The man coming down the sidewalk caught Charlie Cranston’s attention immediately. His stride was more purposeful than the lunch crowd trickling out of the surrounding office buildings, his jacket and tie more rumpled than the Armani and Anne Klein suits he wove through. And he was headed right for Charlie.
Charlie checked his phone. 12:07. Andra still hadn’t come out of the Royal City Tribune’s mirror-walled office building. She might have been caught in a last-minute meeting. That happened to reporters sometimes. He hoped so; if something was about to happen here on the sidewalk, he didn’t want her involved.
Meanwhile, the man came closer. Charlie put his phone away and closed his hand around the four-inch lead weight in his jacket pocket. A couple of punches with that in his fist usually discouraged anyone who tried to play rough. Best to keep the pistol in its shoulder holster a secret right now.
Pretending to focus on the bouquet of spring flowers in his other hand, Charlie took in the man’s details—paunchy, plain blue tie flapping in the same chilly breeze that rustled his brown comb-over. As he drew near, his hands stayed visible. Good.
The man stopped before Charlie. “Excuse me, are you Charlie Cranston, of C&D Investigations?”
Charlie squeezed the lead tighter. “That depends who’s asking.”
“Detective Don Virdon, Royal City Police.” Virdon showed his badge. His cheeks were reddened by cold, probably by bad food and too much booze, certainly by a tired journey into middle age. “I’d like to have a word with you, if you have a few minutes.”
“Just a couple,” Charlie said. He let go of the lead weight. “I’m meeting my girlfriend for lunch. Actually, we just got engaged, so I need to get used to saying ‘fiancée’ instead.”
“Congratulations,” Virdon said dispassionately. “That explains the flowers.”
“And the credit card bill I ran up at Portnoy’s Saturday night,” Charlie said. “You can take a flower for your missus, but I need the rest. Love’s expensive.”
“Well, the missus split for Vermont going on seven years ago, so I don’t have much use for flowers. You think love’s expensive, try a divorce.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
Virdon shrugged. “It’s one of the hazards of the job.” He cleared his throat. “Anyway, I’d like to talk to you about the Naomi Snider case.”
Charlie shivered, but not from the wind. “I told Detective Woodall everything weeks ago. Gave him the pictures too. What’s been going on all this time?”
“Well, Woodall’s been taken off the case,” Virdon said. “All his cases, actually. We played a round of ‘pick a card, any card’ with his files, and I pulled yours.”
“I assume you read it,” Charlie said.
“Of course. But reading a file is one thing. I like to get a feel for the people involved. I also have some blanks to fill in.”
“Such as?”
“For one, I assume you’re the ‘C’ in ‘C&D’. Who’s ‘D’.”
“That’s my brother, Dwight.”
“Did he work on the Snider case too?”
“No,” Charlie said. “I do the field work. Dwight handles the finances. I have no head for business.”
Virdon nodded. “Just you, then. Let’s start at the beginning. Tell me why Mrs. Snider wanted to hire a private investigator.” The wind hit harder, spraying Virdon’s thinning hair around his head. He smoothed it down.
“You want me to make a statement right here on the sidewalk?” Charlie asked.
“Nothing official. Like I said, I already read the file. I just want to hear it from you personally.”
“Okay,” Charlie said. “Mrs. Snider hired me because she was concerned about her daughter…”
***
“I have money,” Mrs. Snider said. “I can pay you. How much do you charge?”
The sturdy woman sitting in Charlie’s office didn’t look like she had money. Coat worn smooth at the elbows, scuffed shoes. Chapped hands and a lined face. If she had money, she’d worked for it. But some people were rich simply because they never spent their money. “Well, it depends on the job,” Charlie said. “What exactly do you need done?”
Mrs. Snider pulled a manila envelope from her coat. She passed it across the desk to Charlie, who opened it to find three 8×10 photographs. “Did you take these?” he asked.
“Yes.”
Charlie suppressed a chuckle. Mrs. Snider was quite a photographer. Each picture, slightly blurry, canted at a crazy angle. One showed two pairs of legs, one in slacks and one in a blue dress, alongside the license plate on a red car. The next was a low shot of a man and a woman. The third, also of the couple, showed their faces in better detail. The pictures looked…accidental.
“Who are they?” Charlie asked.
“The woman is my daughter, Nola. The man is her fiancé, Simon Morehouse.” Mrs. Snider’s voice went flat on the word fiancé. “You’ll have to forgive the quality. I had the video camera running on my phone, and I tried to angle it to get a good shot of Simon’s face without him knowing. He doesn’t like having his picture taken. I had Costco blow up these stills. Are they good enough?”
“Yeah, I can see them both pretty well.” Nola resembled her mother, unremarkable rectangular face, straight brown hair pulled to the side with a clip. Charlie would have pegged her as a schoolteacher if he’d passed her on the street.
Simon, on the other hand…the man had a future as a model, if he wasn’t in that line already. Clear blue eyes, jet black hair. The stubble on his face only accentuated his high cheekbones and full lips, deepened the cleft in his chin. Didn’t like to be photographed, Mrs. Snider said. A man with that face ought to be out looking for cameras.
“The issue is with Simon,” Mrs. Snider said. “I don’t trust him.”
“Why not?”
“Well, I hate to say this about my own daughter, but what does a man like him want with a woman like her? Nola’s not much in the looks department. Better than I was at her age, thanks to her father, but still. This handsome man with his red sports car just appears in her life out of nowhere, wines and dines her, and of course she falls for it.”
“Is this her first romance?” Charlie asked.
Mrs. Snider shook her head. “She’s divorced. She has a fourteen-year-old daughter, Ruth. Imagine being single with a teenage daughter, working two jobs. She said she felt like her life was over. I told her, there are lots of nice men out there if you’re not too picky about other divorcees with kids. But then she meets Simon at the market, he flirts with her, gets her phone number, and here we are.”
“And they’re engaged, you said?”
“He just asked her, and of course she said yes. They’re planning to get married February 2nd and move to Italy.”
“Italy? So, he’s—”
“Rich,” Mrs. Snider finished. “At least, that’s what he says. He shows us pictures of his villa in Tuscany, his boat. He drives that red car.”
A little bell chimed in Charlie’s head whenever something wasn’t right, and Mrs. Snider had just nudged it. He decided to probe a little more. “Maybe he just sees something in Nola.”
Her voice became urgent. “Mr. Cranston, he has three plane tickets for the day after the wedding. One for him, one for Nola, and one for Ruth.” Mrs. Snider placed her thick hands on the desk. “I’m not invited. At least, not yet.”
“Not yet?”
“He says they’re going to go ahead, get settled, then send for me. It makes no sense. I’m retired. I live in an apartment. I’m not tied down in any way. What difference would it make if I came? I could stay with Ruth while they went on a honeymoon. I haven’t even heard them talk about a honeymoon.”
“That’s definitely strange. Have you discussed this with Nola?”
“Oh, I’ve tried so many times. She won’t hear it, though. She’s too head-over-heels, as you can imagine. ‘It’ll be okay,’ she keeps saying. ‘You aren’t left out of this.’ I can’t go to the police because he hasn’t committed a crime, but…” Mrs. Snider’s finger slid over her phone, then stopped. She stared at it for a moment as though she had forgotten about Charlie.
“Mrs. Snider?”
Her head snapped up. She turned her phone for Charlie to see. “That’s Ruth. My granddaughter.”
The screen showed a school photo of a brown-haired girl, cute in a gawky teenaged way, youth softening the plainness she had inherited from her mother. She beamed at the camera. “She looks like a very nice girl,” Charlie said.
“She’s beautiful. I hate to think of life wearing that smile off her face.” Mrs. Snider swiped her phone again. “Today’s January 26th. There are just a few days left. There has to be something you can find out about him.”
Charlie leafed through the photos again, then looked into Mrs. Snider’s tired eyes, now red-rimmed and glistening. “I’ll get started right now.”
Mrs. Snider didn’t know Simon’s address, so Charlie staked out Nola Snider’s small suburban frame house that evening until the red car, a Maserati, appeared. Simon Morehouse trotted up the front walk with a bouquet of roses in his hand. When he left four hours later, Charlie followed.
He tailed Simon through the city to an apartment complex called The Fleetwood, a series of buildings fronted with crumbling stucco and connected by rusty metal staircases. A sign stuck in the dead grass of the parking strip advertised month-to-month leases.
Throwing on a yellow jacket striped with reflective tape, Charlie entered The Fleetwood’s parking lot. The jacket carried an air of non-specific authority that let him pass through most places unquestioned. He walked along the rows of covered parking until he found the red Maserati. The license plate matched Mrs. Snider’s picture.
After a quick look around, Charlie edged closer. A couple of chips speckled the windshield. The tires looked worn. Dings and scratches marked the red paint. This car had seen some mileage.
Charlie completed a quick circuit of the parking lot and went back to his car to wait. An hour later, the Maserati pulled into traffic and sped away.
Charlie tailed Simon Morehouse to the McDonald’s drive-through, the car wash, then a 7-Eleven. His telescopic camera lens confirmed what Mrs. Snider’s photo had hinted at—Simon Morehouse was astonishingly handsome. Even in a bulky coat, he moved with the grace of a dancer.
From the 7-Eleven, Simon drove to The Pearl, a nightclub in a refurbished warehouse on the other side of the city. He turned his car over to a valet and went inside. Charlie parked his own car a block away, dug around in a duffle bag in the back seat, and swapped his sweater and coat for a dark blue dress shirt and black leather jacket. Shivering in the cold clothing, he trotted down the icy sidewalk to the club’s entrance.
Charlie made it inside with no wait. Not many people had the clubbing bug on a Tuesday night, it seemed. The hostess directed him to the second-floor bar, which overlooked a cavernous dance floor. He took a table near the rail, ordered a club soda, and scanned the handful of dancers until he spotted Simon twirling a slender, blonde girl across the floor. He snapped phone pictures of his drink, the DJ, and the dance floor.
After a few more songs, Simon led the girl off the floor. They reappeared in the bar, sitting near Charlie and ordering drinks.
Charlie positioned his fake pack of breath mints, the one with the wireless mini camera inside, and watched Simon and the girl through his phone. The music thumped too hard for Charlie to hear their conversation, but their body language told him all he needed to know. Simon smiled, the girl giggled. He took her hands in his, stroked her forearm, and said something. She nodded.
The longer Simon and the girl played touchy-feelie, the deeper Charlie’s stomach sank. He hated infidelity cases. He hated presenting a suspicious spouse with evidence of their worst fear, seeing the hurt and betrayal in their eyes. One unlucky woman told Charlie he was in the business of ruining lives. Nola Snider, plain and in love, would certainly feel the same way.
He wished Andra could have joined him. Not just because she would have provided good cover in a nightclub, but to remind him that there were still stable, loyal relationships in the world. How he lucked into a girl who made him a better person, when it seemed so many people were out stabbing each other in the back, he would never know.
Twenty minutes later, Simon and the girl finished their drinks and stood. Charlie followed them out the building, back to the cold night.
Tailing the Maserati again, Charlie hung back half a block. Simon was headed toward The Fleetwood. Charlie groaned at the thought of the long surveillance ahead, but photos of the girl entering and leaving the place would seal Mrs. Snider’s suspicions.
But the Maserati passed The Fleetwood. Her place? Maybe. Charlie might as well find out where that was.
He tailed the car past the apartments ringing downtown, in and out of the swath of houses that lay beyond. As the cityscape turned industrial, traffic thinned, and Charlie had to fall farther back. Soon, there were no other cars on the road.
The Maserati turned down a dark side street lined by a chain link fence. Charlie kept going straight. Following down such a small street would blow his cover, but he planned to go around the block and catch the Maserati coming out the other side.
The Maserati braked in the middle of the side street. Charlie kept going to the next intersection, turned right to go down the street parallel to Simon’s, and stopped there. Killing his lights, he rolled down the passenger window and pointed the telescopic lens.
Simon had parked behind a black van barely discernible in the shadows. Charlie zoomed the camera in closer, snapping pictures. Two large men exited the van. Simon left the sports car.
One of the big men opened the Maserati’s passenger door, bent low, and straightened with the girl hung limp over his shoulder. Charlie’s breath caught in his throat as the man carried the girl to the back of the van, dumped her inside, and closed the door.
The first man handed Simon a wad of bills. Simon pocketed the money and returned to his car. Charlie grunted in desperation. He was at the wrong angle to get photos of the van’s license plates.
The Maserati roared to life. Simon backed onto the main road and left in the direction he had come.
The van was moving now, too. Charlie started his car and took off, trying to stay parallel to the van, which made a right turn onto a busier street. Charlie turned right as well, switching on his dashboard camera and accelerating to catch up. But by some mysterious camouflage, the van disappeared into traffic…
***
“What happened then?” Virdon asked.
“I called 911, sent them looking for the van. I went to the police station with the pictures I took. They had me talk to Woodall. And every time I followed up on it, he gave me the runaround.” Charlie’s heart pounded as fast as it had the night he lost the van, as fast as it did every time he remembered that horrible moment. He should have called 911 sooner. He should have driven faster. He should have—
“I’m sorry to say Woodall probably sat on your report,” Virdon said.
Something fluttered in Charlie’s gut. “So that girl is just gone?”
“Well, the update on the case is that Internal Affairs is investigating Woodall, and now the FBI is involved in the girl’s disappearance.”
“Except it’s March now. She could be anywhere.”
Virdon looked away for a second. “What did you tell Mrs. Snider?”
“I gave her the pictures from the club as proof Simon was running around on Nola. She says that nixed the wedding.”
Virdon nodded. “A good thing, too. I doubt Nola was the real target.”
“Then who?” Charlie asked, even as the sickening realization hit him. “Ruth?”
“Exactly. The easiest way to get her away from home was to take her mother along.”
“Clear to Italy?”
“Oh, they wouldn’t have gotten any closer to Italy than we are right now,” Virdon said. “The important thing was to make Mrs. Snider think they were in Italy so she wouldn’t question their disappearance for a while.”
“Why would Simon spend so much time going after Ruth, though? I watched him snatch a girl right out of a nightclub.”
“He could make a good chunk of change stealing women from nightclubs, but a fourteen-year-old girl is worth ridiculous money to the underground. Definitely worth him playing the long game with Nola Snider.” Virdon screwed up his mouth as though he wanted to spit. “Whatever else happened that night, I can’t thank you enough for getting him away from the Sniders. Anyway, he must have gotten right back to work with that movie star face.”
Simon’s face. The brightest of poisonous snakes. “Why didn’t he run?” Charlie asked. “He would have realized someone was watching him when Nola broke the engagement.”
Virdon smoothed his wind-blown hair again. “I’m sure he was pretty confident of Woodall’s protection.”
“I guess so. Every time I asked, Woodall said he let Simon go because he couldn’t pin anything on him.” Charlie slammed a fist into his palm, jostling the bouquet. A couple of petals shook loose into the wind. “Nothing I told him would change his mind.”
“I hear the last time got pretty heated,” Virdon said.
“Can you blame me, though? He had the proof right in his hand.”
“Look, I don’t blame you one bit,” Virdon said. “I knew Simon needed revisiting, so I went to talk to him yesterday. Guess where I found him.”
“Dead in a ditch?”
“Close. He’s in the hospital. Someone jumped him Saturday night, beat him to a pulp. Worked his face over with a blade.”
“Wow, really?” Charlie said. “Who did that?”
“Don’t know. He says he was ambushed from behind.”
“Well, I hope you find whoever did it and give them a medal.”
“Wish I could.” Virdon looked at his notebook. “Now, you say you were at Portnoy’s Saturday night?”
“I was. That’s where I proposed to my girlfriend.” Charlie took a step back. “Wait, you don’t think I—”
Virdon shook his head. “I’m just dotting i’s here.” He clicked his pen. “Any witnesses? From Portnoy’s, I mean.”
“Well, yeah. Pretty much the whole place. I made a big thing out of it.”
“I’d love to see a picture or two.”
The Tribune’s revolving door turned, and Andra stepped out onto the sidewalk. Charlie noted Virdon taking her in as she approached. Guys couldn’t help but stare at Andra when they first met her. That combination of shiny black hair, high Hispanic cheekbones, and bright blue eyes always grabbed them.
Charlie reached for her. “This is my fiancée, Andra.” To Andra, he said, “Detective Virdon.”
Virdon offered his hand. “I understand congratulations are in order.”
“I’m still in shock,” Andra said, slipping an arm around Charlie’s waist.
“No ring, I see,” Virdon said.
“We’re going to look at a few after lunch.” Charlie pulled his phone from his pocket. “But you wanted to see some pictures.”
Virdon took the phone. “Mind if I scroll?”
“Not at all.”
Virdon swiped a few times, expanded a couple of photos. He looked from the phone to Charlie and Andra a couple of times.
“The light’s not very good for taking pictures there,” he said at last as he handed back the phone.
“It’s terrible,” Charlie said.
“Well, I’ll let you two go to lunch. Charlie, the FBI may call to get your account of that night at the Pearl, but otherwise” —he paused, looking at Charlie and Andra once more— “I’m satisfied.”
Charlie and Andra stayed on the sidewalk until Virdon disappeared. Andra took Charlie’s phone and scrolled through the pictures. “I think Dwight’s wasting his life in finance,” she said. “Photoshop seems to be his true calling.”
“That’s how he gets his mind off numbers,” Charlie said.
“So, what’s the story?”
“Story?”
“You have Dwight take me to Portnoy’s Saturday night. He wears your clothes, I’m supposed to call him Charlie all evening, and he makes a big scene asking me to marry him. Now your phone’s full of pictures with your head on his body.”
Charlie attempted a grin. “By the way, I’m going to kill him for running up three hundred bucks on my credit card.”
“That’s a small price to pay for doing you such a wild favor,” Andra said. “But if the cops and the FBI are sniffing around, you’d better tell me where you really were Saturday.”
Charlie studied himself in the Tribune’s mirrored wall. Maybe that was the real world. Maybe he was standing in the murky reflection of someplace better, a place where there was no horror, where terrible things didn’t happen to the unsuspecting. Where there were no nightmares desperate to be silenced. “I can’t.”
Andra’s eyes blazed. “Look, Dwight and I put on a show like you wanted, now tell me what’s going on!”
“Thank you for doing that.” Charlie sighed. “I know I’ve never left you in the dark before, but I’m afraid you have to stay there on this one. You need to trust me.” He had forgotten to give her the flowers. He handed them to her. “Just don’t be mad, okay?”
He took her hand. She didn’t pull away, but she didn’t squeeze back. “And…” —the van door closed on the unconscious girl again— “…don’t let go. Ever.”
She stared at him for a long time. He looked at the ground. Slowly, her fingers wrapped around his. “I won’t.”
They started walking. “Is this related to what happened at The Pearl?” she asked.
Charlie swallowed. “Yes.”
“Ah.” Andra didn’t say any more.
After half a block in silence, Charlie asked, “I’ve been wondering, what did you say?”
“When?”
“Saturday night, when Dwight proposed.”
She gripped his hand tighter. “I said yes.”
_____________________
He is the author of one published novel, The Road to Freedom, and two published short stories: “Salt Creek Range” in Frontier Tales, and “The Specimen” in Flash Fiction Magazine. Mystery is his favorite genre, specifically the “Holmes on the Range” series by Steve Hockensmith and “The Last Policeman” by Ben H. Winters. He has several mystery novels and short stories in various stages of completion. He lives in Salt Lake City and works as an instructional designer. He writes in the evenings when time and energy allow.
