The PI Who Knew Too Much Ch. 01

IT WAS ONE OF THOSE late October afternoons in Los Angeles that isn't as nice as it looks. Still warm, but the onshore breeze had an edge that promised a chilly night. The washed-out blue of the sky and the sunlight's soothing honey hue were due to the yellow crud mixed with thin fog that we had to breathe but pretended to ignore.

I got up from my swivel chair, winced (as usual) at the creak, and told myself (again, as usual) that I really did need to buy some 3-in-1 oil. I closed the window and watched the gold letters slide down till the frame hit the sill. They spelled out—in reverse, of course—W. Lloyd Adams and below that, Attorney at Law. One of these days I was going to have someone scrape off those letters and paint Peter A. Spector and below that Investigations. In black, who needs gold?

The wrong name on the window didn't say much for my success. For that matter, nothing in my office did. I got my desk at a school surplus auction for five bucks. The card table with two mismatched wooden folding chairs wasn't much of a conference table, and the less said about the Depression-era sofa the better.

Before I could afford to replace any of those, though, I needed to do some real investigating. Keeping tabs on straying husbands and wives, real or imagined, was my bread and butter and, unfortunately for me, there didn't seem to be much hanky-panky these days.

If things didn't pick up soon, I'd have to let Lupe go. I hired her right after I opened the office three years ago because I needed somebody to keep the office open when I was out. Losing Lupe would be a very bad thing. She was perfect for the job, handled the phone and typing and filing and anything else that needed doing.

She was 4 or 5 inches shorter than me, somewhere on the plus side of pretty. Her hair was jet black, and she was very nicely put together. Efficient as hell, she always kept a confidence and didn't take guff from anybody. We didn't stand on ceremony much—she pretended I was her boss and I pretended to believe her.

Taking care of her six-year-old daughter was the most important thing in Lupe's life, and it all fell on her since the father took off. I didn't pay her a lot, but if I paid her what she was worth I'd be rooming at the Y and living on macaroni and cheese. She could live on what I paid her, and she knew I'd raise it as soon as I could.

Her cousin watched the girl while Lupe was at work. Losing this job would really be rough on her, but it would be bad for me, too. Without her I'd have to lock up whenever I was out on a job. A lot of my clients just walked into the office. If the office was locked they'd go somewhere else, but I needed to spend my time out on jobs to bring in the dough. Besides, I wasn't sure any more how or when to pay the bills, it took me forever to find anything in the files, and don't even think about my typing. Not to mention that Lupe was pretty easy on the eyes.

Lupe must have been reading my mind, because just as I started worrying about losing her she knocked twice on my office door and opened it-without waiting, as usual-and stuck her head in.

"There's a, umm... lady here who wants to talk with the detective." She rolled her eyes on "lady" and again on "detective," then pushed the door completely open.

The "lady" who walked in was a classy dame in her early thirties. She was wearing a nicely tailored gray suit, white silk blouse, silk stockings, and black-and-white pumps. I wondered where she left the pillbox hat and white gloves. Her face was narrow but nicely proportioned, with what some call a patrician nose, high cheekbones, but a full mouth. She used just enough makeup so she didn't look raw, the soft curls of brown hair fell almost to her shoulders. Pale eyebrows reigned over equally pale blue eyes. The whole package was pretty in an ice-queen sort of way. If she smiled, I figured her lips would probably crack and bleed.

I walked around the desk to greet her, started to stick out my hand, but she beat me to it and gripped mine firmly. "My name is Lorelei Circe Bezier, but please call me Lori. With an i."

Lupe rolled her eyes again and mouthed "With an I. Of course." before closing the door. We shook hands, I gestured unnecessarily to the only guest chair. "Pete Spector." I sat back down and swiveled to face her. "What can I do for you, Mrs. Bezier?"

"Lori, please. Mrs. Bezier makes me sound much too old." She sat, crossed her legs, tugged her hem up just a smidgeon above her knee, and smiled with her eyes. It was about as genuine as the mayor's promises, so I wasn't surprised when her lips didn't crack and bleed. I wasn't quite ready to be her best buddy.

"Until we've decided what sort of business arrangement we have, I think it best if we keep it professional, Mrs. Bezier." She blinked, twice. Apparently she wasn't used to being turned down, especially by a man she thought she was trying to vamp.

"I don't quite know how to say this, it's...embarrassing, Mr. Spector."

"What's the problem? Nothing you tell me should embarrass you. If we decide to do business together, I'll be honor bound not to reveal any confidences."

She made a show of trying to make up her mind, then sighed. "I suppose you're right. It's just...well, it sounds so...tawdry." She waited for me to respond. When she realized I wasn't going to, she rushed on. "I think my husband might be having an affair, and if he is we will divorce. I would like you to find out whether he is or not."

I tried not to look relieved. I had a few small-change cases going, a couple of background checks, a possible employee pilfering store goods, a months-old request to find a long-lost cousin "without costing too much." Mrs. Bezier looked to have money, and it usually took more than a day or two to nail a wandering spouse. Or clear them, but that seldom happened and almost always took longer. Suspicions die hard.

I took a journal from a desk drawer and unscrewed the cap from my fountain pen. Even if I didn't do anything except write down the date and her name, it always reassured a potential client if it looked like I was taking them seriously.

"What makes you think he's having an affair?" I didn't ask why she thought he might be having an affair because it helps to set the hook if I seem to believe that the client is right.

"No great clues, just quite a few little things. Sometimes he gets home late. Last week he had to travel out of town overnight, which he's never done before. And he always acts tense, complains a lot. He seems to argue with me about every little thing." She almost sounded petulant, but mostly sounded rehearsed.

I wanted her to think I was sympathetic, so I tried reassuring a bit. "Oh, none of that sounds too bad, maybe he's just having some tough days at the office." I sure as hell didn't want to drive her away, though, I really needed the business. "But I should probably do some checking, just to ease your mind." She visibly relaxed.

"Yes, my mind certainly could use some easing. This whole thing has upset me quite a bit, and I'm afraid it could end our marriage. I love my husband very much, Mr. Spector, but I would find it difficult to accept his having sex with another woman. Impossible, in fact."

Something just didn't ring true. She was describing something that should be terrible, but she didn't sound very emotional. My bullshit meter twitched when she dropped eye contact before telling me that she loved her husband. Lupe might have doped her out before I even got a chance.

"Would you like me to keep track of him for a while, Mrs. Bezier? That's the best way to answer any questions about what he's doing."

"That's exactly what I want, Mr. Spector. I want you to watch him to see if he's involved with another woman. If he is, I want to know who and when and where. I don't care about the why." Her voice had hardened as she recited her wants, then turned business-like.

"How long do you think it would take?"

"That's awfully hard to say, Mrs. Bezier." The hook is set but don't try to horse the fish in the boat. "Every case is different. Even if he is having an affair, he probably isn't seeing the other woman every day. I'll need time to establish his routine, that makes it easier to spot something out of the ordinary." I waited for her to respond, but she was still waiting for an answer.

"It will take at least two or three days to establish his routine, then I'll know when he's doing something different. My standard fee is $60 a day plus expenses."

"That sounds fine, Mr. Spector. When can you start?" She didn't miss a beat. I wondered if I should have asked for $75, maybe even more. Oh well, live and learn. I caught myself before I shrugged.

I flipped some pages and pretended to look at a calendar in my journal, scribbled as if I were marking something out and writing somewhere else. "Because this seems to be very important to you, Mrs. Bezier, I could probably get started day after tomorrow." I thought that sounded like a snake-oil salesman, but she didn't seem to react. "For a case like this I would need five days up front as a retainer. Any additional time would be billed weekly."

"Excellent, Mr. Spector. How do we start?"

Fetching a standard agreement from a desk drawer, I wrote in the fee and billing data, and handed it to her. "This is our standard work agreement. If you'll take it to my secretary, she'll fill in your contact information. I'll need to know something about your husband, of course. A picture or two, some details about his work, where his office is, and so forth."

"Of course. I haven't time today, but perhaps tomorrow you could come by my house and I could give you everything you need." Her eyes glinted a bit with the last, making me wonder what I might be getting into.

"That would fine. I'll come by late tomorrow afternoon. Please give that form to my secretary, along with a check for $300 payable to Spector Investigations." She stood and extended her hand.

"Yes, of course. Until tomorrow, then, Mr. Spector." Again, she shook hands firmly. This gal was pretty sure of herself.

I sat in the squeaky desk chair and waited. A few seconds after I heard the outer door close, Lupe opened my office door without knocking and leaned against the jamb. "Well, what did you think of Mrs. Lori with an i? Seems to me she's phony as a 3-dollar bill."

Lupe isn't always the best judge of character—growing up in South LA left her pretty untrusting—but in this case I had the same sort of uneasy feeling about Mrs. Bezier. "That's probably a bit strong, but why don't you take her check to the bank before it closes so we can see if it clears before I spend too much time on the case. Then you might as well go home, I can handle things the rest of the day."

She made a face like she'd sucked a lemon, but nodded. "Don't let her get under your skin, boss. Take my word for it, she's bad news,. You oughta send her check back and tell her to find herself another detective." She made air quotes around detective.

"I'm not so sure about her either, Lupe, I've got a funny feeling about this, but we really need the money. It's been too long since we've had a client that paid well. Who knows, this could turn out to be a case we'll remember for a long time."

She turned to leave, but before closing the door she looked back. "And keep your hands off the files." That was a running joke; she knew I'd never touch them.

The next day Lupe phoned Mrs. Bezier a little before 5:00 to ask if it was a convenient time for me to come by. She nodded, assured her that I'd be there shortly, then hung up and shook her head at me.

"I still think you're making a mistake, boss, but what do I know?" She shrugged, grabbed her purse and coat, and left before I had a chance to respond. She was pissed and wanted me to know it. I hoped she'd get over it. I hoped even more that we were wrong about Mrs. Bezier. Little did we know how right we were or that we'd never forget this case.

I LOCKED UP and drove over to Bezier's place in the Merc. She answered the door wearing a different tailored suit, this one pale pink, and a charcoal silk blouse. She seemed a bit nervous as she took me into the dining room where she had laid out some pictures and a couple of documents on the table. The three pictures were clear and plenty for me to identify him. The documents were a flyer about his tax service and accounting business and a yellowed clipping of the newspaper story about their wedding. I wasn't sure why I needed that, but didn't want to discourage her by turning it down.

She suggested we sit at the dining table so she could tell me about his habits and routine. "Would you like a drink, Mr. Spector? I think I'll have a glass of sherry."

I didn't want a discussion about why I didn't drink, so I asked for a glass of water. She sniffed, then went into the kitchen to get her sherry and my water. I looked around to see if I could learn something about the Beziers, but the room was empty except for the dining table, six chairs, and a bare sideboard. The walls were bare, too.

When she got back with our drinks, she emptied hers before she ever sat down. "Whew! I really needed that!" With that she went back into the kitchen and returned with another glassful of sherry. I sipped my water.

"As you can see from the clipping, Mr. Spector, Charles and I have been married for almost eight years." She took another hit of sherry. "The first four or five were very nice, but since then it's a different story." She put on a sad face and killed the sherry. I felt like I was watching a bad movie. Her performance wasn't doing anything to reassure me that Lupe and I were wrong to be suspicious.

"You'll excuse me for a moment, won't you, Mr. Spector?" She stood and went back into the kitchen. I saw her walk through a different door from the kitchen, then heard her walk down the hall and close a door. I took another sip of water and wondered just what the hell I was getting into.

She came back into the dining room a few minutes later, carrying yet another glass of sherry. The suit jacket was gone, the top three buttons of her blouse were undone, and she was trying to smile invitingly. Everything was so bizarre I had to resist the impulse to laugh or, better yet, leap up and run screaming back to my car. I took a big slug of water, draining the glass, and managed to act as if everything was jake.

"I think we've covered everything I need for now, Mrs. Bezier. I'll start surveilling your husband tomorrow morning and let you know as soon as I learn anything." When I stood to leave she drew breath to object, but I didn't give her a chance. I looked at my watch and shook my head. "I'm already late for a meeting with the LA Police Department about another matter and I really have to be going. I can let myself out."

I left her sitting at the dining table taking another gulp of sherry and trying to figure out what went wrong.

IF IT ISN'T RAINING and the action stays in LA, I like a motorcycle better than a car to tail somebody. It's easier to keep out of sight, a hell of a lot more maneuverable, and much cheaper to drive. Brando himself wouldn't recognize my Triumph 6T. The guy I bought it from had stripped off the logos and painted it a godawful shade of green; I added my touch with a muffler that killed almost all the noise. My beat-up '48 Merc coupe was good backup when I couldn't use the Triumph.

The next morning I parked the bike down the block from Bezier's house in Pasadena and pretended to be checking a street map. After 10 minutes I figured I'd about worn out that disguise when Bezier came out and drove past me without paying attention. I'd thought he'd go the other way and breathed a sigh of relief that I dodged that bullet. I waited until he turned right onto Foothill, then kicked the Triumph into life.

Traffic was so heavy I didn't worry about him noticing me. He turned right again onto Colorado, then onto Broadway in Glendale. I dropped back as traffic thinned, but he finally turned again onto Jackson, pulled into a parking spot, and let himself into his office. It was sandwiched between a pawn shop and beauty parlor. The building was a bit run-down and the neighborhood wasn't the best, which surprised me. Mrs. Bezier's look had led me to expect something a bit more posh.

After parking the Triumph around the corner where I could see the front door, I got off for a smoke. Way too many hours staking out have taught me that anything interesting will probably happen around the time the subject arrives or leaves. I hung around Glendale for another hour. When nothing turned up I headed to my office in beautiful downtown Burbank.

I hung my leather jacket and biker cap on the hall tree and put on my respectable corduroy sport coat. When Lupe raised her eyebrows in question, I shook my head. "Nope. Followed him to his office and waited an hour or so, but I didn't expect to see anything this soon. I'll check again this afternoon." She shrugged and picked up her paperback. No need to pretend to work when there wasn't anything useful to do. I went into my office and picked up the Times. I really needed more paying clients, and soon.

The next few days I spent a boring hour or so mornings and evenings watching Bezier's office building slowly get more run-down. In between times I caught up with my little cases and poked through the newspaper files at the library to see if I could find anything interesting about either Bezier.

Things picked up on the fifth day. Just before 5:00, a black Caddy parked in front of the beauty parlor. Two rough-looking guys in suits got out and walked over to Bezier's office. One was carrying a briefcase. I thought I'd seen him before, but couldn't be sure. They weren't ordinary street mugs, they had a professional look about them. They stayed almost an hour, then walked back out carrying another briefcase and a bunch of file folders they hadn't carried in.

Everyone had cleared out of the pawn shop and beauty parlor. I waited for the mugs to drive off, then rode the Triumph down the alley behind Bezier's building and parked next to his rear door. It was locked, but it only took a couple of minutes to open. I made sure no one was watching, then went in and closed the door behind me.

The only light in the small storeroom came through the grimy door window. Office supplies were on one side, cleaning supplies on the other. A crack of light from the late afternoon sun showed under the door into the office. After a few minutes of listening I was pretty sure no one was inside, so I opened it and stepped into a slaughterhouse.

The two goons had been busy. The place was ransacked, contents of desk drawers and file cabinets scattered everywhere, along with bits and pieces of Bezier's clothing and a few bit and pieces of Bezier himself. His face was unrecognizable. I wondered if he told them what they wanted to know before they slit his throat.

He was still in his desk chair, but a good six feet from the desk itself. All of its drawers stood open, most of them now empty. Drawers yawned from two file cabinets along one wall, one of them tipped on its overbalanced front. Pictures had been ripped from the walls, the door to the small bathroom was open revealing the toilet tank top thrown to the floor and broken in half.

It wasn't likely they missed anything I'd be interested in. I walked around the blood spatters to unlock the front door, then went back out to the bike closing both doors behind me. I rode around front and called Lieutenant Dan Wilkes at LAPD from the phone booth in front of the beauty parlor. The cops would find out sooner or later I'd been in there and I figured I'd save them the time trying to find out why. After lighting a Lucky, I went back and leaned against Bezier's office door to wait.