startled Quentin Keyes—those big eyes, nondescript in color, shifted and shifted. “There is some gang behind all this—but I can’t say anything specific about them.”
At this point, I thanked lawyer Keyes for his time and left his cubicle. And I thanked that pretty paralegal at the front desk and said good-bye.
“Good-bye, Mr. Bryson,” she replied. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”
She said this with a peculiar emphasis—more than the situation required. I paused long enough to give her my card—and she smiled.
Later that day, I arranged another meeting with Margot Lewis, this one at her home. When I arrived there that evening, she greeted me in a hostess gown and offered me a drink. I declined, having taken the pledge some years ago.
“How about some ice cream?” she asked.
“Terrific—can I have vanilla?”
“Yes indeed.”
We sat down at her table to enjoy the ice cream and some cake along with it. And of course, we discussed matters related to her late husband and his death.
“How close were your husband and Quentin Keyes?” I asked at one point.
“They were on good terms for years. Then recently, some sort of falling out occurred. Meyer thought Quentin was involved in a conflict of interest.”
“What was the conflict of interest—specifically?”
“I never pressed Meyer on his legal matters. He didn’t like that sort of thing. But the problems with Quentin developed when Meyer assumed the defense of a man named Homer Burris. He was accused of ‘frying somebody with X-rays,’ as Meyer put it.”
“Did your husband speak ill of Quentin Keyes?”
“He said, ‘I no longer trust that man.’ And it was right about that time that he began looking out the window—for strange vehicles. And if I happened to mention Quentin Keyes, he would get a bit angry and shake his head. Finally, he urged me to take our youngest daughter and go far away.”
“Have you talked to the police about all this?”
“Yes, but they weren’t all that interested.”
“That’s odd—I know the chief of detectives. He runs an effective organization.”
“Well, we do have a new chief of police.”
Yes, we did have a new chief of police, and that, as they say, is a story in itself. As it happened, the recently elected mayor was left-leaning Samuel Q. Feeley. To please his constituents, he had asked the new chief to keep everybody happy by controlling the number of arrests, especially those made in public. The new chief, Miranda Miles, complied by issuing an edict—“no arrests are to be made without my permission.” The edict was an end result of Mayor Feeley’s Marxist leanings—the street criminals were resisting oppression, and the police were perceived instruments of the oppressors. Thus, a kinder gentler police force would soften the hearts of the criminal element, and bring on an era of street sweetness.
Anyway, when I finally left Margot and her supply of vanilla ice cream, I rode home to rest and mull over what to do next. I hadn’t visited my old friend, Maynard Cheek, Chief of Detectives, Brightown Police Department, in some time—not since the installation of the new chief.
The next morning, I put on my running togs and ran a five-miler. After that, I showered, shaved, and, wearing my usual khakis and sweatshirt, I rode downtown to see Maynard. At police headquarters, I spoke to the desk sergeant, not expecting any problems.
“I’m here to see Maynard Cheek.”
The desk sergeant, a muscular black woman I hadn’t seen before, looked at me grimly.
“No—you can’t see him,” she said.
“I’m a private investigator. I want to discuss a professional matter.”
“Sorry, we don’t allow plain people in the office area.”
“Why not?”
“It disturbs the routine.”
“Suppose a citizen has important information?”
“I’d ask him, ‘What kind of information?’ Unless it’s truly important, like witnessing a violent crime, I’d tell him no.”
“Suppose it involves a cold case?”
“Cold cases aren’t important.”
“Why not?”
“Because they’re cold.”
I said nothing more. I simply stepped outside and called Maynard on my cell phone. When I explained the problem at the desk, he said, “I’ll be right there.”
When Maynard appeared, all six-foot-six and built like the Parthenon, he addressed the sergeant in a serious drawl.
“Why did you refuse to let this gentleman pass?”
“My instructions are to discourage visitors.”
“From now on, don’t discourage this man.”
“All right, sir, but he’ll have to sign in.”
“I’ll accept responsibility for his being here.”
“I’ll sign in, Maynard,” I said.
“How long have these restrictions been in place?” I asked, as we walked to Maynard’s office.
“Since Chief Miranda Miles got here.”
His office was full of the usual activity—about a dozen detectives sat at separate desks. Most were either on the phone, online, or about to leave to interview witnesses, or visit crime scenes. When we sat down in his office, I got to the point of my visit.
“Maynard, have you heard about people being irradiated with X-rays—to lower their life expectancy.”
“You mean to quietly kill them?—I’m surprised by the question. Right now we have a man in custody. We caught him with stolen X-ray equipment in his possession. We think he was aiming to go into the business of harming people with it.”
“I’ve heard it’s a trendy business in some places. Is it coming to Brightown?”
“It could already be here.”
“This man you’re holding—he may know something about the murder of Meyer Lewis.”
“Yes, we know Mr. Lewis was defending this man—Homer Burris.”
“How did you get Burris?”
“He was living in an apartment next door to an intended victim. But he didn’t realize the property owner made unannounced inspections. It was in the lease, sure enough. When the owner’s man saw the equipment on the wall, he reported it to the owner, who called the police.”
“Any idea who hired Burris?”
“I have some people in mind—but I can’t say for sure. And I may retire before we know for sure.”
“You?—retire? Why?”
“We’re making too many arrests. The chief doesn’t like my honkie attitudes.”
“Maybe you’ll be the next chief.”
“Could be—we’re losing good officers every day. That can’t continue.”
Yes, Maynard should have been chief long ago, but the city council, including Mayor Feeley, preferred “experienced chiefs” and routinely passed over qualified senior officers for roving chiefs, especially of the right color and gender. Thus, we now had Chief Miranda Miles, properly black and female.
I drove away from police headquarters worrying over the possible fate of Maynard under the new chief. But I had to get my mind on immediate business—that meant worrying over the conflict between Meyer Lewis and Quentin Keyes. What had Keyes done to alienate Lewis? Curiosity led me to find the address of Keyes in that obsolete volume, the telephone directory. His home was within reasonable walking distance of the Lewis home. The importance of this?—well, no one among Lewis’s neighbors remembered hearing a vehicle near the time of Lewis’s death. This could mean the killer had traveled to the Lewis home entirely on foot.
And so, I puzzled along—but then, that afternoon, I received an encouraging telephone call.
A woman’s voice replied to my greeting. “Mr. Bryson, this is Leah Dennis, You gave me your card at Mr. Lewis’s law firm—remember?
“Yes, of course I do.”
“Are you still interested in Mr. Lewis—maybe his death?”
“Yes, I am.”
“I want to speak to you—about an argument between Mr. Lewis and Mr. Keyes.”
“The sooner the better.”
There was a pause and then she whispered, “I can’t talk anymore.”
And then she was gone, and I was suddenly desperate to talk to this woman, to finish this conversation. There I was, with half-a-break in the case. Should I wait for her outside the building that housed Meyer Lewis Associates? Better that she not be seen with me. Should I call her at home? There was no number listed. Call her at the office? Someone else might pick up the phone. I pondered the problem as the shadows lengthened.
Evening had settled over my little house on Wilson Lane, when I heard a knock on my front door. Could it be?—yes, when I opened the door, I found pretty, blond Leah Dennis standing on my doorstep and smiling.
“Mr. Bryson—nice to see you. I have something to tell you. I think it’s appropriate that you should know this.”
I invited her in, and we sat down to talk. She began, perhaps reluctantly, and gradually became more at ease.
“I, uh—I think you should know that Mr. Lewis and Mr. Keyes had a huge argument in Mr. Lewis’s inner office. It was about Mr. Keyes wanting to leave the firm. He wanted to practice law on his own. And he was promised plenty of retainers—by the Upchurch family. Mr. Lewis was livid—he was defending Elmer Burris. He planned to plead that Burris was conned and threatened into participating in the irradiation plot—by the Upchurches. He said that Mr. Keyes’s association with that crime family would compromise the interests of his client and sully the reputation of Meyer Lewis Associates.”
Ah, yes, the Upchurch family—I knew them well. They were drug dealers to the local elite and had invested in local businesses and property. They were greasing palms all over town.
“What did Quentin Keyes have to say?” I asked.
“He said he’d wanted his own practice for years and this was a chance to realize his ambitions.”
“Did that pacify Mr. Lewis?”
“No, no—it certainly didn’t. Mr. Lewis laughed and called Mr. Keyes bad names. I’d never heard him use such language.”
“How did Keyes respond to this?”
“He said that Mr. Lewis would call him worse names when he defended the Upchurches—after Mr. Lewis had defended that ‘silly ass,’ Elmer Burris. And Mr. Lewis said he’d have Mr. Keyes disbarred for even saying such things.”
“So—Mr. Lewis threatened to ruin Keyes.”
“Oh, yes—and Mr. Keyes was intimidated. He begged Mr. Lewis not to do that. But Mr. Lewis just made a gesture of contempt and told Mr. Keyes to get out.”
“Isn’t Keyes still there?”
“No—he left this morning.”
I jotted some things in my notebook, asked a few more questions, and thanked Leah Dennis for taking the time to bring me this information.
“Perhaps we could have dinner sometime,” I said.
“Thank you—but no, my fiancé might object.
So that was that—“fiancé” was what some women called their boyfriends. Perhaps Leah would, at some future time, be unattached. Anyway, our parting was cheerful, and I had that possible break in the case.
The next day, I called Maynard Cheek and got some unexpected news.
“Well, Ned—I’m about to be a free man.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Chief Miranda Miles insisted I retire or get fired.”
“Why would she want to fire you, of all people?”
“She said I was making too many arrests. They were depressing the public.”
“Arresting criminals is what you’re supposed to do.”
“Not now—I think she’s been influenced by Mayor Feeley.”
“Ah, yes, Mr. Feeley—Mayor Sunshine.”
“I reckon I’ll go fishing.”
“Before you go—I’ve got a possible person of interest in the Meyer Lewis case—one of his law partners, Quentin Keyes.”
“Oh, yes, we did check him out. He has a record—a felony conviction, maybe twenty-five years old.”
“Really?—for what?”
“Assault with a deadly weapon.”
“With a hand gun?”
“No—with a halberd.
“A halberd?—part spear and part axe?”
“Yes, he collected antiques. Got into a fight with his father-in-law—conked him on the head.”
“That’s a new one on me.”
“Me, too.”
I thanked Maynard, wished him well, and hung up ruefully. But I was now determined to confront Quentin Keyes. His home was on Loblolly Lane, and when I traveled there and rang the chimes, a woman-not-his-wife opened the door. The wife had fled with a sailor some years ago.
“Is Mr. Keyes at home?” I said.
“And just who might you be?” she replied tartly
“My name is Ned Bryson. I’m a private investigator.”
“O.K.—I’ll tell him you’re here.”
She closed the door halfway, and, when she returned, opened it wide. I had begun to wonder where I had seen her before. She was tall, svelte, and passably attractive. Yet for some reason, the vague memory annoyed me.
“Come on in, Mr. Bryson,” she said, as she put on her London Fog. “I’ve gotta go home.”
She sashayed past me, and I entered the house. The living room resembled a museum. It was full of antiques, mostly equipment from ancient wars—a suit of armor, a mace and chain, an assortment of swords and daggers, and, yes, a halberd. Quentin Keyes entered this strange room. He was dressed down in jeans and a loose polo shirt, and I was concerned about a bulge in his shirt near his right hip.
“Well, it’s Ned Bryson,” he said with a bravado I hadn’t noticed before. “What can I do for you?”
“I heard you left Meyer Lewis Associates.”
“Yes—I hope to have my own firm soon.”
“Are you defending members of the Upchurch family?”
“I won’t name my clients, Mr. Bryson.”
“Do you own a thirty-eight handgun?”
“That’s none of your business?”
There was another thing about Keyes I hadn’t seen before. His eyes, big and mobile, now had a strange gleam and were shining like silver dollars—he was high. Whatever he was using must have been delivered by that woman visitor. Yes, I remembered her. May Belle Briggs, beautiful cop and my frequent date, had arrested her for drug dealing and possession three months ago—right here on Loblolly Lane. The arrestee was another blessing bestowed on the town by the Upchurch family.
“You had a strong motive for killing Meyer Lewis,” I said.
Keyes was smiling as he said, “Yes I did—and of course I killed him, Mr. Bryson. I walked to his home in the early morning, knowing he was an early riser. I knocked on his door, and when he opened the door, I shot him with my thirty-eight revolver. I had draped the tail of my coat over the revolver—to hide it and lessen the sound. As he fell, I simply walked away.”
“Are you willing to confess to the police?”
“No—of course not. I’d deny ever making such a confession. It would be your word against mine.”
“They might believe me—considering the circumstances and the evidence.”
“You mean the revolver? I could have it altered, or throw it into North Lake.”
“Well, as they say—it’s your red wagon.”
I had turned halfway toward the front door, when Keyes reached under his shirt and drew that thirty-eight revolver. But I had noticed his move and reached for my Charter Arms Bulldog, beating him to the draw.
“Better put that back in your belt,” I said.
“All right—don’t shoot,” he said quietly.
“By the way, Quentin—have you seen an unusual vehicle coming around at night—maybe a black SUV? I think it’s directing X-rays at people.”
“Why would I be getting—?”
If he ever finished that sentence, I didn’t hear it. Rather than wait, I backed out the door and drove away to my peaceful house on Wilson Lane. I could now write a final report to my client, Margot Lewis, a copy of which would go to the Brightown Police Department.
******
While I was working on the Meyer Lewis case, it came to my attention that local street crime was on the increase. Four people shot dead in East Brightown, three banks and several convenience stores robbed, a Brightown University coed kidnapped and subjected to numerous abuses—these were just the highlights. Both the mayor and the police chief acknowledged the outbreak. But Mayor Sunshine insisted that such incidents would pass away as we built a better community. He said this during a city council meeting, leaving Chief Miranda Miles to endure a press conference. She faced the local journalists decked out in a PD-blue skirt and cape and a white shirt with four stars on the collar
Her opening statement echoed the mayor’s sentiments about building a better community. Then came that first question from one of two dozen journalists present. The questioner was Angus Jones, the Brightown Star’s aging city editor, who was strictly no-nonsense.
“Doesn’t making arrests discourage criminals and make this a better community?”
Miranda Miles replied haltingly. “I’ve been careful in controlling arrests to foster good will among all the citizens.”
“Isn’t that a concern for the Chamber of Commerce?”
“Not necessarily—the police can create good will by their actions and attitude—by their participation in the community.”
“That doesn’t appear to be working. Why not try law enforcement?”
The others present, including some of the police, laughed at the question. Chief Miles was worried, sensing she had lost the confidence of the press—and perhaps the rest of the town. She managed to answer follow-up questions with only a stumble or two. But the next day, Mayor Feeley, at last feeling vulnerable, announced the resignation of Chief Miranda Miles. He further announced that the interim police chief would be the former chief of detectives—Maynard Cheek. Ex-Chief Miles would remain with the department as chief of detectives—for training under Maynard.
Chief Maynard Cheek’s first directive was a confidence builder: “All sworn police officers are hereby authorized to make an arrest on probable cause.” He followed up that order by spending more time in the street than he did in his office, wearing a simple PD-blue uniform with a single star on his collar. He had begun his career wearing that blue uniform and would likely end it the same way.
Later came the final twist in the Meyer Lewis case. Quentin Keyes was found dead in his home. An autopsy fixed the cause of death as a heart attack—possibly caused by ingestion of cocaine. But there were mysterious red spots on the body. They appeared to be radiation burns. How did they arise? Should I investigate further? No, Maynard would have my completed report—and a supplement. If he needed any more help, he could call me for a change.
