Private Eye - Part 1

Los Angeles.

It was a dimly lit bar in a dimly lit street. The kind of place you go to forget your troubles or meet that woman you really shouldn’t be cheating on your girlfriend with. A few people were seated on leather sofas at the back of the smokey, badly lit seating area. A few more sat at various small, wooden tables, hunched over in quiet conversation, sipping drinks.

At the bar, seated on a faded wooden stool was PI Carlos Vespa, a glass of Jack Daniels over ice in front of him. That's Private Investigator, for the uninitiated. He was alone, the bar itself devoid of the usual dejected, disillusioned souls that would usually adorn the empty bar stools this time of night.

He was in his early forties, with short black hair showing hints of grey and wore a long black trench coat. He was a quiet man, a lover of jazz music and bars. He lived alone and was happy that way. Not that he never had a woman. He was just enjoying the break from them. These 'alone times' where he could just kick back with his thoughts were the times that he cherished the most.

Yeah, he wore the trench coat. The old stereotype. Why not? Looks cool. If you’re gonna do something, do it right. And do it looking cool.

His investigations were mostly pretty small-time, nothing too flash, nothing too stressful. Mostly spying on suspected cheating spouses for their worried partners, the occasional missing persons case, stolen items.

But nothing had prepared him for his imminent next case. An event triggered by the buzz and bright flash of his cell phone as it rested next to his half-empty glass.

This is how the story goes.

It's gonna be one hell of a week.

* * *

The large office was Victorian in décor, dimly lit by wall lamps with a huge varnished oak table at one side, three chairs around it. The walls were scarlet coloured and a chandelier hung from the ceiling. Bookcases lined the walls.

At the far end, behind an equally expensive looking large antique desk, seated in a huge red leather chair, was Oliver Draft, a slim, almost gaunt man in his mid-fifties, with a full head of white hair, slicked back, dressed in a very expensive Italian suit. There was a glass of scotch on the desk. In front of the desk were two more huge leather chairs and between them stood Harry, also dressed in an equally expensive black suit.

Harry was the spoiled son of the very sensible yet devious Oliver and had grown up like the typical spoiled brat. With no mother in his life for the last twenty years due to a heart attack, his time was spent almost always alone until he was old enough to help out in the family organization. Now at thirty-two years old, with a short temper and an immature, petulant mentality, Harry was unpredictable. And that made him dangerous. And that, in turn, brought him fear and respect. But no fear or unwarranted respect for him would come from Oliver. Oliver was the one that commanded fear and respect from everybody else. Including Harry.

“Has it been taken care of?” asked Oliver.

“Yeah, it’s done,” replied Harry.

“Good.”

Oliver took a sip of his scotch, the ice cubes gently clinking against the side of the glass.

Harry continued, hesitatingly. “There is a problem, however.”

Oliver put his scotch down and looked at Harry.

“I’m listening,” he said, almost daring Harry to give him bad news.

“I was made.”

“You were made. . .”

“Somebody saw me.”

Oliver sighed and rubbed his palm up his face, frustrated.

“Did they get a good look at you?”

“She didn’t see me do it, but she saw me standing over the body. Afterwards.”

“You didn’t answer my question. Did they get a good look at you?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

Oliver picked up the scotch and swirled it around the glass, trying to contain the frustration building up inside him.

“Harry. . .how can you be so stupid?” were his next words. “She’ll be in a police station shooting her mouth off about this as soon as she can, no doubt. She may have even been already.”

Harry pulled one of the expensive leather chairs out and moved to sit down. “Dad, I -”

“I didn’t offer you a seat,” said Oliver, cutting him off.

Harry straightened himself up. “I tried to
stop her getting away.”

“You didn’t try hard enough.”

“I lost her. She ran through a bunch of people, I didn’t see where she went. I did him in the alleyway beside Reno’s Bar. I was sure no one would see.”

Oliver took another sip of his scotch.

“Well, they did. That alleyway joins the street. Where there’s a street there are people, Harry, whatever time it is in this city.”

“I’m sorry, dad, I wasn’t thinking straight,” said Harry. “Must’ve been adrenaline or something.”

Oliver scowled at this poor excuse.

“Well, we can’t leave a witness. Fix this problem. Now. Hopefully we’ll get lucky and she hasn’t gone to the cops. Hopefully. Do it, and do it fast.”

Harry turned away and started for the door.

“Consider it done.”

“And, Harry?” called Oliver.

Harry stopped and turned to look at Oliver.

“This time, leave the damn adrenaline at home,” said Oliver. “Just take your gun.”

* * *

Three days later.

Harry was sitting in the passenger seat of a black Jaguar X-type with a big, overweight man named Ray in the driver’s seat. They were parked up in a cul-de-sac of nice white houses and green, freshly mowed lawns and were watching a house further down the street on the left.

“How long we been sitting here, Harry?” asked Ray, impatiently. “We followed her all the way from the city, after staking out the same freakin’ spot by Reno’s for three days, and now we finally got her you’re sitting there like some kinda vegetable.”

“Shut up, Ray,” shot back Harry, not taking his eyes off the house. “I’m going. I’m just wondering if she’s alone.”

“What difference does that make? Just pop her and leave. Anyone else there gets one in the brain too, let’s go. I ain’t got the patience for this.”

Harry shot Ray an evil look. “You’re trying mine, you know that?”

“How d’you know it’s even her?” asked Ray. “You only saw her once, real quick, before she ran off.”

“No, she looked at me for a good thirty seconds. Right in the eyes. It’s her.”

Harry opened the car door and got out, slamming the door shut after him. The passenger window was open.

Harry spoke to Ray through the open window. “This is gonna be quick. Have the engine running.”

Harry turned away and walked towards the house, then made his way up the driveway and finally reached the door.

Inside the house, the female witness at the murder scene was walking down the hall towards the kitchen when there was a knock at the door. She stopped and turned around. There were more impatient sounding knocks. She started to walk towards the door.

“Ok, I’m coming,” she said. “Who is it?”

“Harry’s Opticians And Visual Aids, got a delivery for you,” came the reply from the other side of the door.

The woman screwed up her face in confusion. She opened the front door to speak.

“I didn’t order any visual aids.”

Harry was standing in the doorway, the silencer-barrel of his gun right in front of the woman‘s eyes.

“No,” said Harry. “I think you’ve seen a little too much.”

There was a muffled gunshot sound as Harry shot her at point-blank range in the forehead and she dropped to the floor.

* * *

Next day.

The office of Daniel Fern at Mitchell And Co. was small, with law books scattered over the desk along with various papers, and bookshelves lining the walls and a fax machine in the corner. A typical lawyers office.

Daniel, seated behind his desk, had short blonde hair, in his mid-thirties and wearing a dark grey suit, white shirt and red tie.

Seated at the desk opposite Daniel was Nathan West, also in his mid-thirties.

“Okay, this is the situation,” began Daniel. “You did the right thing coming to me straight away. Luckily the witness went to the cops right after she saw what happened, and we’d be able to prosecute this guy - Harry Draft is the man that‘s been accused, from the information gathered - if the cops could find him. He’s done an impressive disappearing act and he’s keeping well hidden. I’ve gone to the courts and we’ve got the ball rolling on your brother’s murder, but we need to find him to punish him.”

“Okay. So what’s new?” asked Nathan.

“I’ve got some disturbing news, Nathan. Our key witness has been murdered. Three days after she saw and accused Harry.”

There was a moment of silence at the disclosure of this news.

“What a coincidence,” said Nathan.

“I was thinking the same thing,” replied Daniel.

“But that doesn’t matter, right? We’ve got her statement. The cops have used that information and narrowed it down to this one guy. We’ve got him. Right? What else do we need?”

“Nathan, without our key witness to testify in court and no other evidence, this guy walks. We have very little evidence at this moment, even circumstantial. If she’s not around to tell about this, then her statement is void, is has no effect. She can’t testify it in court so they can’t use it. I’m sorry.”

Nathan looked understandably crestfallen.

“So he walks. Daniel, we can’t let him walk away from this. That was my brother. He has to be punished. We have to do something.”

“We’re still working on gathering evidence. It’s early days yet and the cops assure me they are doing their best. But it’s not looking too hot to be honest, Nathan. It was a clean hit. Very neat, nothing to track so far.”

“So what do we do?” asked Nathan.

“I guess I’ll have to think of something.”