The Headstone Detective Agency, page 7
I picked up my cell and called Nancy Kessenger’s number.
Nancy Kessenger agreed to see me at her house and have her attorney there. I Lyfted my way there from the train station and rang the doorbell with five minutes to spare, at 11:55 a.m.
She answered the door and invited me in. I followed her tight backside to the living room, watching it twitch inside a short skirt. The high heels had something to do with it, but I flattered myself that it was also for my benefit.
A man in an expensive, grey, three-piece suit stood up from the sofa, setting a coffee cup down on the table in front of him.
“Mr. Headstone is it?” he asked, extending his hand.
“Headston,” I said, taking his hand and shaking it, “John Headston, of the Headstone Agency.”
“Ah,” he said, “my name is Seymour Griffith, Griffith, Wymouth and Estevez.”
“Estevez?” I repeated.
He grinned. “Estevez.”
“Would you like a cup of coffee, Mr. Headston?” she asked.
“Yes, please.”
“I’ll get it.”
Griffith watched her ass as she walked out, then saw me watching him watching her. He grinned boyishly, if a man in his forties with grey hair can do that—and he could.
“She’s a fine woman,” he said.
“Is she in trouble?” I asked.
“She’s the wife of a murdered man,” he said.
“Right,” I said, “the number one suspect.”
“My firm has investigators, Mr. Headston,” he said. “Good ones. Why should we hire you?”
“I have a head start,” I said. “I knew the man.”
“You spoke with him when you found him?”
“Yes.”
“What did he tell you?”
“That he was looking to relieve his stress.”
“By leaving home? And a high paying job?” he asked. “For Burger World?”
“Exactly.”
“That doesn’t sound right,” he said. “It sounds way too extreme for there not to have been something else going on with him.”
“I agree,” I told him. “And that’s why I think I can help. I’ve been up to the Herman James offices. They know me there. Your guy is going to have to start over, and they may clam up on him.”
“And what does this have to do with my client, Mrs. Kessenger?”
“The detectives will be operating under the assumption that she’s a suspect,” I explained, “and not only that, but the number one suspect.”
“And you will not?”
“I will not,” I confirmed. “If I’m working for you, then your client is my client. I’ll look for the guilty parties elsewhere.”
The lawyer gave the matter due consideration before speaking again.
“You think you can solve Kessenger’s murder before the police do?”
“I think I can find proof that Mrs. Kessenger didn’t kill her husband,” I lied. After all, I really wasn’t convinced that she hadn’t done it, or had it done. “That’s not something they’re even going to be looking for.”
Nancy Kessenger came back into the room and handed me a cup of coffee.
“Did I miss anything?” she asked, looking at us both with her penciled eyebrows raised.
“You’re hired, Mr. Headston,” Griffith said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
I felt guilty—just a little.
I had lied to Nancy Kessenger’s lawyer in order to get him to hire me (he paid me five dollars). He didn’t have a single on him.) It was all I needed to have the protection of his client attorney/client privilege). I made him think I was completely confident that Nancy Kessenger had nothing to do with her husband’s death, when that wasn’t the case, at all. I knew, just as well as the police did, that the wife was the number one suspect.
But in one way I hadn’t lied to him. I was going to try my best to find out who really killed Temple Kessenger, so I very well might end up clearing his client of any suspicion.
I wanted to question Nancy Kessenger, but not in front of her lawyer, so I told them both I’d be in touch, and left after arranging for Griffith to have his secretary email me a letter stating I was now in his employ regarding Nancy Kessenger.
I used my cell to call for my Lyft to the train station, and then during the ride back to Manhattan thought about Templeton Kessenger. I had spent very little time with the guy, but I’d liked him. And if I had anything to do with fingering him for his killer, I wanted to find out.
Back in Manhattan I returned to my office, found the letter I wanted on Griffith, Wymouth and Estevez letterhead in my email and printed it out.
With the letter in my pocket I left the office and set off to start my first murder investigation in over fifteen years.
When I had come back from a two-year suspension of my license and returned to my office, it was empty. My twelve-man staff had moved on to other positions, because they all had to make a living. And so did I. I tried for a few years to resurrect my career, but over the course of a few years it had become clear that law firms were not going to employ me, not for important investigations like murder. So I ended up plying my trade as a glorified process server.
But now I was involved in a real case.
Detective Leon and Stokes were working out of Manhattan South Homicide, which was headquartered in the One Police Plaza building. I identified myself at the desk in the lobby, and they called upstairs and received permission to send me up. When the elevator doors opened, Detective Stokes was standing there. He was jacketless, with his white shirt sleeves rolled up.
“This way,” he said.
I followed.
“How did you know we wanted to talk to you?” he asked, looking over his shoulder.
“I didn’t,” I said. “I came here to talk to you guys.”
“About what?”
“Probably the same thing you want to talk to me about.”
“Well,” he said, “that’s convenient.”
He led me to a doorway that led to a bullpen filled with detective desks, only about half of them occupied. One of the occupants was Detective Leon, also in shirt sleeves.
“Mr. Headstone,” Leon said, “so good of you to come in.”
“He didn’t know we were looking for him,” Stokes said, sitting across from his partner at his own desk. “He came in to talk to us.”
“Well,” Leon said, “pull up a chair and we’ll talk.”
I snagged a visitor’s chair and sat so I could look at both of them.
“Why don’t we go first?” Leon suggested. “I mean, since you’re in our office.”
“Sure, go ahead.”
They had more questions about Templeton Kessenger, like what I’d seen while watching him, and what we’d talked about. They made me go over it several times, just in case I knew something I didn’t know I knew. It was a tried and true technique, designed to bring out information. Unfortunately, it didn’t help them very much. I had pretty much told them everything I knew about Kessenger the first time they’d questioned me.
“Okay,” Leon said, “before we get to why you’re here, can we get you anything? Water? Soft drink? Coffee?”
“No, I’m fine,” I said, “but thanks for asking. Is this Manhattan South’s version of hospitality?”
“You haven’t tasted our coffee,” Stokes said.
“Maybe next time,” I said.
“So what’s on your mind, Mr. Headstone?” Leon asked.
“I’d like to get a look inside Temple Kessenger’s residence. Since it’s a crime scene, I knew I’d need your permission.”
“I appreciate that,” Leon said. “You could have just broken in.”
“And risk my license? Not likely.”
“That’s right,” Leon said. “I understand you’ve had previous problems regarding your license.”
So they had checked me out, and pretty thoroughly, too. That wasn’t unexpected.
“Well, this time I intend to hang onto it,” I said.
“And why do you want to get inside his place?” Stokes asked. “You wouldn’t be working on an active police investigation, would you?”
“Not a chance,” I said. I leaned over and handed Leon the letter from Nancy Kessenger’s lawyer. He read it, then handed it across to his partner.
“Odd that this law firm would hire you when I’m sure they have their own investigators,” Leon said.
“It was Griffith,” I told them. “And it was Nancy Kessenger’s idea. Apparently, they want to keep her very happy.”
“Doesn’t Mrs. Kessenger trust us to solve her husband’s murder?” Leon asked.
“I’m sure she does,” I said, “as long as you don’t try to pin it on her.”
“Now we wouldn’t do a thing like that,” Stokes said, handing the letter back to me.
“Unless, of course,” Leon added, “she did it.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
When I got to Temple Kessenger’s building I had to get myself up to the fourth floor. Luckily, somebody was coming out the front door as I got there. It was the same yhick-bodied lady who had blocked me the last time I was there, but I was quicker this time. I did an end run around her and caught the door before it closed.
“Hey!” she protested.
“Relax,” I said, “I’m going up to four to see the cop there.”
As the door closed, I heard her shout, “Well, why didn’t ya tell me you were a cop?”
I’d never do that!
Upstairs I saw the cop sitting in a chair in front of the door to Kessenger’s place.
“Sorry, sir,” he said, standing when he saw me. He put his hand out like he was stopping traffic. “Nobody’s allowed in there.”
“Officer Sterling,” I said, reading his name plate, “my name’s Headston. I’ve got permission from Detective Leon to go in and have a look around. I’m working the case for an attorney.”
“I wasn’t told—”
“Here you go,” I said, handing him Leon’s card, which the detective had given to me as I left. “There’s a note on the back.”
The young cop looked at the front of the card first, then turned it over.
“It says you can go in,” he said, “but how do I know you didn’t write this?”
“You’ve got the card, with the detective’s phone number,” I said. “I suggest you call him, if you have doubts. But when I was on the job—admittedly a long time ago—I always tried to use my own initiative. The higher-ups like that.”
“You were on the job?”
“For a while,” I said, “before I went private. But I was working Brooklyn South back then.”
“Still the job,” Sterling said. “I guess it’s okay.”
He stood aside, and then even opened the door for me.
“Thanks.”
He handed me Leon’s card as I went in, and I put it back in my pocket. It was legit, although I had taken one of his business cards off his desk, in case I needed it later. I have to admit, there was a time when I wasn’t afraid to bend the rules. That was when I was young and full of piss and vinegar. Now I’m older and the thought of it makes me piss myself—almost.
Inside I saw that it was a loft, covering the entire length of the building. But for the most part it was bare. There were large expanses of empty floor. Only in one corner of the loft was there any furniture—a bed, a chest of drawers, a table and two chairs, and a sofa. Against the wall was a stove, and a sink. The only other thing I could see was, in another corner, a bathroom set-up, with a sink, commode and tub.
The loft must have been eighteen hundred square feet, but the living space seemed not more than four hundred. This was a sparse way for anyone to live, let alone a man with Kessenger’s money. Was he punishing himself, somehow? Forcing himself to live well below his means? Except that the rent here must’ve been sky high. Why spend a ton on rent, and not furnish the place? Perhaps he didn’t mean to stay long.
I went through the chest of drawers, found new clothing—socks underwear, T-shirts, folded button-down shirts. I looked around, saw something I hadn’t seen before—a closet. It seemed to be the only one. I opened the door, found a windbreaker, and a sports jacket on hangers, and that was it. If he stayed longer in a couple of months, he’d have had to buy a heavier coat.
I looked under the bed, found nothing. I didn’t expect to. The cops had gone through the place. Anything obvious they would have found.
I walked across the floor to the bathroom set-up. The sink was bare, not part of a cabinet-and-counter set up. The only surface for anything was the top of the toilet tank. There I saw a cup with a toothbrush in it, a comb and an electric razor. I looked around, found one electrical outlet for the razor.
I looked at the bathtub next. Kessenger hadn’t lived there long enough for there to be anything like mold or a ring. I took a pen from my pocket and poked down into the drain. Nothing.
I went back to the furniture. The sofa looked like good quality, the wide, three cushion kind. I picked up all the cushions to have a look underneath. Nothing.
I stood in the center of the eighteen hundred square feet, hoping something that the cops missed would catch my eye. Detective Leon had been willing to let me come up here but hadn’t said a word about whether or not they had found something. I was thinking he was laughing his head off, because there was nothing here to find. In fact, there was almost nothing up here, at all. Just a big, almost empty space that certainly did not feel lived in.
I left, thanking Officer Sterling for letting me in. Outside, on the steps, I ran into the thick-bodied woman again, this time coming in.
“We’ve gotta stop meeting like this,” she said, with a smile. I supposed now that she knew I wasn’t a peeper or burglar, I was worth a smile. It certainly changed her face into something a lot more appealing.
“You just come down from upstairs?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“That fella, he didn’t talk to anybody in the building a lot,” she said.
“I didn’t think—”
“Except me.” She looked proud.
“You and he spoke?”
She nodded. “Several times.”
“About what?”
She closed one eye, stared at me and asked, “You like tea?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Her name was Elizabeth Munnings. She told me to call her Beth, not Betty.
“All I ever think of when I hear Betty is Betty Boop or Betty and Veronica,” she said, “and I don’t look like either of them.”
She didn’t look like them, for sure. I figured her for mid- or late-forties, about five-foot-five, with short dark hair that was shot with grey, and a pug nose that might’ve been cute twenty years ago. She did, however, seem to have nice skin, and pretty blue eyes.
She let us into her apartment with a key.
“I know,” she said, “It don’t look like much, but it’s mine. I moved here after my divorce eight years ago. The rent’s high, but I did all right in my settlement.”
“Good for you.”
“Have a seat,” she said. “I’ll make some tea, unless—” she turned to give me a suggestive look, “—you’d like something stronger?”
“A little early in the day, for me,” I admitted.
“Yeah, you’re right,” she said. “Be right back.”
She had matching furniture that seemed to be good quality. The apartment was clean, too, no dust that I could see on any surface. There was a fifty-inch TV on a stand just large enough to hold it, and next to it was a packed DVD tower. I went over to have a look at what she’d been watching. In among the blockbuster movies like Avatar and Star Wars were a few with titles suggesting they were X-rated. I was back on the sofa when she came in carrying the tea on a tray with some cookies.
“There,” she said, sitting next to me on the sofa and setting the tray down on a clear, glass coffee table.
“Thank you, Beth.”
“Sugar?”
“No, just the way it is.”
She handed me my tea cup, then picked up her own.
“Can we get back to you and Temple Kessenger?”
“Was that his name?”
“You didn’t know his name?”
“Well,” she said, “you’ll notice it wasn’t on the mailbox downstairs.”
I did notice that.
“And he just introduced himself as Temp.” She shrugged. “That’s how I knew him.”
“What did you two talk about?”
“Not much,” she said. “Just shot the breeze, discussed the weather, the high rent, the garbage pick-up.”
Somehow, without me noticing, she’d managed to move closer to me on the sofa. Also, that close I detected the fragrance of some freshly applied perfume. It had been a long time since I’d experienced the seductive talents of a woman. After all, I was now middle-aged with a middle spread, and did not have much of a love life, at all. In fact, it had been quite some time for me, so I thought I was probably imagining things.
Until she kissed me.
It was accomplished with a lunge, and suddenly her mouth was on mine, and her tongue was in my mouth. After the initial shock I realized it was not all that unpleasant, and I started to lean into it.
Then she pulled away.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “I just thought—well, this is the third time you’ve run into me on the stairs. I thought, maybe, it was…intentional?”
Her eyes had a hopeful look in them, and her hand had found its way to my thigh. Although neither of us was in our prime, the situation itself was so charged with sexual tension that my body had no choice but to react. When she moved her hand further up my thigh she came into contact with the result.
“Oh, my…” she said, took my hand and led me to the bedroom.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
As I said, it had been a long time.
I fumbled a bit, at first, but finally we were naked and in her bed. As I’d suspected, her skin was very smooth and she was soft all over. While she had a bit of a spare tire, her breasts and butt were nicely cushioned and curved. She was the kind of woman you wouldn’t imagine doing this with, but now, in the midst of it all, it was nothing but pleasurable.
