Name: Dick
http://privatedick.blogspot.com
Part 1
Call me Private Dick. I work in New York City as a private detective,
and recently, I've been keeping a blog of my work (with enough fact
adjusting so those involved don't get wise). I offer you one from
several years ago which stands out as the last time I did a female
client a favor because she had a pretty face.
It was a Thursday evening when a woman came into my office. Jet black
hair, perfect face, full lips, skinny little body --" just the type of
client I enjoy serving the most, and she hadn't even opened her mouth.
She introduced herself --" we'll call her Angelina -- and I instantly
noticed the heavy Italian accent. She told me that she had been in
the US for a few years now. Her problem: "I think someone is trying
to hurt me, maybe even kill me."
Everyone always looks so disappointed when I don't react dramatically
to their out of the ordinary dilemmas. Well, I've said it before and
I'll say it again: after working in New York for a number of years, it
takes a lot to make this Dick raise an eyebrow. Hell, the case I'm
working on now involves an actress who thinks someone is out to do her
in, while someone unrelated came into my office just last Friday with
the same problem. Everyone is out to kill everyone these days it
seems, though fewer than you'd think actually go through with it.
In this case, Angelina thought her ex-boyfriend of two years, Billy,
was trying to kill her. Why? "Angry that I dumped his sorry ass,"
she said. "Months ago. He won't leave me alone. Always was coming
around. Threatening to beat up any man he sees me with. He's was
stalking me."
Finally, she threatened him with a restraining order, and he
disappeared. But she was convinced he was still out to get her, and
her suspicions had only grown over time. Lacking any hard evidence,
she wanted me to look into it and either put her fears at rest, or
give her something to bring to the cops.
Not a difficult job --" tail Billy for a few days, a week at most. In
my experience, most people give away their stalker m.o. very quickly.
Angelina gave me contact info and pictures of her ex: Billy, a
handsome black guy with a smile straight out of a toothpaste ad, was
employed during the day at Macy's selling suits, and worked nights at
a jazz club on the Upper West Side playing sax.
As I was knee-deep in other cases at the time, I promised her I'd get
to work on her problem the following Monday. She said that was fine
and left.
I continued on with my other work. The weekend arrived, and as I
finally sat down to mull over her file, I realized I no longer had
Billy's picture. My secretary searched through both file cabinets and
turned up nothing. Not completely necessary, as I remembered his
face, but then again, no reason to go into a case without all the
right preparations.
I gave Angelina a call and got the busy signal. I called an hour
later and it was still busy. A half hour later, still busy. Not a
good sign.
After one more failed attempt to contact her, I took a cab over to her
place on the Upper West Side in the 80's (four story brownstone) and
pressed a random buzzer to get in (most New Yorkers don't bother
asking who it is anymore --" try it for fun sometime). Up the stairs
to
Apartment 2R. I knocked on the door and waited. No answer, though
through the door, I could hear radio static. Knocked again --" no
reply. Tried the doorknob --" it was open, so I went in.
Angelina's place was ransacked. First room was the kitchen, and pots
and broken dishes were strewn everywhere. A small TV had been knocked
off the countertop and was lying on the ground in a million pieces.
Pretty ugly. The small kitchen led into a living room, which was a
similar mess. Couches overturned, bookshelves knocked over, the
works. A small radio was lying on the ground blaring static, and I
turned it off. A kitten was meowing sadly at its broken milk dish.
Last but certainly not least, the wall-to-wall white carpeting was
smeared with what looked to be blood.
(to be continued)
Posted by captainhoof
at 10:54 AM CDT
