“You’re all right, sport.” At this pleasant mellow stage of inebriation, my thoughts are crystal clear, the alcohol enhancing my thinking abilities, my logic not yet the incoherent rage it sometimes becomes when I’ve been drinking. I slap the private detective’s back, just as Tully slapped mine. A certain kind of man, usually the young and eager to please, will respond to that kind of gesture, but the rest of us will bristle at the touch of a stranger and the implicit desperate tug for trust. “Plus, you’re smart, demanding payment in cash. That way, you won’t have to pay taxes on it.”
The Scotch is, shall we say, filthy atrocious with an aftertaste not unlike kerosene, and within a couple of minutes, his tongue loosened, the detective tells me all the great things about being a private detective, how he’s developed fail-proof ways to break into databases and decrypt password-protected documents. On a hunch, I reach into my coat pocket and activate the record button on my cell phone, which I’ve used often to tape business lunches, conferences, and face-to-face client meetings.
“So tell me the work you do. What kind of cases do you take on?”
“Domestic stuff. Husbands or wives contract me to track down a spouse suspected of being unfaithful. Every time that happens, I’m, like, ‘Hey, you really don’t want me to do that,’ but they’re all, like, ‘I really, really need to know.’ Smartphones are, like, the greatest gift to a private detective—anything you want to find out about someone is linked to their cell phone. So I trace cell phone records, track down cell phone locations, hack into text messages. Then I surveil that person with a telephoto lens, snap a few photos of them entering or exiting hotels, motels, sometimes even the back seat of a car in an empty parking lot.” He shoots his hands through his shaggy hair, quaffs down the rest of his Scotch, and exhales a satisfied sigh. “It’s amazing how careless people are.”
“So how much do you charge to ruin someone’s life?” I ask, imagining the reactions of his clients when he unveils the photographs, romantic texts, and intimate emails proving their spouses have been unfaithful. As soon as they see this shit, his clients must break down, sobbing.
“I’m not ruining anyone’s life.”
I raise my eyebrow. “You aren’t?”
“I’m giving people what they want.”
All along, I’ve wondered how a private eye could be as unaware of the consequences of his investigations, but then I get it: if he were any more in touch with what he’s doing, he wouldn’t be able to live with the devastation he brings to people’s lives. As cynical as I am, I’ve never drawn pleasure at provoking misery in others. Pale and withdrawn, he must’ve been a troubled youth who got his ya-yas out by kicking kittens or poisoning the neighborhood stray.
The detective reaches for one of the empty MGD bottles he drank with his pal and peels off the label. In the back of the bar, one of the frat boys sinks a quarter in a glass he hadn’t been aiming for, and the whole lot of them erupt in the kind of enthusiastic high-fives men my age can’t pull off anymore with authenticity. Twenty years ago, I would have walked up to their table and asked to join their drinking game. Now, though, I’ve got responsibilities.
“You find out anything good about the woman you were looking into? The one who had, um, a girl over at Sibley?”
“You bet. I’m good at what I do. I found plenty.”
“And the woman who hired you. What did she say when you told her all this?”
“She doesn’t know yet. I’m not supposed to get back to her until tomorrow.”
I have no idea what deeds Laurel may have committed, what dirt this lowlife detective might’ve unearthed. If Trish convinces authorities that Laurel’s not a fitting mother, who knows what might become of Anne Elise? Social services would take one look at me, or at least my bar tabs, and declare me equally unfit for parenthood. Foster homes, orphanages, adoption agencies. That’s what might become of Anne Elise. I might never see her again. Hours ago, swaying her around Laurel’s hospital room, I silently pledged to be her father and protector, and that’s what I intend to be. Trish’s plotting to rid Laurel of Anne Elise, and I’m not going to let it happen.
“So tell me what I can do for you?” the detective asks. “Why’d you call me?”
“If you haven’t told the wife yet, don’t do it.”
The private detective jerks his head up. “Why shouldn’t I?”
“I’ll make it worth your while if you don’t hand over the information to the jealous wife. How’s that for a business proposition?”
The detective lifts his wire-rimmed glasses off his nose, grabs a napkin off the bar, and rubs a speck off one of the lenses. I sense some consideration, some mental calculations, going on in his mind. What I’m suggesting is a ballsy double-cross of my own wife. He tilts his head, examines me, puts his glasses back on. “Why would you do that?”
“Because I’m a good Samaritan. That’s why. What difference does it make? Don’t question the motives of your business associates. All that should matter is that my money’s green. That’s what I’m saying. A smart businessman like you ought to know not to look a gift horse in the eye.”
“What do you know about the wife? I hear she’s bad news.”
I’m shocked anyone could think of Trish as “bad news,” but I try not to let the shock seep into my expression. “Buddy, I don’t know anything about the wife.”
The private detective peers down at the torn strips of the beer label. We listen to the frat boys’ drinking game behind us. Quarters bounce on the table. One of the frat boys lets go of his quarter, which rolls onto the floor. The detective lays the beer-label strips onto the glazed oak bar, jigsaw puzzling the label’s image back together again.
“Impressive,” I say.
The detective nods. The reassembled beer bottle label is laid out on the bar. He reaches into his wallet, plucks out a business card, and places it atop the label’s American eagle logo. The business card is different than that which Jack Riggs handed me years ago. Charles Simpkins is not listed. Nor is the firm still located on Pennsylvania Avenue across from the White House.
“Larry Simpkins,” I say, reading the name off the business card.
“That’s me. Who are you?”
“Me? I’m the guy who’ll be calling you again real soon. That’s who I am. That’s all you need to know. Got it?”
Chapter Fifteen
JIM
Savory Mew’s lead glass windows blaze like full moons; every light in the house appears to be on as I drive up the cobblestone street leading to our house. It’s eleven o’clock. Or maybe eleven thirty. I might think there’s a party going on, but Trish isn’t someone who endorses spur-of-the-moment revelry—which is too bad, because I could use a party right now. Or at least more alcohol. Having left Taylor’s with enough room in my belly for a few more drinks, I’m all revved up with no place to lush out.
“Hello? Honey pie? I’m home,” I say, stepping through Savory Mew’s front door. An eerie emptiness touches me to the bone: this is a house that love has abandoned. Though lit up to the nines, the house is its normal, desolate self with no alcohol, drunken revelry, or partiers in sight. I dim the foyer sconces, step into the living room, and, seeing the room empty, extinguish the stained glass Tiffany mushroom lamps next to the armchair Trish usually uses when watching the police procedurals she loves on television. “Trish? I’m home. Where are you, sweetie?”