The Case of the Rich Man's Wife

"Homicide, please," I said.

"One moment."

"Homicide division, how may I assist," the friendly woman's voice appeared to promise help.

"Detective Sgt. Frank Lang, please."

"I'm sorry, Detective Sgt. Lang is out of the office at this time. Tell me, are you Theodora Drummond?"

"Yes."

"You will find him at Hudson Park Pier, fishing in the east river," the voice said, "and not the fun kind, according to the report, Miss Drummond."

"Thanks, another one so fast?"

"Yes."

****

Let's be clear on this, Frank was unmistakable, his massive burly body hulking over those around him. When I laid eyes on him, Uncle Frank stood over something on the dock. Ignoring the warnings, I walked toward him as someone yelled.

"Theodora's here."

Twisting, he turned to me, mustard stained his tie from the dog he was stuffing into his mouth. Chewing the remnants of his hot dog, he spoke as his mouth sprayed bits of food.

"Baby girl, you don't wanna see this."

"This won't upset my stomach, Uncle," I told him, sauntering to him. The scene shocked me far more than I expected. For the victim was the young hooker from the diner. With her clothes gone, the call girl flat on her back, naked as the day of her birth. A wound gaped from her pubic mound to her breast. With her throat cut from one side to the other. As if she accused me of failing her, the woman's dead eyes gawked at me.

"He gutted her. The other four, cut up the same, like a cow a butcher shop. Nothing left inside her. Chunks of muscles filleted from her legs, arms, and back. I can't help but wonder what the Beelzebub he does with the parts and guts." Frank Lang appeared angrier than ever I saw him.

"Took a massive fillet from her right buttock," the coroner added.

"Despite her being a whore, they were all whores, and yet, they're still people. Nobody much cares when these women are being killed like pigs at the market. No, they read about the killings as entertainment to amuse themselves, the thoughtless assholes." Shaking his fist at the river.

"I met this woman this morning. I spotted her getting in a yellow roadster. Happened around 7:30 or 8:00am, I guess." I said, shocked out of my mind.

"Baby girl, a car might be a lead. What brings you here, not my disgusting case?"

"No, not this," my knees weakened, I flushed, and nausea turned my belly queasy.

In a twinkling, Uncle Frank put one bear paw hand on my shoulder and the other under my arm.

"You okay, baby girl?" He asked, guiding me to a seating position on some old wooden boxes.

The rough wood under my butt settled me, supported me. I raised a hand to my face for a moment, collected my thoughts, and stood.

"Uncle, I ... I never thought of seeing someone dead who I met face to face a few hours before."

Regaining my composure, I went through everything with Frank. Frank wasn't my real uncle. While father lived, Frank had been his partner and best friend. Taken in by Frank and his wife when I became an orphan, they raised me as their own.

We drew closer together as the years went on, became a real family. When I was a teen, I recall how the size of Uncle Frank frightened boys coming to date me. No wonder I never dated much! The boys feared him as though he was Frankenstein's Monster, while I viewed him as a lovable and comforting, giant teddy bear.

Frank listened to me as his men and the coroner did their jobs. Gazing into my eyes, he listened, shaking his head "no" from time to time. Disheveled clothing was almost a trademark for Frank Lang. Anything Uncle Frank wore needed a pressing. Stains always graced his clothing, marking what he ate since the last cleaning. I often thought more food found its way to his clothing than into his mouth. The cause of his unsightliness, eating while he worked as he was doing as we talked.

"Now, you listen to me. The man is, danged, dangerous." Frank cautioned me as I used his handkerchief to clean mustard from his face. "His wife can take care of herself; Baby girl, you drop this thing and be happy you did."

"I can't," I told him.

"You don't owe this rich bastard or his absent wife anything." Uncle Frank stared at me with fear and concern in his eyes.

"I can't drop the matter. I have to find Mrs. Randolph and protect her," I told him. Without rancor, we argued back and forth as the coroner removed the body. "At the moment, I need to understand something, something you know."

"What?" he asked me. The stern expression on his face told me how upset I'd made him. Try as he might, he couldn't dissuade me from my goal. "Your Aunt Marjorie is going to be scared witless by all this."

Ignoring his comment, I plunged into asking him about Florence Randolph's former lover. Resisting telling me for some time. At last, Frank gave in. This shocked me as the man was a common thief and two-bit hood, a cheap enforcer for a cheaper gangster. Tommy ‘The Knock,' so named, because he liked to knock people on the head with a blackjack or hammer. According to Uncle Frank, the former Florence Hanson's attraction to Tommy was the excitement.

Uncle Frank confided in me Tommy and Florence still got together from time to time. To top things off, he follows the wealthy Florence Randolph from City to City to carry on this illicit affair. This union perhaps carried on, right under Alistair Randolph's nose.

"I'll tell you one more thing, Theo, this filthy business with the whores might be laid on Randolph's doorstep. For the past three years, where Randolph traveled, this kind of killing happened. So, you take extra care on this case, Baby girl! Most cops in this town look the other way for a five-spot, and Randolph can do way better than a fiver."

After Uncle Frank clued me in, I set out to find Tommy Alberto, Tommy the Knock, and I hoped, Florence Randolph.

Mixed emotions flared inside me. Torn inside out, on this case. Unsure what was right or wrong. All the while, I believed the rich man wanted to harm his wife. Might the bastard need to protect his dark secret Uncle Frank suspected of him? I tried to cover a sister, shield her from an evil bastard. Everyone thinks Mr. Alistair Cranston Randolph is one twisted man.

****

When you live on an island, dead-ends are inevitable. And brothers and sisters, blockades were all I found, dead-ends to every inquiry. What I didn't discover, Florence Randolph, no hint of her. I found no Tommy Alberto either, only dead-ends by the bushel. Cooling my heels, I sat on the shiny bumper of my Bearcat, eyeballing the Lady with her arm holding the light high. The greenish statue proclaiming this was freedom's door.

A filterless dangled in my mouth, the fumes rolled up into my eyes, and I waved my hand to clear the fumes. The sun hung near the horizon, and I assumed Aaron, left for home long before this hour. He'd be, more than likely, disappointed I hadn't come back to the office. Holding hope, my sweetie would be missing me, vowing I'd call him when I got home and invite him over for some extended fun.

Examining the Lady, The Queen of Liberty. Gifted to us long ago, and yet standing proud to be an American. How many people came here from all over the world for freedom? Tinker with the idea, I guess, Tommy the Knock and Florence were free – at least for now.

Maybe, I shouldn't bother finding them. Might be, the couple would fare better if I pissed around, scammed a tidy sum of Randolph's ill-gotten cash. After a few weeks of futility, I wrote up a bupkis report. Give Mr. Asshole Randolph the news, his less than loving wife, dropped off the far end of the Earth, and I can't find her. End of story.

What the hell's wrong with this stupid woman? Florence Randolph was a pure puzzle to me. What about Tommy the Knock? Who in their right mind would want to be in the same state as a sociopath like him? Never mind the same bed.

Tossing the fag into the river, I couldn't hear the hiss when the water struck the cherry, but I understood the hiss still happened. It was not unlike how I couldn't see all the parts to this dilemma, but I accepted I'd find the pair given time.

Lots in my thoughts, the light began to fade as the sun dropped below the horizon. Well, crap, where had the day gone. Returning to the car, I settled in for the drive back to my office. Glancing at my wristwatch, I was running late for my meeting with Estelle and her Girl Friday.

Speeding along the streets, I mused if Aaron was home. I wanted to use Aaron, as I had a deep, hot itch, which screamed for scratching. A scratch I couldn't reach. I smiled to myself, which turned to a scowling frown, as I ruminated on his words from the night before. Holy mackerel, his words broke my mood.

Dangednit it all, I'm, too, young to be your mother, baby, and you can't do what you and I do together, with your mother. Oh, Aaron, sweet boy, why, in the name of all that is holy, did you use the word mother? What a crummy thing to say.

****

Parking right out front of my building, I glanced to my window. The lights glared inside. The streetlights burned bright but illuminated little. At this late hour, no one remained in the office building. Parking here because I didn't have to walk the five blocks from the parking garage. Getting out, I surveyed the street. No surprise, the women of the night wandered the thoroughfare. The cars cruised, in a slow line, up and down the road. No, sir, I didn't want to be roaming about with this crowd. No, sir, I wouldn't like being mistaken for a whore.

Like sharks flashing their white teeth in voracious grins moments before they attack, men sized up women. Each fellow hunting for what whore who whet his appetite. Rushing the few steps, I ran to the door of my office building, retrieved the front door key from my handbag. Guiding key into the lock while glancing over my shoulder. Unsure sure why I became jumpy.

Unlocking the front door, I slipped inside, in quick as possible, with my heart in my mouth. Closing the door behind me, I felt comforted by the click when I secured the door. Leaning against the big glass doors, I drew a sigh of relief. A release of tension, for I wasn't one of those women. A wrong turn here, a mistaken step or two, in my past life, and I might have been one of them.

This case turned my nerves on end. Harried by the doubt, which consumed me about my employer. Point of the matter, I held no idea about his motives. I wasn't one of those gumshoes – do anything for a buck – private dicks who didn't care what the job necessitated. No, this pesky, niggling voice constantly nagged me, pestering me to do the right thing. A companion, strangely silent, refusing to guide me. Nevertheless, my gut screamed, loud and clear, something wasn't right about this ordeal.

Estelle had her own key, not only to the main door but also to my office. I believed she might be waiting in the office. Moving with purpose, covering the distance between the front doors and elevator. Realization leaped to mind, crap, the attendant shift ended, the lift's doors locked. I would have to take the stairs.

Well, a three-floor climb, stairs are no big a deal. Opening my purse, I pulled the cigarette case and lighter from the bag, started up the stairs. Returning both after I had the lung dart lit, drawing the fumes deep in my lungs, the slight burning sensation was, as always, welcome.

Used to long days, par for my job, but today, so much longer than most. Call today an exercise in futility, which exasperated me. Frustration stressed me. Hoping Estelle would shed light on an otherwise dark subject. Clicking out a familiar tune, my high heels resonated in the stairwell as I made my way to the third floor.

Exiting the stairwell, the signage jumps into view, my trade single. ‘Theodora Drummond & Associates, Private Investigators,' adorned in black paint on the pebbled glass of the door.

Telling you straight out, I find seeing my name and profession printed on my own office door a thing of beauty, which made the difficult work worthwhile.

I was a woman, making her way in a world governed by men. With this admission, I owed part of my success to the war effort. A harshness, which refused to be ignored. No one would've given me the time of day if many American men weren't off fighting Hitler and Tojo. But give this lady her due, I'd toiled with thoroughness to achieve my measure of success. The war now ended; on the other hand, I wasn't going anywhere! But, I earned my position in the world.

The long, rough day left me wanting nothing more than to go home. Well, I also wanted Aaron to come over and tussle between the sheets with me. With fond memories of our earlier copulation, I smiled to myself, and opened the unlocked door. Assuming Aaron waited for me, a thought came to me, he must be entertaining Estelle and her Girl Friday until my arrival. Another idea, a threesome, might be taking place on the floor of my office.

After all, I was late. With some self-assessment, I perhaps stayed at the docks with Lady Liberty, too, long.

As I stepped into my reception area, the back of my head exploded. Dazzling aching screeched across my brain. The floor bolted towards me. Twisting to the right, as gravity took hold, toppling downward like a tree succumbing to the ax.

Crap, one of my heels broke, "I love these shoes!"

The heel skittering off across the tile made a peculiar high noise. A severe impact shook me as I crashed to the deck. The room spun around in a blurry rapid motion. As I fell, I lifted my head to examine the room. Confusion reigned, and I tried to comprehend.

Sliding away from me, my purse spilled the stuff inside, makeup compact, lipstick, and other contents sprayed out across the floor, and the .45 colt flew away from my reach. All the debris came to rest at Aaron's face. The young man's eyes moved around under the lids. Thank God he lived, dreaming, or more living in a nightmare.

Trying to push up, I pressed against my hands, planting them on the cold tiles. Thump, another vicious blow on the back of my head, sent a shockwave deep into my skull. Darkness rose with the force of a tidal wave, submerging me.

As the surging tide overtook me, I slipped below the surface of consciousness. The light in the room faded into black. Leaving me with only a few disjointed flashes of the past. A vast stillness enveloped me as I clung to memories, trying to fight off the eclipse covering me in nothingness. The night before was such a long time ago. Dear God, couldn't be more than 24 hours since Aaron and I rolled up together in my bed?

The world died or slept, whichever world I fell into, either possible world, so, frightened me.

Chapter Five

The heavy fog invaded every pore clutching me in a cruel grasp, dulling my senses, and my mind slowed. Molasses running down a jar, my thoughts moved in a dense vapor inside my mind. I sensed I lay on the floor where I fell. Although, I believed I'd been moved. Somewhere in the dim recesses, a vague recollection of falling on my face sprang to my intellect. How I came to be on my back didn't understand. But what the devil was the noise?

Thumping, a steady hard tick-tock echoed. Matching the battering on the back of my head. I wished the fog would consume the pain. Eyes refused to open, the mist so murky I couldn't peer through.

"Miss Drummond," a voice, a sweet angel, intruded on my pain. Her voice was so lovely. I wished she would take the sting away. Why so much fog in the place?

The dense fog persisted, rolling over me. I couldn't think, couldn't move. The mist held me, clutching to me like some treacherous predator. Refusing to release me, holding me down, and threatening to devour me. Dear Lord, my head ached, tick-tock, the gnawing hammered in my brain. Tick Tock, the clattering traversed my spine. Tick-tock one explosion after another, tick-tock, like a clock hammering away, while fog swirled about me. Some urgency required me to move forward. Somehow, I needed to move. But I was afraid to do so.

"Miss Drummond," The angel spoke again.

My eyes fluttered open. The cloud churned inside my head. Also, I localized the torture to the back of my head. A wet sticky kind of throbbing with each pump of my heart, with something warm oozing with each pulse. Everything was a blur, but I made out the office but not Aaron.

Some fog cleared while my poor brain burned. The thought crossed my mind, Joe Louis was doing his thing using my head for his speed bag.

Watching Aaron picking up the spilled items of my handbag. Putting them back, he gave me a sheepish smile. With a pained, wolfish grin, I returned his gaze. The blood on his clothes screamed, holy cow, was he hurt?

"Don't worry, ain't my blood, and I'm not sure who's blood this is." The room sharpened but not quite all the way.

"Miss Drummond," Effie Patrick spoke to me with thoughtful slowness. Oh, not so much an angel of light as a black angel. Kneeling above me, a bloody towel in her ebony hand.

"Miss Theo, you took a wicked blow to the head. Aaron's injury's not so bad, a bump on his hard noggin." Helping me to my knees. The dark angle, Effie, cautioned me to move slow.

In the end, I stood on my two wobbling feet. The broken heel added to my instability. I might only speculate what happened while Aaron and I were unconscious. Glancing around the room, nothing from the night before remained.

No dead body, no naked woman raped on the office couch. Not a trace of blood anywhere except for the blood on Aaron's coat and shirt. A little of my blood around where my head hit on the floor. They left us not a shred of evidence.

Nothing left at the scene, other than our own wounds, testified anything out of the ordinary happened. I determined not to say what I knew since I understood so little of what happened. To speak of Estell and her girl was a pointless burden if I gave them the details I had.

Ring, ring, the wrenching clatter as the phone rang. Effie answered, "Office of Theodora Drummond Private Investigator and Associates." Effie listened. Holding her hand over the mouthpiece, said, "The calls for you, Miss Drummond, medical examiner's office."

Stumbling to Effie, reeling, weaving, and limping, on one heel, and took the phone.

"Yes," I said, trying to sound as normal as possible. Wishing the crown of thorns would go away!

"Miss Drummond's, I need you to come down and identify the body of a woman," the familiar voice asked for my assistance.

"Who is she?"

"If I identified who she was, I wouldn't need you to come to the morgue." The doctor sounded a tad pissed. "She had your business card in her, umm, bra, ma'am if you'd please be of assistance." The irritation in his voice calmed down as he asked for help.

"I'll be over as quick as possible," after hanging up the phone, I made my way to my office, where I changed clothes and shoes. After I changed, Effie cleaned my wound and dressed the cut with the office first aid kit, and the bleeding at last stopped. Pulling the bottle out of a drawer on my desk, I raised the bottle, swigging down a healthy amount. I brushed my teeth and touched up my makeup.

What now, I wondered as I rode the elevator down, my head crashing to the rhythm of pure anguish. The operator stared at me with concern and curiosity. I sensed the attendant's gaze. In vain, I hoped he would say nothing.

"When did ya get here?"

"I came in before you got here," I said, telling a small fib while answering his question. "Blast this headache, I think like this storm will last a month," I told him without telling him any details. For a few moments, I vented my frustration into the air. "Like some chrome-dome flatfoot's smashing on my head with a killer-diller Billy club. Throbs, first one side, with another blow on the other. A blow from the right and the left. What the blazes."