Private Eye - Part 2

The call Carlos had received that quiet night in the bar had come from a lawyer, one Carlos wasn't familiar with up to now. Daniel Fern. Although he had heard of Mitchell and Co., the office he worked for. Just another of many law firms around here. It wasn't one of the big hitters, but he guessed it was respectable enough.

Daniel had asked to meet. So tonight, at the Crescent Moon jazz bar, Carlos was seated at the bar, glass of whiskey in front of him. It was dark, with a stage at the back on which a jazz band was playing. There was an area in front of the stage with people eating and drinking at tables scattered around a dance floor. A few people were dancing to the slow number the band were playing.

Carlos finished his whiskey and put the glass down on the bar. The barman approached him. “What’ll it be?” he asked.

“Jack. Lot’s of ice,” came Carlos’ reply.

The barman walked away to get the drink.

Carlos had actually been to this joint a few times before. He liked to come here to unwind. That day he’d just closed a missing person’s case. He’d found the person. . .dead. Then he had the rather unpleasant responsibility of informing the next of kin.

Nobody knows how hard that is. Telling someone that a member of their family is dead. After all the waiting and speculating about whether they're all right. Or whether they're ever coming home. You’d think it gets easier the more you do it. It doesn’t. When you tell them it almost feels like it’s your fault. You’re the bearer of bad news, so you’re responsible. You feel guilty. You feel like the bad guy. Ripping apart someone’s world like that and then watching them break down is not an easy thing to go through.

As Carlos was mulling these thoughts over in his mind, the lawyer, Daniel, walked over to the bar and slumped himself into the stool next to Carlos
with a sigh. The barman approached and put Carlos’ drink down on the bar. He turned to Daniel.

“Whiskey. Make it a double. On the rocks,” said Daniel.

The Barman walked away again to get the drink.

Carlos turned to Daniel. “Man after my own heart. Long day, huh?”

“Aren’t they all?” replied Daniel.

“You must be Mr. Fern.”

“Daniel." He shook Carlos' hand.

“Carlos.”

The barman returned and put the double whiskey on the bar, then walked away to serve another customer that had just approached the bar at the end.

"So," began Carlos. "You wanted to meet. How did you get my number, just out of interest?"

"Yellow Pages," replied Daniel. "It's a handy book to have."

"What can I do for you, Daniel?"

"I've got this case. A murder case. The brother of the victim came to me to get a trial and prosecute the killer. The key witness to this murder has been killed three days after she saw it. I got no decent evidence to work with to convict and the whole thing’s beginning to be a big headache. We can’t even find the suspect to prosecute.”

“Going nowhere fast, huh?”

“That’s about right. There's just no progress. But as a professional investigator, you've got more of a chance of finding evidence than I have. Maybe better connections. This murder is very clean so far, we've got no leads, nothing to go on. I need your help."

Carlos took a sip of his drink, and took his time to swallow the mouthful, as he thought about giving an answer.

"I charge eight hundred dollars a week for a maximum duration of a month spent on any particular case," came his reply. "If no results are produced within that period, it is at my discretion as to whether I want to pursue the case or not. If I think it's worth it. If I think I'm close to producing results. All extra work is charged at the same rate."

"I'll speak to my client, but I can't see it being a problem. Thanks, I appreciate that."

"Don't mention it."

"I'd like to meet tomorrow for lunch, if that's okay with you. So you can meet my client and I can bring you up to speed."

"Fine with me."

"Cafe Omar, say about twelve?"

"It's a date."

The tempo of the music was beginning to speed up now as the band moved into more lively numbers.

“So, it must be pretty interesting in your line of work.”

“It has it’s ups and downs.”

“You located that missing painting from the art museum, right? That was a big story in all the papers, that painting was worth thousands."

“You heard about that, huh?” said Carlos.

“I can’t believe it was in the curator’s office the whole time. The last place you’d look. What made you look there?” asked Daniel.

“Because it was the only place left to look.”

“Clever ploy, though. The curator stealing it, hiding it in his office, then hiring you to cover his ass and make it look like he was doing something about it being stolen.”

“Well, he thought he was clever,” said Carlos. “He probably thought I was going to give up after I couldn’t find it, and then pay me my money to get me outta there. Then go abroad or something, sell it to a private collector.”

“You must do pretty well.”

“I get by. I don’t take big cases all that much.”

Daniel sipped his drink, a frown forming as he swallowed. “Why not?”

“Too much stress involved,” said Carlos. “The bigger the case, the more pressure’s on you. More responsibility, more stress. I take each day as it comes. I don’t get wound up unnecessarily, it’s pointless. Ain’t gonna make you live longer. I’ll take a big case from time to time. Keeps the money coming in. I live pretty well, do what I want.”

“Well, I’m glad one of us is stress-free.”

“You will be too by the end of the night, my friend,” said Carlos, clinking Daniels’ glass with his own. “Let’s get some more drinks in.”

* * *

Next Day.

Café Omar.

12:19 pm.

The small café was very busy, with people seated at every table. Waitresses were quickly going from table to table, then to the counter, then to the kitchen, like busy little drones. The smell of grease in the air made you feel like you’d just walked into a bowl of cooking oil, the sharp smell of coffee infiltrating your nose.

Daniel and his client, Nathan, were seated at a table in a booth, mugs of coffee in front of them.

A minute passed and Carlos slid in to the booth opposite them.

“Hey,” greeted Carlos.

A waitress approached, seeing that a new person had sat down at the table.

“What’ll it be?” she asked.

“Full breakfast, mushrooms, no tomatoes. Coffee, black, no sugar.”

The waitress wrote the order down on her notepad. “Comin’ up.”

She swiftly walked off to place the order.

“You eating?” asked Daniel.

“No. I just thought I’d look at the food. Y’know, see how well they presented it on the plate,” came the sarcastic reply from Carlos.

“You’re late.”

“I’m hung over.”

“Carlos, this is Nathan. Nathan, Carlos. He’s a Private Investigator.”

Carlos and Nathan shook hands across the table.

“So, explain this scenario to me again,” said Carlos.

“Okay,” began Daniel. “Nathan’s brother, Ben, was murdered in the alleyway next to Reno’s Bar. The only witness was found three days later,
dead, shot in the head, in her home. She’d reported the event to the police the night of the murder, so the fact that she was shot dead so soon after it happened implies that someone obviously wanted her dead because of what she’d seen. But there is no evidence to convict the killer. Nothing. And nobody even knows where Ben’s killer is.”

“What’s the name of the guy you’re after?”

“Well, like I said, the witness to Ben’s murder went straight to the police and did an E-FIT of the guy she saw,” said Daniel. “Plus he’s known to the police for assault a few times previously. His name is Harry Draft.”

Carlos’ eyes widened. “Harry Draft? Are you serious?”

The waitress approached and put the breakfast and coffee and cutlery down on the table.

“There you go, hun,” she said, then walked away back out into the kitchen.

“Yeah. Why, is that a problem?” asked Daniel.

“Looks like my fee just went up.”

“What’s wrong?”

“You’ve never heard of Harry Draft before?”

“No,” said Daniel.

“No,” said Nathan.

“Should we?” asked Daniel.

“Harry Draft works for his father Oliver Draft, who owns a chain of hotels across America. Five star. They’re called Diamond Plaza,” continued Carlos. “All legal, all totally above board. What isn’t legal is what the other half of the organization does. Oliver puts money from gun running, extortion, protection money, you name it, through his hotel business. Even uses rooms in his hotels to conduct his criminal affairs. He provides women for prospective clients and even though he can make a lot of money through his hotel business anyway, he makes a lot more than it seems. He's got his fingers in a lot of dirty little pies. So while Oliver takes care of the hotel business, he leaves Harry in charge of the illegal side of things. He’s a gangster, Daniel.”