flashquake - Spring 2002 - Fiction - A Proper Investigation by Bob Thurber

Fiction
First Place

flashquake
A Proper Investigation
by Bob Thurber

graphic of a detective's desk, labelled A Proper Investigation by Bob Thurber

I suffer from night blindness, so Colleen drove. I used my key light and studied the map the whole ride. In my mind I didn't think this meeting would prove any more eventful than the other times we had been promised reliable information. My stomach rumbled as Colleen directed us downtown, under bridges; she found the side-street without once consulting me.

She shut off the engine and the headlights.

I looked at the building.

-- I'm not going to go in, she said.

-- Are you sure, I said.

-- I'd only make things worse. I'll sit here and smoke, she said.

I squeezed her hand, then got out and went inside.

The lobby was empty except for a folding chair and a small pile of newspapers.Taped to the wall at the base of the stairs was a handwritten sign on a sheet of 3-hole notebook paper. Spelled out in block letters was: Midnight Detective and Security Services. Beneath the name a penciled arrow pointed up.

I climbed one flight and found another sheet of notebook paper. Same message. The arrow pointed left.

I moved down a short hallway that smelled like old wet laundry, turned a corner and walked into the only lighted space, then past a bare desk into a larger office.

The man looked like a kid with a penciled mustache.

The cuffs of his pinstripe suit were miles too long.

He wore a bright yellow bow tie.

At the sight of me he folded his cell phone without comment and put the device away. I was glad he made no effort to shake my hand.

-- Mister Thurber?

I nodded.

-- This won't take a minute, he said.

He showed the way with a wave of his hand, like a game show host.

Near the window was a kitchen table and two vinyl backed chairs. He had arranged the photos like he was playing solitaire.

-- Make yourself comfortable, he said.

I sat sideways on the furthest chair and looked at the upside down photographs.

-- You might be more comfortable sitting on this side.

-- No, this is fine, I said.

I watched him set frameless bifocals on the end of his nose. He bent at the waist and leaned uncomfortably close.

-- I also have copies of the motel registry, and the credit card receipt. The man's an Episcopalian minister, believe it or not.

-- I don't care about the man.

-- Of course you don't.

I hadn't more than glanced at the photos. He looked at me looking at him and he moved his tongue around the inside of his mouth. Then he tapped a finger on a cockeyed close up.

-- That the same girl?

I looked but I didn't need to look.

I nodded.

-- Very attractive, he said.

I nodded and wondered if I should thank him and walk away, tell Colleen it's all been another mistake, another close call.

-- There's more, a second roll of film, shot after this one, he said, but it's not developed yet. I'm expecting a call on it soon.

I thought about what your life becomes if you don't keep an eye on it every minute.

-- The next step, of course, is up to you.

He removed the spectacles, folded them flat.

-- I can bring her to you, or bring them both to you. In any condition you want them to arrive.

I moved to his side of the table. Just two photos showed Janet's face; most were of her back, or an awkward side angle, or of her behind, or of a man's hairy ass, with her on her side, one leg folded beneath.

-- She has her mother's long toes, I said.

He tapped a close-up of her foot.

-- That one there is my oddball favorite.

He held the photo up by its corner. I turned half around.

-- See how I caught the light? That tiny sparkle?

He turned the image, held it six inches from my face while I examined the spangle of reflected light.

-- We gave her that anklet, I said.

-- Excuse me?

-- That's what my wife will say. She'll say that we gave her everything, everything she ever wanted. Everything she ever needed. But that can't be right, now can it?