The Case of the Stolen Jewels

I telephoned Summer and told her I would stop by for lunch. On the way to her apartment, I bought a six-pack of Corona beer and a couple of limes. Summer fixed sandwiches with potato chips. We drank the beer and relaxed before beginning to talk about changing Summer's life around.

Chapter 2: Summer's Change

I sat with Summer and discussed what I thought would be her best course of action. Summer was computer illiterate and needed help with learning how to use the mouse, what a URL was, and how to avoid online scams. I set her up with an email account and taught her how to send and open emails. Summer was like a little kid on Christmas morning. The information overload taxed her brain to the point of needing a break.

During the break from Summer's Internet indoctrination, we stepped outside to smoke. Summer pulled out a cigarette and lit it. I did the same. I asked her to be completely honest with me as we smoked and not hold anything back. I said that we needed total honesty and transparency if I were to continue helping her. We discussed Summer's education at Notre Dame University and what interests she might have in furthering her education. I learned about what she did at the Convent and what happened at the Arkansas Catholic High School. Summer also told me about getting beat up and spending time in the hospital, and recuperating with a former Convent orphan by the name of JR Hicks. Mr. Hicks was an aerospace engineer working for a conglomerate company at the beach.

After learning about Summer's history, I felt even worse than when she came to me at the Blue Room. Besides her friend JR, I was the only person who had ever treated Summer like a person and not a cum dumpster. Summer alternated between crying and giggling with excitement. She was in a happy place while we spoke.

It was getting late in the afternoon, and my blood sugar level was dropping fast. Summer and I left her apartment and drove to a nearby hole-in-the-wall Mexican restaurant, where we enjoyed a pitcher of margaritas and a Mexican feast on the outdoor patio. The Sun was setting as we were seated, and the air cooled enough to enjoy the outdoors. After dinner, I drove Summer back to her apartment. Once inside, she made us coffee, and we sat together in the living room.

"Summer?" I asked. "Now that you have a place of your own, how are you feeling about your future?"

"Briggs," she said, "I can't tell you how happy you have made me. Are you sure you don't want me to thank you more personally?"

Summer tried to slide next to me and become intimate, but I, again, shot her down. I told Summer in no uncertain terms that I would remain her friend and not her lover. Summer was crestfallen but understood the magnitude of the problem our intimacy would create. I had my demons to slay from my late ex-wife's iniquity, and I wasn't about to become involved in another romantic relationship. The last thing I did before leaving was to give Summer five hundred dollars. I told her it was for her to use for groceries, as she did not have rent or utilities to pay while living in the apartment. Summer was thankful. I hugged Summer and bid her a good night as I left her apartment.

A week later, I called Summer on Monday and arranged to stop by the apartment. When I left Summer on Saturday evening the previous week, she was hopeful and happy. When I arrived Monday afternoon, Summer was crying. Between bouts of sobbing, Summer told me she had narrowed her choice down to online teaching. Her California teaching credential from her time at the Convent was still valid, and Summer had applied to a few online private schools for remote teaching positions. The pay would be enough for Summer to live on her own, and she would not have to endure the pain of people seeing her self-perceived ugliness. Unfortunately, her past arrests for prostitution had caught up with her during the background checks, thus preventing Summer from being employed with any school-age children. Her past was something I had not counted on as affecting her employment probability.

I held Summer in my arms as she cried herself out. When she was somewhat stable, we walked around the apartment complex and discussed alternate choices. When I suggested becoming a licensed counselor, Summer perked up. I told her that many alcoholics and drug abusers who had become sober were able to get jobs as counselors despite their troubled and often criminal pasts. We searched the Internet for online educational programs that would lead to Summer becoming a counselor. I told Summer that I would pay for her education, but she had to promise me that she would not go back to streetwalking.

"Summer," I said. "It's time now to stop using your stage name and return to being Julia Rochelle. It'll be hard for me to make the change since I have known you as Summer for so long. Can you do that for me?"

I helped Summer investigate how to become a counselor. She learned about the licensure requirements, the number of job openings, and the likely pay scale Summer could expect after completing her education. I told Summer to find some online chat groups on Reddit and ask questions about becoming a counselor.

*****

On the Monday morning after getting Summer set up in an apartment, I received an email from Jim Daniels' parole officer. Ms. Donelle Jackson agreed to meet with me that afternoon about Jim Daniels. We met at Ms. Jackson's Echo Park office building at 3:00 PM. Ms. Jackson was every bit professional but stunningly beautiful. Donelle Jackson's skin tone was light brown, almost like an olive complexion, but more like a mocha coffee with cream. Judging from her facial features and body stature, Ms. Jackson was of mixed race but definitely not African American. I guessed that her heritage was from a Caribbean nation with an Anglo parent. Donelle's light blue eyes could have been from colored contact lenses. Still, her spaghetti-straight light brown hair color looked natural and nixed any influence of African genealogy.

When I arrived at her office, Ms. Jackson invited me to walk with her to the corner coffee shop. We ordered coffee and sweet treats. She had a scone, and I had a double chocolate fudge brownie. Sitting at a corner table, Ms. Jackson and I enjoyed our coffee and sweet treats as I explained my plan to speak with Jim Daniels. I wanted Ms. Jackson to know my intentions.

"Ms. Jackson," I said. She interrupted me and said to call her Donelle. "Donelle, I am a licensed Private Investigator. I work for the Robert T. Simmons Detective Agency, and my meeting with you is outside my employment. It's a personal matter that I am here today. As you are aware, Ms. Julia Rochelle was Jim Daniels' victim. I have known Ms. Rochelle for a couple of years now, and she came to me asking for help in getting her stolen jewelry back from Mr. Daniels."

"I see," said Donelle. "How does that affect me?"

"Indirectly, I suppose," I said. "I thought it better you knew about my attempt to recover the stolen jewelry. Ms. Rochelle claims that on the night of her encounter with Mr. Daniels, after he beat her senselessly, Mr. Daniels absconded with Ms. Rochelle's family heirlooms."

"How do you plan on recovering the stolen items, Mr. Briggs?" Donelle asked.

"It's just Briggs," I said. "There is no Mr. Briggs. I plan on using a direct approach and asking Mr. Daniels for the jewelry. Ms. Rochelle has assured me that she has zero interest in Mr. Daniels and, rightly so, fears for her safety. Ms. Rochelle says that Mr. Daniels is stalking her and that she feels unsafe. I have relocated Ms. Rochelle to an apartment where she is currently staying. There is no way Mr. Daniels could find Ms. Rochelle unless it were by pure happenstance luck."

"Has Ms. Rochelle considered soliciting for a restraining order against Mr. Daniels?" Donelle said.

"Yes, she has considered a restraining order but is reluctant to cause more problems for Mr. Daniels. Considering my client's history with Mr. Daniels, I believe a restraining order would not protect her. I hope to convince Mr. Daniels not only to give up the jewelry but also to leave my client in peace."

"Yes, I can see where Ms. Rochelle would be frightened," Donelle said. "I will note our conversation in Mr. Daniels' file. Was there anything else, Briggs?"

"I believe so," I said. "I noticed the absence of a ring on your finger. If I may be so bold to ask, does the absence of a ring mean you are available, and if so, would you consider having dinner with me this evening? I find you to be an interesting woman, and I would like to know more about you. If you are currently attached to someone, please accept my most humble apology for my impetuousness."

Donelle smiled and tilted her head to the side like a high school girl getting asked on a date by the star quarterback. I figured she was sizing me up and wondering why I would be interested in her. It should be obvious to anyone looking on that Donelle Jackson is hot.

"I'm flattered you asked, Briggs," Donelle said, "and I am not currently attached. However, I am not in a position to accept dinner invitations at this time."

"Perhaps, then, we should take our leave and return to your office building?" I said.

"Don't feel bad, Briggs," Donelle said as we walked back to her office building. "I have reasons for why I cannot accept your invitation, which I am unwilling to share with you. Rest assured, Briggs. I, too, find you attractive and would like to know more about you. Most unfortunately, I cannot accept your invitation."

"Thank you, Donelle, for allowing me to meet with you today. Perhaps if your situation changes, my invitation stands. It is open-ended with no expiration date."

I shook Donelle's hand while handing her my business card and walked toward my POS Chevy Lumina.

Chapter 3: Meeting Jim Daniels

Manhattan Beach, California, was at one time a sleepy beach community that sits about 19 miles south of downtown LA, at the southern end of Santa Monica Bay. At the turn of the 19th to the 20th centuries, a real estate developer decided to turn the once pristine strand of Pacific Ocean beach property into a new resort town, naming it after the same in New York. The small town slowly prospered, and in the 1980s, it became a real estate boomtown.

Jim Daniels rented a room from one of his pipeline company coworkers. The house Daniels lived in was a non-descript tract home built during the 80s. It was an early Saturday afternoon in October when I approached the front door of the home. I had already seen the mug shots from Daniels' booking, so I roughly knew what to expect when meeting with him the first time. Knocking on the door of the home caused a flurry of barking to ensue. I heard what sounded like three or four dogs announcing my presence, along with some cursing from a male voice demanding the dogs to be quiet.

Behind the steel security screen door, I heard the front door open and a male voice asking what I wanted.

"I'd like to speak with Jim Daniels, if I may, please," I said non-threateningly.

"I'm Jim Daniels," the voice said.

"Mr. Daniels," I said, "I'm a private investigator. Could I have a few moments of your time to discuss something of importance to you?"

I wasn't sure if my soft-soap approach would work, but Daniels seemed surprisingly cordial. He offered for me to come inside, but I instead asked him outside. We stood on the short concrete sidewalk that led from the driveway to the front door.

"Mr. Daniels," I said, "My name is Briggs. Julia Rochelle asked me to speak with you. I'm afraid it might take a while. Is there a place where we can sit and chat that you are comfortable with, like a nearby coffee shop?"

"Yeah, I suppose so," Daniels replied. "Let me get my keys, and we can go to the Starbucks a few blocks over on North Sepulveda."

"I'll follow you," I said.

Daniels returned and hopped into his newer F-150 Ford pickup truck. We drove less than five minutes and parked beside the Starbucks coffee shop. I studied the man as we entered the store. He looked physically fit. His body was lean and angular. His skin was Sun-dyed brown, and he walked with an air of confidence but didn't strut like a peacock. We ordered our coffee and found a table away from the main portion of the store.

"Mr. Daniels," I said, "I'll get straight to the point. Ms. Rochelle asked me to speak with you about your former relationship with her."

Daniel's eyes widened as he tried to gauge my intentions.

I continued. "To be completely honest, Ms. Rochelle is frightened of you. She asked me to speak with you about returning her jewelry. Ms. Rochelle tells me she is so frightened that she wishes never to see you again. You should know that Ms. Rochelle is terribly distraught at the thought of your trying to win her over. Mr. Daniels, I have looked into your past and your present situation. I must congratulate you for becoming sober. I am somewhat familiar with addiction and understand the journey you are taking in your sobriety."

"However, considering as much as you have changed for the better and are likely to remain sober, the fact remains that Ms. Rochelle is mentally and physically scarred for life. Are you aware of her activities and appearance since the incident in your home?" I asked.

"No, I lost track of Julia while I was in jail," Daniels said. "It was only through sheer luck I happened to run into her and started trying to see her again."

"Mr. Daniels," I said, "Ms. Rochelle is physically scarred from your attack. She has a disfigurement that runs from her right eyebrow to her mouth. She is so ashamed of her appearance that, as you might have noticed, she covers the right side of her face with her long hair and wears dark glasses to hide behind. Furthermore, because of her appearance, Ms. Rochelle is unable to find gainful employment and has been turning tricks ever since that night. She's been arrested several times and spent a week in the hospital a few months ago when one of her Johns beat her severely."

Daniels began to shed tears as I revealed Julia's recent past.

"Mr. Daniels," I continued, "As much as you may think you love her and want to be with her, Ms. Rochelle is fragile and sitting on the edge of self-destruction. Your re-entering her life has caused her to teeter closer to the edge. I implore you to please keep away from Ms. Rochelle. Any further contact with her could be disastrous and cause her to do something terrible. Do you understand what I mean, Mr. Daniels?"

Nodding his head in the affirmative, Daniels said, "My God! What have I done? It was the alcohol that did it. I'm not that kind of man."

Daniels apologized, complained, and ranted for a few minutes before losing himself in fits of sobbing. I encouraged him to visit the restroom to cool his face. After a few minutes, Daniels returned. He told me he had resolved himself that seeing Julia would cause more harm than good and offered to return her jewelry. We left Starbucks, and I followed Daniels back to his home. He went inside and returned with a small sandwich bag with the jewelry.

Handing it to me, Daniels said, "Will Julia be alright? I mean, you don't think she would kill herself, do you?"

"She will do as well as can be expected," I said.

I didn't tell Daniels that Julia was somewhat happy and on the road to self-sufficiency. She was still fragile but gaining strength every day. I shook Jim Daniel's hand and wished him well in his sobriety. Before I reached my car, I remembered something and walked back toward the house. Daniels had not entered the front door yet when I called out to him.

"Mr. Daniels," I called to him. "When I was much younger, I had a friend who had alcoholism. He spent many hours guiding me like a mentor. My friend explained how alcoholism works and his struggle with sobriety. Every year, on his sober birthday, I was privileged to celebrate his sobriety in a special way."

Reaching into my pocket, I found the Silver Dollar I was carrying and handed it to Daniels.

I continued my story, "Each year on his sober birthday, my friend allowed me the honor of drilling a tiny hole around the perimeter of his Silver Dollar. It was minted in the year of his rebirth. I thought you might like to do the same. My friend carried that coin in his pocket every day. That dollar is new, and if you do likewise as my friend did, every time you reach into your pocket, you will feel the coin as a reminder of your sobriety. It worked for 32 years for my friend before he passed from bone cancer. I wish you many happy years to come, Mr. Daniels."

Epilogue

I returned Julia's jewelry to her, and she screamed excitedly. She thanked me profusely and tried to get me to sleep with her. Again, I refused. It took all of my willpower, but I stood fast.

Julia went on with her education and became a substance abuse counselor. I encouraged Julia to seek mental healthcare during her education. She did so and started to become more comfortable with her appearance. After several visits with a plastic surgeon I knew, who owed me like Jason Holmes, Julia's face was nearly perfect. The scar was barely visible after she healed, and Julia became the beautiful woman she had always been.