Well, that first chapter seems to have gone over well. I hope you'll like the others just as much or more. It's nice to be back with you lovely reader! I had a lonely couple weeks without you. In this chapter we learn a bit more about the case and some about the detective. ENJOY!
NOTE: Check out my other stories in the Sci-fi / Fantasy Section Crown Vic to a Parallel World From Whence I Came Stolen Love
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Wasted Life a Law Edwards Mystery by Sam Stefanik
2 The Case, Preston is Missing
The story that Bea unfolded while I smoked and gnawed on the end of my cigar was a simple one. Widower father (their mother died when Bea was five) raises two children the best he can. He's a self-employed architect with an office over the river in Camden, and a home in Pennsauken, New Jersey. It's a good business and affords the family all the comforts.
Both children are bright and self-reliant. The boy, the oldest by five years, showed talent for math and science. He is sent to Drexel College in Philadelphia for structural engineering. After college he was supposed to return triumphantly to the father's business which would then grow to new heights of prosperity. Even the daughter is in this rosy vision. Papa teaches her drafting, and she helps him by being secretary. She also copies drawing sheets, makes enlargements, etcetera.
Everything is going fine until the last semester of Preston's senior year. One fine day, the father is in Philadelphia to see a client. He finishes his meeting early, and decides to drop-in on his son, unannounced. Everything would have remained fine except for father's insistence on pushing the surprise all the way. When he got to the son's dormitory room door, he walked in without even tapping a warning. He found Preston sitting on his bed with a friend. Preston was kissing his friend. The friend's name was Simon.
Father shocked, son crushed, shouting, recrimination, tears all around. Preston is disowned on the spot. To his enormous credit, Preston finished the school year and earned his degree. He can't collect it, though, not until the unpaid balance due on his education is settled. His spiteful father neglected to send the last check.
Disillusioned, disappointed, despondent, and poverty stricken, twenty-two-year-old Preston drifted into the city to seek shelter and employment. His sister sent him some money, enough to get a room and eat for a little while. He got a job at the shipyard as a file clerk for low pay and long hours. He could make more, if he could get his degree out of hock, but he can't do that without more money.
Preston and Bea correspond weekly, and she sends him what money she can, which isn't much. As time goes by, Preston's desperation increases until the last of his letters are all about money. As this was May, he'd finished college almost a year ago, and he'd been at the shipyard for ten months or so of that year.
Bea told a comprehensive story, and she did it without wandering off on tangents or getting emotional. I thought it was interesting that she was able to do that. I thought that Bea was an interesting woman, then it dawned on me. `They were both raised by the father. Poor guy, now he's got a tom-boy daughter and a queer son. Shouldn't have disowned him. There are too many emotionally crippled, disowned queers in the world.'
I leaned forward again and crushed my cigar butt out in the full tray. Bea's story had been the right length. My insides were still knotted, but my cigar had lasted just long enough. I was getting ready to renew my refusal to take on Bea's case when she took an envelope from her bag. She drew a snapshot from it and handed it across the desk.
I accepted it to be polite and had a look. A black and white face smiled from the glazed paper. The man in the photo was a young, powerfully built, blond dressed in a buttoned-down shirt. His face stirred something in my memory, but nothing came to the surface. "Describe what I can't see." I commanded. "Height, weight, coloring, does his hair always look like that?"
Bea explained with precision. "Preston is tall, the whole family is, almost six-feet-four-inches. He's fit, cross-country and track and field in high school and college. He weighs one hundred and ninety pounds. Preston is always tan, even in the winter. He has hazel eyes. His hair is lighter than mine and is always a mess. No matter what he does, it won't stay combed.
"He's very careful of his clothes. Prefers blue or grey, never brown. He likes dark ties and wears a light grey pork-pie hat with a dark-grey band. He likes stripes, but hates plaid, and always wears a suit. Preston wouldn't be caught dead in denim pants or one of those lumber-jack shirts. He's only informal if he's running."
I asked about a detail. "Belt or suspenders?"
"Suspenders."
"How tan is tan?" I asked and started to feel uneasy.
Bea glanced at the row of green filing cabinets that were ranged along the wall opposite my desk. She turned back and went ahead quickly. "He loves the outside. This time of year, he'd already be tan, and by the end of June, he's as dark as furniture polish. He always took his shirt off in the back yard so he could tan all over. Father used to shout at him for being indecent." She smiled for the first time with enjoyment of the memory.
I tried to picture Preston Arlott as Bea described him. I wanted to see him the way he really was. Gradually, the image formed in my mind. It was an image of a deeply tan, blond man with tousled hair. He was shirtless, but still wore slacks and suspenders. Once the image was complete, I knew why I had felt uneasy. "I miss you, David." I muttered to the photo. As soon as I spoke, my stomach lurched hard enough to make me squeeze the arm of my chair with my free hand.
"Mister Edwards?" Bea asked.
I assumed she was confused or concerned by the grimace of pain on my face. I ignored her question and the spasm passed. I set the photo in the middle of my desk blotter so I could rub my face with both hands. I knew what my answer would be now.
"I'll find him. If it's possible to find him, I'll find him. My rates are twenty dollars a day plus expenses. You'll get a receipt for the expenses unless I have to buy information or pay a bribe. Those you'll have to trust me on. I like a hundred dollars down, but I'll take fifty. I also need at least two more photos and a profile if you have one.
"I want all the letters he wrote you if you saved them, the last letter you wrote to him, his last known address, and anything else you can give me. I also want the names and addresses of any of his old friends, his doctors, favorite teachers, and especially that Simon that started all the trouble."
Bea lowered her gaze from mine. She clasped her hands in front of her face like she needed a place to hide. "I don't have a hundred dollars." She whispered to her hands. "I don't even have fifty. I sent everything to Preston.
"All I have in the world is twenty-eight dollars and I need a quarter for the train home. I brought the money with me in case Pres was in trouble. I can get more, but I don't know when. Since I live with my father, he doesn't pay me a regular salary." Bea quickly went from explaining to pleading. "I'll do anything. I'll find a way to pay you. Please!"
I rubbed my face again and lifted the photo from the blotter. Bea's hands separated, rose to the sides of her face, and stretched her expression sideways. I guess she expected me to give her the photo back and the worry she felt drove her to contort her expression in that strange way. I looked at the picture again, at the kind, smiling face that looked so much like another. "Fuck it." I said aloud. "Give me twenty-five. I'll still find him. When he's a big, important engineer, I'll send him a bill."
Bea shot out of the chair like she'd been sitting on a spring. I was afraid she was going to try to hug me, but she stayed on her side of the desk. "Thank you, Mister Edwards." She gushed with elation, then she controlled herself again. Somehow, she switched off her joy like one would turn out a light. She sat, perched on the edge of her chair, and dug in her bag. She brought out the money and handed it over.
I made out a receipt, we both signed it, and I gave her the carbon. I tore a page of rude doodles from my notepad and balled it up to feed the ashtray. I pushed the pad toward Bea with a fresh page showing. "Now, write down the address of the rooming house, who you talked to, his company, and who you talked to, and any phone numbers you can remember."
She did as I asked. I noticed that she wrote in angled block printing, engineer style, but did it as rapidly as if she were signing her name. When she finished, I took the pad back and made certain that everything I wanted was there, then I gave her some final instructions.
"Go right home and pull together everything I asked for and anything else you can think of that might help. Send things you think couldn't possibly help. Don't hide anything that seems delicate or too personal. That's the stuff I need the most. Send anything that will fit in an envelope. You'll get it all back. Send it here special delivery. I want it today or first thing in the morning. I imagine I shouldn't try to telephone you at home, so you ring me here every day at six and I'll tell you whatever there is to tell. Got it?"
Bea nodded that she understood but asked a question anyway. "I'm still not sure I understand why you want all those things."
"Miss Arlott!" I barked and pointed my pencil at her. "I won't have my methods questioned. Just this once, to illustrate the enormity of the task you've given me, I'll explain. Finding one man in this city, assuming your brother is still in this city, is like finding one needle in a stack of two-million needles. I need to know your needle as intimately as I can without meeting him.
"This isn't a flicker show or a pulp magazine. People don't come here and say, `Mister Edwards, find my person,' and I go outside and pick them up a block over and walk them back. This takes work, study, and a good deal of luck. You go home and get everything together and get it here as quickly as you can. If he's been gone a week, the trail is already getting cold. The sooner I get started, the better."
Bea lowered her head away from my sharp words. "Yes, Mister Edwards. It will be here tonight."
"Good. I'll start on the rooming house and his job today. Hopefully by six tomorrow, I'll have something to report. One more thing, if you hear from him, or if anything comes in the mail addressed to him, contact me or forward whatever you get. Good day, Miss Arlott." I said to end the interview.
Bea rose and smoothed her skirt like she hadn't forgiven it from getting caught earlier. She said goodbye to me, then turned her attention to Walt. "I'm sorry, sir. You kept me company, and I didn't ask your name."
Walt scooped his grey, short brimmed, soft hat from his knee and stood quickly to introduce himself. "Walter W. Stack. The `W' is for Whitman. My father taught literature at Albright College up in Scranton. It's nice to meet you, Miss Arlott."
Walt was using his bashful chivalrous tone. He had the most expressive voice I'd ever heard, and I'd mentally named every tone. This grinning but modest tone was definitely bashful chivalrous. Walt loved being named for Whitman and was proud of the position his late father once held. He never missed an opportunity to mention both.
"Thank you for being so kind." Bea said and shook hands gently. She left moments later.