Authors: Josh Aterovis
“Damn, damn, damn,” I muttered to myself.
“There's more damning going on in here than a Baptist tent meeting,” Kane said from the door, causing me to jump.
“I didn't hear you coming up the stairs,” I said accusingly.
“Sorry, didn't mean to scare you,” he said as he crossed the room to his bed. “I'm just guessing here, but I'd say you seem a little upset.”
“You've always been the observant one,” I said sarcastically.
“Hey, don't take your problems out on me. What's wrong anyway? Is the case not going well?”
“As a matter of fact, the case isn't going anywhere, but that's not my biggest problem.”
“Then what is?”
“Asher.”
“Oh, guy trouble. Sorry, can't help you much there. I'm probably the only person in this house that can't.”
“It's not like there's anything anyone can do anyway, including me.”
“I take it you're still fighting.”
“I don't want to talk about it.”
“Ok.”
“I mean, at least the first time around I knew why he was mad at me and I could even understand, but this time he jumped to the wrong conclusion and wouldn't even let me explain.”
“I thought you didn't want to talk about it.”
“He jumped all over me for nothing! It wasn't even at all like he tried to make it out to be.”
“Um, that sucks.”
“How are we ever supposed to work through our problems if he keeps running away every time things get hard?”
“You know, my longest relationship so far has been three weeks and I'm not even seeing anyone right now so I'm probably not the best person to go to for dating advice.”
“It seems like all we ever do anymore if fight. Maybe it's not even worth it. Maybe I should just move on, find someone else.”
“Do you need me for this?
Because you seem to be doing pretty well on your own.”
“But I love him. I guess that's what it all comes down to, isn't it? I love him and I want to be with him. I just don't know how it's ever going to work.”
“I'm at a loss myself.”
“Just forget it. I'm going to sleep.”
“Glad I could help. We should talk like this more often. Brings us closer together, you know?”
“Shut up, Kane.”
“Yes, sir.”
* * *
“Ok, so we hit a wall yesterday,” Novak was saying the next day as he paced back and forth in his office. I was lying slouched dejectedly on the malevolent sofa. Overcoming my irrational fear of the ugly piece of furniture had been my way of compensating for my lack of control with the case. Or at least that was how I diagnosed the situation.
“So now we take a step back, regroup and pick a new plan of attack.”
“I'm a failure as a detective,” I moaned.
“Oh stop. So you hit a few walls, get over it. We can't get through the wall, so we'll just go over it, through it, under it, whatever it takes.”
“And how do we do that?”
“That's not the most important consideration right now.”
“Oh, so you don't know either.”
“I didn't say that. I'm just saying that right now we've got more important walls to scale.”
“Why are we talking about walls so much? Are we construction workers or private investigators?”
He threw me a deadly look and went on, “Rachel Cohen is not dead.”
I sat up with sudden interest. “You know that for sure?”
“I know someone who works at the county records office. They did a search for me and there are no deaths listed for any Rachel Cohen's.”
“Maybe she died somewhere else.”
“No, I think Mrs. Cohen is most decidedly among the living.”
“Then where is she?”
“That is what I don't know.”
“How do we find out?”
“The hard way, I'm afraid.”
“What do you mean?”
“This is where things get tedious, and you're going to have to shoulder the bulk of the burden yourself. I have to concentrate on my paying clients. I'll help you out as much as possible, give you some tips and all, but you're going to do all the work. It'll be great training for you. The best way to learn something is to just jump in and get your hands dirty.”
I looked at him doubtfully, “What will I be doing exactly?”
“A lot of research mostly: boring, dull, monotonous research. You'll make phone calls, go door to door, and talk to everyone who ever knew Rachel Cohen. The trail is pretty cold so this won't be easy, especially if she didn't want to be found. It's a safe bet she changed her name and I think we can assume she hasn't been using any of her former identifications, but I'll check those avenues just to make sure.”
“What avenues?”
“Motor vehicle records, social security numbers, that sort of thing.”
“We have her social security number?”
“Well, no, but we may get lucky and get that from the motor vehicle records.”
“This sounds pretty hopeless,” I despaired.
“Oh, we'll find her; it just may take a lot of work.”
“What do I do first?”
“It would be nice if we knew her maiden name. I can probably pull that up on the computer from vital records. Then I can start the process of searching for possible aliases using combinations of her first, middle and maiden names. That's what women use most often when they change their names. Of course, she may have changed it to something completely different and we'll come up with zip. Meanwhile, why don't you head over to the newspaper office and see if you can't talk to the reporter who's covering the case. No sense going over the same territory twice. You could get lucky and find out something useful there.”
“He'll let me look at his files?”
“Not bloody likely. You'll have to ask questions and hope he's cooperative.”
“And if he's not?”
He shrugged. “We'll be forced to be creative. Now stop asking questions and get going.”
“I somehow thought it would all be more exciting than this,” I said as I stood to leave.
“Welcome to the world of the private eye, kid. This is what it's really all about. Of course, maybe you'd rather take my place. I'm getting ready to go on a high speed chase down Rt. 50 while hanging out the window shooting wildly at the car behind me.”
I stuck my tongue out at him and left. I drove to the newspaper office and pushed open the tinted glass door to the lobby. An attractive older woman sat behind the receptionist's desk. She was tanned and had shoulder length pure white hair and wearing a blue dress and a string of pearls, all very professional. Her name plate read Rose Mitchell. A young man was working behind her at a copier. I was pleased when Ms. Mitchell remembered me from the last time I was there.
“We don't get many young guys your age in here,” she said with a smile.
“Well, I'm working for Shane Novak now so I guess you'll be seeing more of me,” I told her.
“Lovely,” she said in a voice that made it clear she had no idea who Novak was, “What can we help you with today?”
“I need to speak to the reported that's been covering the Cohen murder case.”
Her expression told me all I needed to know about the chances that would happen. I just about turned and walked out.
“That would be Mr. Walters. Why don't you wait right here while I go see if he can spare a few minutes,” she said, “Do you have a card I can give him?”
I pulled one out and handed it to her and she left. As soon as she was out of the room the guy at the copier turned around.
“He won't talk to you,” he said.
“Huh?” was my witty reply. He was really quite cute. Slim and about average height, he was in his early twenties with straight brown hair that he wore cut short and parted in the middle. He'd made an effort to comb it back with gel but it had exerted its own will and flopped forward over his dark brown eyes. He pushed it back impatiently with an unconscious motion and flashed me a brilliant smile that was all white teeth and dimples.
“I said he won't talk to you. Walters is a notorious jerk.”
“Oh, well it was a long shot anyway,” I said.
“Did you say you're working for Shane Novak?”
“Yeah, do you know him?”
“Know of him, he's a PI, right?”
“Yeah.”
“So, are you, like, a PI too?”
“Something like that, I guess you could say I'm an apprentice PI.”
“That's awesome,” he said enthusiastically. “Our jobs aren't that different then I guess. We're both searching for the truth, just for slightly different reasons.”
“Um…” I didn't quite know what to say to that so I just stood there and looked brilliantly stupid.
“Look, when Rose gets back and tells you Walters won't talk to you just say ok and meet me in the parking lot.” Before I could answer he grabbed up a stack of papers from the copier tray and left the room. I was still staring after him, mouth agape, when Rose reappeared.
“I'm sorry,” she said in an apologetic manner, “I'm afraid Mr. Walters is a little, er, tied up at the moment and can't talk to you.”
“Oh, well, is there a better time to talk to him? I can come back.”
“No, I don't think there is ever a good time to talk to Mr. Walters,” she said without expression.
“Oh, ok. Well, thanks anyway.”
“I'm sorry,” she said again as I turned to leave.
I gave her a reassuring smile. “It's not as if it's your fault,” I told her.
True to his word, the copier guy was waiting for me in the parking lot. He fell into step next to me as I walked to my car.
“He wouldn't talk to you, huh?”
“No, he was too busy.”
“Too busy, my fanny,” he scoffed. “He's just a self-important, anal-retentive, over-inflated blow hard who won't lower himself to talk to anyone except to cut them down.”
“I take you two don't get along,” I commented wryly.
“Does it show?” he asked in mock concern.
“Just a bit.”
“Only a bit?
I'll have to use stronger epitaphs next time.”
I laughed. “So is this just general dislike or is there a reason behind your carefully hidden animosity?”
“
Sheesh
,
and I thought reporters were nosy!”
I blushed. “You're right, that was nosy. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have-”
“I was just kidding, it's ok.
Ya
see
,
I'm the low guy on the totem pole around here, new to the job, fresh
outta
journalism school. You could say I'm cutting my teeth on this position, or you could if I had any teeth which so far I don't. Not really.
And mostly because of Walters.”
“How do you mean?”
“Walters has been here forever. I think he probably reported Adam and Eve's exile from
Eden
. He's survived about a half dozen different owners and that gives him some sort of seniority. He has a strong dislike for anyone under 30 and especially young guys right out of school. He keeps saying, `Just because you went to some fancy
shmancy
school doesn't make you a reporter; it has to be born in you and trust me, it's not in you.' He makes sure that I get assigned the shittiest assignments. I never get anything good so I can't prove myself.”
“That must be frustrating,” I sympathized.
“You'd better believe it. Just once I'd like to scoop him, to be able to show everyone that I am a good journalist.”
“And humiliate him in the process?”
“Icing on the cake, my friend, icing on the cake,” he said with a cheeky grin. I couldn't help but like my new loquacious acquaintance. He was charming, self-assured and funny, not to mention gorgeous, but I still didn't know what he wanted from me.
“So, why did you ask me to meet you in the parking lot?” I asked.
He spun to face me. “I have a proposal to make to you, a mutually beneficial arrangement, if you will.”
“What kind of arrangement?” I asked warily.
“I find out the information you need. That won't be a problem. I just wait until Walters goes home for the day and go through his files. I know where he keeps his files for his working stories. They're locked but I know where he keeps his spare key. I make copies of the relevant info and lock everything back up just the way I found it. He never knows.”
“Uh huh, and what do you get out of this? You said it was mutually beneficial.”