The Highly Effective Detective Plays the Fool Read online

  I sipped my coffee. For some time I had been having an internal debate over which shop brewed the best coffee, Krispy Kreme or Dunkin’. The other day, I had been startled to find Dunkin’ Donuts coffee in the grocery store. Was that a mea sure of the superiority of its bean or an indication of its market share? Krispy Kreme sold its coffee by the bag, too, but only in its stores. Since that day, I had been leaning toward Krispy Kreme, with the understanding that I had a soft spot for the underdog.

  Falks ate the last of his second doughnut. He had ordered just two. I had four. I used to get two. Then I would troop back to the counter for a couple more, because two never quite did the trick. Eventually, I gave up and began ordering four to spare myself the embarrassment of a second trip to the counter.

  “So how’s that hottie secretary?” he asked. “What’s her name, Felicity?”

  “Felicia.”

  “Felicia. Felicia. Right.”

  “She lives with a firefighter.”

  “I know. You told me.”

  “I’ve never met him, but I hear he’s a hothead.”

  “That’s funny.”

  “No joke. He has a black belt and he knows how to use it.”

  “Okay. I thought maybe you were about to make a crack about the size of his hose.”

  It wasn’t the same, grabbing a dozen at the drive-thru for the office or home. Little difference in taste, but eating inside when the sign was lighted was true and total immersion in the milieu of Kreme, down to and including the big women behind the big glass working the big conveyor belt; it was the difference between dipping your toe in and jumping into the deep end. When I left the shop, the smell would linger in my clothes, like a camper crawling into his sleeping bag reeking of wood smoke. I would depart all warm, sugary, and moist.

  “You said there was something you wanted to discuss,” I reminded him. He had been making small talk, waiting for me to bring it up, an annoyingly petty power play.

  “Ran into a mutual acquaintance yesterday.”

  He paused: My cue to ask the obvious question, as if this were a play and he was the star/director.

  “Guy by the name of Hinton,” he finally said.

  “He works for the state.”

  “Right. And he’s got your ass in his crosshairs.”

  “He’s dogged,” I said.

  “Said he shut you down last winter.”

  “He did.”

  “I got the impression he doesn’t like you very much, Ted.”

  “He doesn’t.”

  “Wanted to know what I know.”

  “Why would he think you would?”

  “It’s a close-knit profession, Ted. Only so much work in town; there’s bound to be some overlap.”

  “Like the Bates case.”

  “Right, like that.” He sipped his coffee and made a face. “Doughnuts are good, but the coffee sucks.”

  “It’s better than Dunkin’,” I said a bit defensively.

  “No way. They even have it at Kroger now.”

  “What does that prove?”

  “It proves they sell a hell of a lot of it.”

  “Maybe it proves they’re desperate to shore up their profits because Krispy Kreme is kicking their butt.”

  “Why the anger, Ted? You a shareholder?”

  “I’m not angry.”

  “It just strikes me as disproportionate. All I said was that the coffee sucks.”

  “Dres,” I said. “I’m not an entirely idle guy. There are some things I need to take care of today.”

  “You’re going through a hard time. I get it,” he said. “And the times themselves aren’t great. Gas prices, foreclosures, unemployment, inflation, war, you name it. Times like these, you gotta look after your own. That’s what I told our buddy Wally Hinton. We’re not cops, but we’re not civilians, either, you know? Not the thin blue line, but a thin gray one, maybe. Like I would ever rat out a colleague.”

  “Well, I appreciate that, Dres. Though technically I’m not a colleague, but a competitor.”

  “My Dunkin’ to your Krispy Kreme?”

  I took a big bite of doughnut number three and chewed deliberately.

  “Right.”

  “It’s only a matter of time, you know. Sooner or later, he keeps turning over enough stones, he’s gonna have what he needs to toss your ass in jail.”

  “I’m working on it.”

  “What, Ted? What are you working on?”

  “Did Dunkin’ consult Krispy Kreme before it shipped its coffee off to Kroger?”

  “I’m Dunkin’. You’re Krispy Kreme.”

  “I really appreciate your concern, Dres, but Hinton’s my problem.”

  “You’re out of step with the times, Ruzak. You’re like a dentist handing out shots of whiskey while your competition dispenses the Novocain. This is the age of incorporation and takeover and monopolization. A solo operator just can’t make it.”

  “Sounds like you’re offering me a job,” I said, hesitantly, though, because the notion seemed so utterly absurd. It sounded even crazier when I gave it voice.

  “I don’t got that kind of pull. But I could put in a kind word with the old man. He has a soft spot for the little guy. He started as a one-man shop, back in the Stone Age, just like you. Plus, I think he’d like you.”

  “How come?”

  “You both got this Fred Flintstone kind of vibe going. Plus, you don’t let yourself get bogged down in niceties.”

  “Niceties like selling you the Bates file.”

  “Right.”

  “Which could also demonstrate an unwillingness to get bogged down in niceties like loyalty and honesty.”

  “Heck, I’m not saying a corner office with Fridays off, Teddy. A foot in the door. That’s all I’m saying. A foot in the door.”

  “And what about my secretary?”

  “Hinton’s gonna shut you down. She’s losing her job one way or the other, Ted. Though she is fine, and the old man likes ’em pretty.”

  “What about the receptionist?”

  “What receptionist?”

  “At Velman. The reject from the ugly factory.”

  “Her? She’s gone, man. Tossed her out on her fat ass after seeing yours. Not your fat ass; I mean your secretary’s. Call it professional jealousy.”

  “Great. Now I feel responsible.”

  “Well, Ted, she wasn’t fired over your looks.”

  “So you think Velman might hire both of us?”

  “If that’s your price, okay, a package deal.”

  “My price? My price for what?”

  He lifted his cup to drink, but it was empty.

  “See, as an employee of Velman, you won’t need a license to be a dick. The company holds the license and you hold your dickiness.”

  “Where is Katrina Bates?” I asked.

  He pivoted neatly with me. “Savannah.”

  “Savannah, Georgia?”

  “There another Savannah?”

  “How do you know?”

  “She told my client.”

  “Your client felt the need to share that with you?”

  “We’re anticipating a very nasty divorce case, Ruzak, involving lots of embarrassing details and lots and lots and lots of money. It’s a need-to-know thing.”

  “So you’ve verified it.”

  “Why would he lie about it?”

  “What’s in Savannah?”

  “Never been, but I hear a nice beach, a college, and I think it’s where they filmed that movie about the retarded guy who kept running into presidents.”

  “No, I meant why would she go there?”

  “What is this, Ruzak? You got feelings for her?”

  “Just a generic bad one. I sell you my client’s confidential case file and a few days later my client disappears.”

  “But she didn’t disappear. She’s in Savannah.”

  “According to the estranged husband with lots of embarrassing details and lots and lots and lots of money to lose.”


  “Right.” He laughed, for some reason. “Well, you could always head on down there and check it out, I guess. Why you would, I can’t figure.”

  “I have a bad feeling,” I said. “Like I said.”

  “Bad feeling,” he echoed. “Bad feelings are worthless, Ruzak. Bad feelings are for teenagers jacking off and papists waiting in line at the confessional. Our business is facts.”

  I shifted uncomfortably in my chair. It felt like I was already on board, Dresden Falks’s newest trainee.

  “Well, that’s what my feeling is. A fact.”

  SCENE FOUR

  Lobby of the Sterchi Building

  Four Days Later

  Whittaker fairly leapt at me from his hiding place behind one of the columns, at the midway point of my third trek from the elevators to the front doors. I would have offered my hand, but it was full, like the other one, with Archie’s crate. The crate (you never call it a cage, though that is precisely what it resembled) was designed to be easily broken down for convenient storage or travel. I, however, had never quite gotten the hang of it. Fortunately, fully assembled, it fit, albeit snugly, in the backseat of my Sentra.

  “Mr. Ruzak, does this mean what I think it means?”

  “It just might.”

  “You’ve found a home for Archie.”

  “How do you know his name?”

  His mouth came open. No sound came out.

  “You were snooping around my apartment, weren’t you?” I asked.

  “Of course not. You must have told me.”

  “I don’t remember telling you.”

  “The dog’s name is not the point, Mr. Ruzak.”

  “No, it’s how you got it.”

  “No, it’s if you’re finally going to comply with your lease.”

  “Mr.—” I began, then took a breath, then said, because I still wasn’t sure which it was, first name or last, “Look, Whittaker, I could stand here and bandy words with you all day—”

  “ ‘Bandy’? Who does that? Who uses words like bandy?”

  “At least one person,” I said. “Can I finish my thought? I’m running late.”

  “Yes or no, Mr. Ruzak, are you discarding the dog?”

  “Yes, I am casting off the canine.”

  He gave me a hard, appraising stare, looking right into my eyes, as if he were counting blinks, the poor man’s lie detector.

  “Are we done?” I asked. “They’re waiting on me and this is kind of heavy.”

  “We reserve the right to monitor your compliance,” he said archly.

  “Oh, I’m done with the whole pet thing,” I assured him. “I’ve discovered Second Life.” On impulse, I shoved the crate into his chest. He brought his arms up instinctively. “Hold this a sec for me, will ya, while I run up and get the dog? Thanks.”

  When I returned, the crate was on the floor by the lobby doors, Whittaker standing beside it in the same suit he always wore, or something nearly identical to it, and I wondered where his money went, because it couldn’t be for clothes. Archie yanked on his leash at the sight of him, and I thought of my father, the guy who never met a stranger, the guy who was often kinder to strangers than to his own family, even to his only son, the bearer of his name and legacy, toward whom the attitude more often than not resembled a shopper with buyer’s remorse.

  Archie ducked his head under Whittaker’s hand for a stolen caress. Incredibly, Whittaker complied.

  “Maybe you’d like to adopt him,” I said.

  “You said you already found a home.” Smug.

  “I said I was getting rid of him. Maybe I’m taking him back to the pound.”

  “Are you taking him back to the pound?”

  “Maybe you’ve given me no choice.”

  “You signed the lease, Mr. Ruzak.”

  “This should teach me,” I said. “I was just trying to do some good.”

  “Your misplaced philanthropy is not my responsibility.”

  “We all have to do our part. We can’t save the world, but we can help what ever little wayward satellite that comes into our orbit.”

  “You’re saying I should take this dog.” He actually seemed to be considering it. Archie was licking his fingertips and Whittaker was letting him.

  “Are you saying you would?”

  “Of course not!”

  “Might?”

  “It’s a moot point now.”

  “Let me ask you something. When you break into my apartment—”

  “I do not break into your apartment, Mr. Ruzak.”

  “When you gain entrance to my apartment, you let Archie out of his crate, don’t you? Play with him, give him a treat, maybe.”

  “That’s outrageous.”

  “He seems to know you pretty well, that’s all.”

  “I don’t deny he must recognize me.”

  He pulled his hand away and Archie doggedly pursued it, trying to push his wide, flat head underneath it. Whittaker shoved both hands into his pockets.

  “You’ve fallen in love with my damn dog,” I said. “I don’t give a damn about your damn dog.”

  “The feeling isn’t mutual.”

  “What are you trying to do, Ruzak? What do you want? I’m not heartless. I don’t want anything bad to happen to this animal. I’m not the one who chose to adopt it and house it in a pet-free facility. I’m not the one who locks it up in a cage for eight, nine hours a day with no companionship and no exercise. That’s the irony here. You’re lucky I didn’t call the ASPCA on you.”

  “It’s called a crate, and I don’t lock it up the whole time. Just the other day, he went with me on a case.”

  “On a case?”

  “I’m a PI.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “In fact, this dog has been beneficial to my work.”

  “What, like Scooby-Doo?” Sarcastic. “Well, given that scenario, you might be a bad guy. All the bad guys were caretakers, janitors, and property managers.”

  “And his Shaggy has a thyroid problem.” Caustic.

  Archie sat at his feet and lifted one paw. I watched, astounded. Where had he picked that up? When Whittaker ignored the offered paw, Archie waved it urgently at him.

  “Look,” I said. “He’s waving good-bye.”

  “You and this dog get the hell out of my building, Ruzak.”

  SCENE FIVE

  Felicia’s House

  Forty-five Minutes Later

  She met us at the door wearing black jogging shorts and a tight white T-shirt that reminded me of that soccer player’s sports bra, the one bared to the world when the U.S. women’s team took the World Cup a few years back. She had pulled her blond hair into a ponytail, the ends of which were still damp, and a drop or two of moisture clung to the exposed skin between her shoulder blades. I thought of Kinsey Brock, fresh from her shower, and the yellow towel and the way a woman’s wet skin looks in ambient light, and suddenly my heart felt burdened, and I became unnaturally aware of my tongue, an appendage you don’t normally pay that much attention to, but which now seemed swollen and hypersensitive, too large by half for my mouth.

  “I didn’t know you jogged,” I said.

  “I don’t,” she replied. She called for her kid, Tommy, and I heard a loud bumping and banging down the hall, as if a barricade were being torn down. I hung on to the end of Archie’s leash like a ship lashed to a buoy lest it be dragged out to sea.

  “Was that Bob’s truck in the drive?” I asked.

  “Of course. Ruzak, you know I don’t own a truck.”

  “Finally I get to meet him.”

  “He’s asleep. He’s been flipped to the night shift.”

  “I thought firefighters slept at the station.”

  “It’s not a prison, Teddy. They do let you go home once in awhile.”

  Tommy barreled into the room, sliding on his knees the final two feet, straight into Archie’s chest. The reunion could only be characterized as joyful, lots of screaming (Tommy), licking (Archie), a
nd roughhousing (both), Archie scampering after the kid in mock retreat, forelegs stiff, entire rear end in motion, which gave that old saw about the dog-wagging tail some credence.

  “Tell me why you’re going to Savannah again?” Felicia asked. She was drinking a vitamin water. Maybe there was a treadmill somewhere. Or she was fresh from the gym. I had never given much thought to how she kept her shape; I just appreciated it.

  “I have a bad feeling.”

  She sniffed. “You and your feelings.”

  She wasn’t wearing any makeup. A fine spray of freckles dotted her nose and cheeks. Beads of perspiration clung above her upper lip. That little cleft right underneath our noses is called the philtrum, I reminded myself. Christ, Ruzak, what the hell does that matter? Sometimes when I was around Felicia, I lost a bit of mental discipline, long-dormant neurons containing information like what a philtrum is suddenly firing, threatening to overwhelm my cerebral cortex.

  “What’s so wrong with intuition?” I asked. “Some of the greatest crimes in history were cracked on a hunch.”

  “Name two.”

  “I should confess part of it is to alleviate my own sense of responsibility.”

  “Which is totally misplaced. Her taking off had nothing to do with you, Ruzak.”

  “Unless the facts bear out my bad feeling.”

  “ ‘K.B. having illicit liaison with BF’?”

  “Here’s the hypothetical—”

  “Great. The hypothetical. Wait, let me sit down first. Tommy, honey, why don’t you take Arch outside and throw the ball?”

  “What ball?” Tommy barked. He tended to bark everything.

  “The old tennis ball. It’s in the azaleas, next to the fence.”

  Tommy ran to the sliding glass door. Archie needed no urging. The family room seemed uncomfortably quiet after they slammed outside, like a movie theater before the show starts and you’re the only person in the place.

  “You play tennis?” I asked.

  “No.” She flopped onto the sofa and drew her bare legs tightly against her black-clad bottom. On the coffee table in front of her was a stack of papers and a yellow highlighter. She reached over—her bare arm seemed incredibly long—and flipped the papers over. The highlighter rolled off the table. She picked it up and placed it on top of the papers. “Now. Hypo.”