The Slutty Detective

The worst part of my job is the waiting. You have to be patient to be a detective since things cannot be rushed. Stakeouts are a classic example. Another example is waiting for somebody to come through your door to ask for your services. "Come through your door" is of course a metaphor for any manner of inquiries: website inquiries, email, text, Facebook, whatever. I was currently waiting to get a new client. I especially wanted one with the means to pay me. Money is nice, and I needed some to pay my own bills.

I have ways to keep busy while I wait. Being one of those rarities, a female detective, I had a vast supply of 'women's magazines' which I enjoyed reading during slow times. Fortunately, I'm a slow reader, too. Hell, I'm just slow at everything. I even eat slow food.

I have good hearing, and I knew someone was coming. As the steps came closer I realized they were not subtle, but the tap-tap-taps of high heels. Not too many people go to a detective's office wearing high heels. They go to the opera in high heels, to formal high society parties, maybe to work in a fashion store on Madison Avenue, or to a fancy law firm, but to a detective's office? Not so much. It probably meant the client was a certain kind of woman, the kind who simply go everywhere and do everything in high heels. Also she was probably a woman. Most of my clients were women, anyway.

For certain kinds of problems, in particular and especially, for husbands suspected of cheating, some women prefer a woman detective. Perhaps it's easier to confide in a woman when sex is part of the subject matter. Maybe they think a woman would be more likely to share their outrage over a cheating husband?

Perhaps, though it's something else. Sex is an intimate matter, and perhaps sharing one's suspicions about a cheating husband is kind of like wanting to have a woman as your gynecologist. That would explain why such a large proportion of my clients were women. The women clients however just do not typically come to my office in high heels. This woman was different. Indeed, she gave every appearance of being unique among my clients.

For beginners, she was dressed all in black. Okay, this is New York, and most women wear black. Green on St. Patrick's Day if they're young, perhaps, but the usual uniform is black. On the other hand, one's typical woman does not wear black hats, with black veils descending from the tip of the hat. This woman was in formal mourning. She even wore a black armband on her black sleeve. Only her chestnut hair and her piercing brown eyes were not black.

"Welcome to my humble office, Mrs. Eberlein," I said. It was hard not to know she was Mrs. Eberlein. Her husband had just died, and he was one of the lions of Wall Street. It was in all the papers. She ran the Eberlein Foundation, one of the city's principal charities. Photos of her were often in the papers, and she was on the local news from time to time. "May I be of service to you in some way?"

I had never before had such a wealthy and powerful client. Most of my clients were middle class women, and some men, usually with minor problems, such as cheating spouses, wanting to learn the location of a long lost romantic flame, or finding out who was committing minor vandalism in the neighborhood, that sort of thing. Clearly whatever this was going to be, it was going to be different.

"You are the Detective Ms. Atkinson?" she asked.

I realized I had not introduced myself. "Excuse my manners. Yes, yes indeed, I am Ms. June Atkinson."

"Good. I've asked around," Mrs. Eberlein said, "and you have a good reputation. You are both competent and discrete."

She asked around? Who could she have asked? None of my former clients would know someone like her, not even remotely!

As if reading my mind, Mrs. Eberlein said, "My maid servant has a friend who had the misfortune to need to avail herself of your services, I'm afraid. She said you were excellent."

"I see," I said. And I did indeed see. Now it all made sense. I decided to let Mrs. Eberlein set the agenda. She had tremendous presence and waiting for her to speak seemed to me to be the appropriate thing to do. The woman reeked of dignity. Her husband had died only a few days earlier. It was a heart attack, I think I had read in the paper. Or maybe he had died from a stroke?

Mrs. Eberlein finally broke the silence. "I need a promise of absolute secrecy on your part, at least at the beginning. If you learn the truth probably I can release you of your bond for secrecy."

"That is my policy anyway, Mrs. Eberlein. I always keep my clients' confidences. It would be foolhardy for me not to do so. It's just good business," I said.

"This particular job could put you in personal danger. Do you accept such assignments?" she asked.

I thought about all the irate husbands who at one point had threatened me. One had even threatened me at gunpoint. I had been forced to move once my address became known to some men hell bent on revenge. I felt I knew danger. However, the tone of voice Mrs. Marie-France Eberlein used, and the melodrama in her eyes, made me think she meant danger on a whole different level?

"I'll have to see what you have in mind, to be honest," I replied.

"Fair enough. Do I have your word that whatever I tell you is in confidence?" she asked.

"I'm not a lawyer. I don't have 'attorney-client privilege.' But short of that, yes, you have my total commitment to secrecy," I replied.

"I also heard that once you get going, you cannot be stopped, and you use whatever methods are required to learn the truth, short of illegality, or course. Can you confirm that?" she asked.

Wow, this woman was serious. I had never been questioned like this before. What the blazes did she have in mind? I knew though, that she was referring to the rumors that I occasionally used my sexual wiles to get the information I needed. In some circles, especially with the New York Police Department, I was known as 'The Slutty Detective.' Mrs. Eberlein had probably heard my nasty nickname.

"You can't believe everything you hear, Mrs. Eberlein. Those rumors are good for business, but I'm afraid some of them are exaggerated," I replied.

Mrs. Eberlein gave me a knowing smile. I was beginning to like her. She had charisma. "Fair enough," she said. "What are your rates?"

The woman was as rich as Croesus, I knew that, but I quoted her my regular rates; the same rates no doubt I had charged the friend of her maid servant. They had not risen in five years, I realized as I recited them.

"My goodness you are honest," she said. "For this job let's double your rates. No, wait a minute. Due to the risk let's triple them. Also, there's a large bonus for you if you solve the case completely."

It was too much money. That fact was scaring me. "Okay," I said. "You won't get a complaint from me." I wanted to ask her what she wanted me to do but I kept to my strategy of letting her set the agenda.

"Nobody knows this, not even the police," Mrs. Eberlein said, pausing for effect. It worked. I was on the edge of my chair. "My husband was murdered. I want you to find out who murdered him and why."

"Have a seat, Mrs. Eberlein. We'll need a code name. We might as well start now. Do you have a favorite woman author? Or a favorite actress?" I asked. It was all I could do to keep my voice from trembling. I was making a concerted effort to keep my cool.

Mrs. Eberlein instantly understood. She said, "Saint Anne's Church had a soup kitchen in the town where I grew up. I always admired that. How about Anne?" Mrs. Eberlein offered.

"Perfect, from now on we'll call you Anne, okay?" I said. "I'll be another saint. I always liked the town of Santa Maria, in California. How about Saint Mary for me?"

"Mary herself? I like it, pleased to meet you, Mary," Mrs. Eberlein said.

"I'm thinking more of Mary Magdalene, then the Virgin Mary," I quipped. Mrs. Eberlein softly chuckled.

"I'm pleased to meet you, too," I said. "Now tell me why you think your husband was murdered, and who you think did it."

"I saw him die. It was not a death caused by a heart attack, nor a stroke. Trust me on this. Joshua was poisoned, is my best guess. I have no idea who poisoned him, no idea how it was done, and no idea why, except that with us, everything seems to revolve around money, so it is a likely guess that someone profited by his death," Anne said.

"Have you told this to the police?" I asked.

"Of course. They think I'm a hysterical, grieving widow. I am in fact a widow now, and I am grieving, very much so, but I can assure you I am not hysterical." I could plainly see that myself.

"Why did you come to me? I've never dealt with murder, or financial crime, or anything more serious than wife beating, now that I come to think of it," I replied.

"Very few detectives have dealt with murder. Some are retired police, retired FBI, and retired CIA, and they've seen all sorts of awful things, and of course I did go to them first. I must admit, you are my seventh choice. I do like, however, that you are a woman," Anne said, and she paused. She added, "Before you ask, all of them told me it was police business, and they would not touch it. The financial detectives are all cowards, as near as I can tell. You are known as being fearless." I'm better known as slutty, I silently thought. "You are not my last hope, but you are close," Mrs. Eberlein added.

"I'll take the case. I'll do my best, but I cannot guarantee results. If it was indeed murder, and the culprit was clever, it might turn out to be beyond my talents," I said.

Anne breathed a sigh of relief.

"One condition I must impose, however," I added. "You cannot engage someone else, too. I require exclusivity. I will not trip over someone else doing the same thing," I said.

"No worries on that score, Mary. I promise," Anne said. Mrs. Eberlein was already using the code names. Good for her!

"Good," I replied. "We have a deal. Now I have around a thousand questions to ask you. I know you are grieving. Can you handle the questions now? It's best to get a running start. Also, I'll need an invitation to all funeral services." Anne nodded. She reclined in her chair for the first time. I got my pad and pencil, and we began.

Three hours later an exhausted and grieving widow tapped her high heels down the hall, out of my office, and for then, at least, out of my life. First, at her insistence, however, she gave me a five-thousand-dollar advance. The advance was all in cash. The envelope contained fifty bills, each a one-hundred-dollar bill. She made me count it out in front of her.

The size of the advance scared me more than anything she had said or told me. I was both excited and scared silly.

Two days later I went to see her apartment, presumably where her husband had been poisoned. It was not a crime scene, since the police believed he died of natural causes. I asked 'Anne' if anything was missing. She did not think so, although she could not find her husband's favorite pen. "It was always with him," she said. "He treasured it. It the only nice present he ever got from his father."

I looked around. Something was off. "Did your husband have a panic room?" I asked.

"You mean a room where he could go if thieves or kidnappers broke into the apartment?" she asked, and she began to giggle.

"Yes," I said.

"No, of course not," she replied.

"What about a safe?" I asked. Anne led me to the safe. She opened it and I looked inside it and it was full of bonds, business papers, and women's jewelry. "Nothing missing?"

"No, nothing," Anne replied.

"There is a secret room. It's not big, and it's right over here behind this bookcase," I said. "How do you open it?"

"There is no secret room that I know of," Anne said. "I'm sure you're wrong."

"Work with me here, Anne. Think back. Did you ever enter this room and catch your husband with a slight guilty look? Like he may have been using the secret room and had just got it closed back up before you appeared?"

"Well, now that you mention it..." Anne said, "well, yes."

"Did he have a remote with him? Something like a remote for a television?" I asked.

"Yes, that's it, he did. I assumed he had been watching porn on the TV or something and that he was embarrassed. I would not have minded," Anne said, and she smiled at the memory.

I asked for the TV remote and Anne brought it to me. I turned on the TV, changed the channels, adjusted the volume, and basically used all the buttons but one. I aimed the remote at the wall of books and pressed.

Nothing happened.

I pressed again, this time pressing twice in rapid succession.

Nothing happened.

I pressed yet again, this time pressing twice quickly, once, and then twice quickly again. A hidden door in the well of books slowly began to open. Anne screamed. I walked over to the door and entered the small room. As the door opened, a light went on in the room.

The room stored DVDs, wall to wall. They were homemade and they were carefully labelled and inventoried. There were five DVDs missing from the collection. I found a master list of the DVDs and laboriously matched them up with the master list until I discovered which ones were missing. They were M-F & B, M-F & D, and M-F & V. I read them to Anne. Her real first name was Marie-France (her mother was French).

"Do they have any meaning for you?" I asked.

Anne was white as a sheet. "I had some affairs," Anne said. I guess my husband knew. I don't know what was on those DVDs that are missing, but I'm willing to bet it's me and my lovers engaged in some intimate behavior."

"Maybe your husband got off on watching you get ravished?" I offered. Anne was close to tears.

I gently asked, "Who are B,D, and V?"

"They sound like my Russians. I had a lot of affairs, all meaningless, and mostly with very rich men, and the Russian oligarchs took a shine to me," Anne said.

"Their names?" I asked again.

"Boris, Dmitry, and Vladimir," Anne said, and she sank into a chair, holding her head in her hands in shame. "Boris was the best lover of the Russians," she said. "I loved my husband, it's just well,..."

"You're younger than he was, and I know he had high blood pressure. Some of the drugs they give for conditions like that make a man impotent. It's understandable, Anne. Don't beat yourself up. You may have given away your body from time to time, but you gave your heart and soul to your husband. I'm sure he knew that," I said.

As I said it I looked at the number of DVDs still present labeled M-F & X, where X could be a wide variety of initials. Anne must really like sex, I thought. Well, I was not here to judge her; I was here to help her. The missing DVDs were certainly a clue.

"If your husband were to watch one of these DVDs that he saved, inventoried, and hid, would he watch them on your TV or on his computer?" I asked.

"On the TV," she replied. "Joshua hated the small screen."

"Let's take a look." I turned on the TV and the DVD player, both. Sure enough, there was Anne, naked and kissing a naked man. It was fairly obvious what was going to come next. I could not help but notice that Anne had a hard, well-proportioned body. Wow.

"That's Thomas. He's German, but identifies himself as Prussian. It's kind of a joke. He's into domination and submission, and that's not my thing, so he was a one-off," Anne said.

"Is he rich, too?" I asked.

"I don't see how that's relevant, but yes, he is," Anne said.

"Money is relevant, Anne. People like sex, they like affection and warmth, but the men you seem to get involved with like one thing most of all, and that's money. Money is somehow behind your husband's murder," I said.

"So, you think it was murder?" Anne asked.

"Yes, it's beginning to look that way. I need to understand how the theft of the DVDs figures into it, though. There's an aspect of it you might not like," I said.

"What?" Anne asked.

"With these ultra-rich men there is a lot of competition. They all have more money than they could ever possibly need, and yet they want even more. Why? I think it's to jockey for position; to be better than someone else," I said.

"And seducing Joshua's easy slut wife is a way to strike at the heart of Joshua himself?" Anne asked. "I feel like such a fool. I must have really hurt him!"

"Maybe," I said. "But he seemed to get his jollies by watching the men seduce you and enjoy sex with you. I suspect he was laughing at them. He knew if he did not care, all their efforts were fruitless, and he was also sure of your love." Luckily, Anne seemed to buy that.

"Let's see now what else is missing, shall we?" I asked. We then checked out the contents of the secret room quite carefully. I had left the DVD on, and now we could hear Anne's moans as Thomas fucked her brains out on the DVD player in the next room. She was tied spread eagle on the bed as Thomas fucked her. No wonder Joshua liked that video. What man wouldn't? I thought. I got a little wet just from listening to the sound effects of their love making, if you can call it love making. It seemed to me it was more like raw sex. .

I found a watch case that did not have a watch in it. I showed it to Anne. "That box had Joshua's lucky Rolex in it. He used to wear it when he was trying to close an important deal. He claims it always worked."

"So it meant a lot to him?" I asked. Anne nodded.

"Could stealing the watch be akin to laying his wife, as a way to getting to him?" Anne asked.

"Yes," I said. Why you would need to steal the watch and kill him both, I did not know. Maybe the thefts and the murder were unrelated? Or maybe someone was so fucked up even though he was killing Joshua he still had to steal his watch to fuck with Joshua's dead mind?

I now had three threads. I had the money angle, always the most likely. I had the DVDs angle. I had the watch angle. It could be any of these threads, it could be all them, or it could be any two of them. I had a lot of leads.

After the home investigation, I turned to the police. Because of Anne's insistence, and Anne is a powerful, influential woman, the death was being treated as suspicious. I had a former boyfriend, Matt, in the police, and he would be able to get the dope for me.

If Mr. Eberlein had in fact been poisoned, such a poison was not detectable by the forensics department. New York's forensics was as good as anyone's, even almost as good as the FBI. Of course, there are some poisons that are notorious for being unable to detect. So, nothing was definitive.

My ex-boyfriend Matt is still in love with me. I like him too, but I was just not as serious about him as he was about me. Also, he has a mean streak. At times he can be a real bastard. That's the primary reason he is my former boyfriend, emphasis on the word 'former.'

You cannot bribe Matt, at least not with money. No, there was only one way to get him to help me and he made that abundantly clear. Sad to say, but I give one hell of a blowjob, and Matt knew that only too well. I'll let you fill in the blanks.

It's actually not such a bad idea to have an occasional nostalgic romp with a former boyfriend. You know he's safe, not an ax murderer or anything, and you know what to expect. If you are 'between men' as I was, then it helps with the need for occasional sexual gratification. Matt too always made sure I had a good time as well, if you know what I mean. So, I did not mind too much.

After all, sex with a former lover, when both of us are not involved with someone else, can be enjoyable at times. You just need to channel those feelings you once had for the man. At least in my case, that's not too hard to do. The difference is that it's not just two horny people who still care for each other having a little nostalgia sex, it's the man extorting sex from me for a favor. I guess an economist would call it prostitution. I'm getting something for the sex; it's not money but it might as well as have been.