Читать книгу Abandoned - John Schlarbaum - Страница 10

In her converted loft apartment, Jennifer took off her dress and sprayed a copious amount of spot remover onto the offending area above the hemline. While it soaked she changed into a comfortable pair of jeans and casual collared top, hoping she wouldn’t be rushing out again this late in the evening. Plus, she wanted to bang out the John Doe story that Mitch had requested for the Metro section.

Twenty minutes later, she emailed the piece with the instructions: MITCH: ONLY RUN WITH THE POLICE COMPOSITE DRAWING!

While not famished, Jennifer figured she should eat something and opened her fridge that showcased take-out boxes from three different restaurants. “Thai, Italian or Greek?” she said to herself, deciding the portion of eggplant parmigiana would tie her over nicely. Reaching for the container, her mind flashed back to when she’d dated a semi-famous chef. She had offended him on numerous occasions by eating cheap restaurant leftovers before the succulent personal-sized dinners he prepared for her. “It’s force of habit. I see that food as a day closer to being thrown in the garbage and can’t do it,” she had explained. To smooth things out, as a joke she’d bought a dozen small cardboard boxes from the Chinese restaurant on her block and presented them to Oliver on their next date.

The playful idea had had a very surprising outcome.

Jennifer figured the gravy train, as tasty as it was, had left the station when Chef Loverboy started to rant about the integrity of his food and his craft, instead of smiling, kissing her and filling a box or two with his delicious food. The scene became more surreal when a tabloid newspaper quoted an unnamed source saying their budding relationship failed due to her insatiable appetite for fast food and “dirty, greasy cooks.” Following its publication Jennifer received dozens of date offers from pizza makers to short order cooks to bakers, none of which appealed to her as did the new man-boy barista at the Don’t Be Latté! coffee shop she regularly frequented. Sadly, he fell below her current off-limits age, although under the right circumstances he might be made the exception to the rule for a couple of nights.

With her food heated, Jennifer sat on her couch with the plate in one hand and the TV remote in the other. “Let’s see what I’ve been missing out on,” she said, tuning into the What’s Next? show on the National Cable Network (NCN) channel.

As the weekend came to a close, the stories were a rehash of the week’s main news events, and random speculation of how each storyline could develop in the days ahead. The talking heads consisted of three male and two female so-called journalists, sitting around a table that couldn’t possibly fit in Jennifer’s living room. They were in their early 30s and photogenic. None, however, had worked in the reporter trenches or had broken any significant news stories on their own. She’d once broached this subject to Mitch in the paper’s bullpen and he had the nerve to suggest she was jealous.

“Twenty years ago I’d have given my left nut to be on that panel,” he’d stated with a huge smile to the assembled crowd.

“As visually disturbing as that is, too bad your wife got them in the divorce,” Jennifer said to a chorus of laughter. “I guess it’ll remain a mystery if you truly had the balls to play with the big boys.”

“Laugh all you want, Malone,” Mitch countered. “While you’re schlepping it here at The Daily Telegraph, your journalism classmate Susan Donallee has become a household name because of that show.”

“Fame and fortune are overrated if you have to sleep your way to the top,” Jennifer countered. “Although I wouldn’t mind having a hairstylist and a fashion designer at my beck and call. Can you talk with the Old Man upstairs about that, or should I do it in person?”

“Definitely in person,” Mitch answered, “and I want to be in the room. I promise to keep a straight face the whole time.”

“You can’t keep a straight face now as you’re telling me that!”

Jennifer knew her editor had a point and was only half kidding about wanting to be pampered by her employer from time to time. That she’d been offered a guest spot on What’s Next? but declined, wasn’t a topic she’d discuss with her colleagues anyway, fearing she’d be dubbed a hypocrite.

After finishing the leftovers and bored with the idiotic topic “Should Pets Be Cloned?”, Jennifer caught sight of an interesting line running in the news scroll at the bottom of the screen.

... Becky Mayville offers to sell her story to the highest bidder ...

“Bless her little cheating heart,” Jennifer said, grabbing her cell phone.

The number she called rang fifteen times before being answered, which was always expected due to Jeffrey’s profession.

“Hamill Investigations here. Whatcha need, Malone? I’m kind of busy.”

“Busy eating or private investigating?”

“Both!”

“Shocker.”

“It’s easy to multi-task while on stationary surveillance. It’s when the subject leaves that things get tricky.”

“Where are you?”

“George and Pike. Three blocks south of City Hall.”

“Until when?”

“Maybe midnight.”

“Do you want some company?” Jennifer asked. “Also, something’s happening with Hot Beckster.”

“Her pitch letter to the media?”

Jennifer let out a moan. “You heard already and didn’t tell me? Some partner you are.”

“Don’t get your thong twisted, Missy Malone,” Jeffrey replied. “I heard about it a half hour ago from a contact who owns a video production outfit in the west end. I was going to call you, only right then my subject and his girlfriend left the strip club and I had to follow them.”

“A likely story,” Jennifer said. “Who’s your client – his wife or her husband?”

There was noise on the line as Jeffrey apparently dropped the phone and began to curse, “Where’s my damn camera? Stay on the line, Malone, I have to get a shot of them on the balcony. Start heading down and call me when you’re in the vicinity. Man I hate working at night!”

The line went dead in Jennifer’s hand.

“What to do, what to do?” she asked the walls, thinking a cat might not be a bad idea after all, as she’d have a constant companion to talk to.

Soon enough Jennifer located Jeffrey’s green Windstar van parked in a lot across from an apartment building. Due to the darkness and the streetlight’s glow reflecting off the front windshield, Jeffrey was invisible sitting in the driver’s seat, binoculars in hand.

“Which unit are we surveilling tonight?” Jennifer asked as she climbed into the passenger seat. The interior lights didn’t come on.

“304 – second in from the left,” Jeffrey said, pointing upward. “The lobby board lists the girlfriend’s name as the current tenant.”

“And that’s a problem?” Jennifer edged forward hoping to see the couple doing something wrong, illicit or both.

“It could be if the signature on the condo deed is my client’s ex-husband’s. A pre-divorce date would be best for us as it would prove he’s hiding assets ... and I’m not referring to the lovely ones gracing his girlfriend’s body,” Jeffrey said with a hearty laugh.

The P.I. set the binoculars on the dash and turned his bulky frame to face Jennifer. A former athlete in his youth, the decades hadn’t been kind to Jeffrey Hamill. Pushing fifty-five, when he entered the private investigations field in the 1980’s he’d figured on having a cushy corner office job in a big insurance company downtown. However, the path taken bypassed downtown, midtown and uptown, only to stop at every drive-thru fast food window along the route. After hitting the 250-pound mark, Jeffrey quit weighing himself and ordered his doctor not to reveal the number during his yearly physicals. Although far from the stereotypical jolly fat man, Jeffrey had retained his humour, which in the face of aneurism-inducing stress each day felt like a victory. Plus, he had more street connections than an agency that employed a hundred investigators.

Jennifer reached into her purse and produced a small paper bag. “A gift for you,” she said handing Jeffrey the bag.

Jeffrey opened it but didn’t peer inside, inhaling its aroma instead. “Boston cream.”

“The cronut place was closed, so I went with the second best option,” Jennifer replied. “Real friends know these things.”

“That they do,” Jeffrey said, taking a bite out of the doughy present and placing its remains back in the bag. “It could be a long night. I’m going to save it for a midnight snack.”

“So ... with the pleasantries dispensed and in your case, ingested, what’s the deal with Becky’s blackmailing the press?”

“I’m not sure ‘blackmail’ is the correct term. Either a reporter pays for her titillating tale, or no one does and her sleazy story gets bigger with each passing week in seclusion,” Jeffrey offered.

“Do you think she’s still sitting pretty, hoping that her one big pay day won’t pass her by?”

“Her day is coming, Jennifer. All she has to do is count the weeks until the election.” Jeffrey raised his binoculars toward his subject’s balcony after a light in a room came on. “Time for bed.”

Jennifer glanced up. “I hope you’re talking to yourself.”

Jeffrey laughed. “Malone, you couldn’t handle a man like me.”

“Ha – I can’t handle any man for more than a week!”

“Men scare easily, that’s all.”

Jennifer turned to Jeffrey. “I’m scary?”

“To a lot of men, yeah. You’re beautiful, you’re without a doubt smarter than most of us Neanderthals, and you’re aggressive due to your profession,” Jeffrey said.

“I intimidate guys, is that what you’re implying?”

“Only the wrong guys,” Jeffrey replied waving his finger at her. “You need to find a man who will push back when you push forward – psychologically, not physically, of course.”

“And where are these men, wise one?”

“From what I hear, you could begin with the chamber where Councilman Tilley works. You might not agree, but you and the Hot Beckster have a few things in common.”

“Such as?”

“You’re both easy on the eyes, tenacious and know what you want. Becky set her sights on Tilley and wore him down. He told a mutual friend that every time he tried to end her advances, she countered with something new, and after a while he began to enjoy the game they were playing.”

“And the next thing you know, he fell right into her vagina while vacationing with his family in Florida,” Jennifer said with a wide grin.

“Getting back to my point about Neanderthals, some are further down the evolutionary line than others.”

The light in the apartment bedroom went out.

“I’ll keep that in mind when I cover a city vote,” Jennifer said. “So ... Mitch was wondering if there’s any word on the street where Becky is biding her time?”

“Speaking of cave men,” Jeffrey chuckled, “tell him I appreciate the compliment, but my informants have come up empty-handed. My guess is she’s sitting on a private beach at a resort her daddy owns. Now that’s the kind of man to set your sights on, Jennifer. He recently cracked Forbes Top 100 list of wealthiest men in North America.”

“I’ll send him a Facebook friend request in the morning.”

Jeffrey reached for a thermos and poured himself a cup of tepid coffee the colour of tar. “Want some?” Jennifer shook her head side to side. “Are you working on any other stories?”

Jennifer reclined her seat to view the bedroom window, while wondering what had really happened at the hospital earlier. “Maybe.”

“I’m all ears,” Jeffrey said, attempting to recline his seat without much success.

“I went to Met Hospital to find out about that guy they dragged out of the river. Until further notice, John Doe will remain John Doe,” Jennifer began. “Then I found myself in conversation with a young couple – he’s a hospital transporter, she’s a security guard – who believe an old lady was murdered while having hip surgery.” Jeffrey gave her a questioning look. “Yes, it sounds farfetched, but the transporter swears that prior to the surgery the patient begged him not to let them kill her. He sloughed it off as jitters and pain meds until she died first on the operating table – they rescued her from the light – and then for the last time in I.C.U.”

“How old?”

“Late 80s.”

“Forgetting the kid’s account, is there anything else that points to foul play?” Jeffrey asked. “Old people die in hospitals. It’s not exactly breaking news.”

“There were flowers in her room although she’d only been in for a short time,” Jennifer answered. “Luke – he’s the transporter – didn’t believe the patient had any family with her. I’d need to find out who sent them.”

“So you are working on it?”

“I’m undecided,” Jennifer said noncommittally. “I’m hoping the security guard girlfriend can get the camera footage from the 8^th floor or gift shop where the flowers were purchased.”

“Check the Telegraph’s obituary section in a couple days too. There may be a full list of family members you can contact after the funeral.”

“We’ll see.”

Jennifer’s cell phone rang, startling both of them.

“Malone,” she answered.

“Hi, Jennifer?” the male voice asked tentatively. “It’s Luke from Met Hospital.”

“Your ears must be burning,” she said.

“What’s burning?”

Too young to get the reference, Jennifer thought. You’re the old lady in this conversation. “Hey, Luke, never mind. Nothing’s burning. What’s going on? Are you still at work?”

“I am and I found some information about Helga that may explain why she believed someone was out to kill her.”

Jennifer brought her seat to an upright position and found a notepad in her purse. “Go on,” she said.

There was a brief pause and Jennifer heard Maryanne in the background encouraging Luke on, as she had on the hospital bench. “Helga was the star witness at a murder trial. Her granddaughter was killed by her husband, who was convicted and sent to prison.”

“That’s good he was found guilty,” Jennifer replied. “Why would Helga be in any danger now?”

“Because there might be an appeal, and in the article I read the lawyer claimed without Helga’s testimony his client would be found not guilty.”

Jennifer wrote down this information and mulled over its importance. “But why kill her in a public place like a hospital? Why not make an attempt when she’s home alone?”

“That’s the thing, Jennifer, I think they did,” Luke said cautiously. “The surgery was scheduled after Helga arrived in the E.R. I spoke with her nurse and she remembered that Helga was tight-lipped about her fall at home. But she thought that Helga had mumbled, ‘I almost got away from him,’ only to dismiss it, like I did, because Helga was high on painkillers.”

Jennifer was alarmed by this news. “Did you tell the nurse what Helga had said to you?”

“No, I’m too scared to tell anyone anything, aside from you.”

Jennifer was relieved that Luke had kept his mouth shut. “From now on, please stop discussing Helga with any hospital personnel, besides Maryanne. I need to do some research on this murder trial. Can you text me the story link?”

“I’ll do it now.”

A few seconds later, Jennifer’s phone made a pinging sound. “Got it, thanks, Luke. Get to the end of your shift and go home. I’ll contact you in the morning,” Jennifer said. “Are you working the same shift tomorrow?”

“No, I generally only work weekends, unless someone is sick and I’m called in to cover their shift,” Luke answered. “Maryanne will be at the hospital from noon until midnight though.”

“Sounds good,” Jennifer said. “And one more thing: remember that none of this information may be connected to Helga’s death, okay?”

“I know,” Luke said.

Jennifer set her cell phone on the dash and re-read her notes, as Jeffrey remained silent for several moments.

“What are the odds that you found your next story to investigate?” he asked.

“One hundred percent, my friend,” Jennifer said with a sigh. “One hundred freakin’ percent.”