A short Mystery Story
By F. Haywood Glenn
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I wanted more than anything to sleep in that morning. The night had been cool and rainy, and the morning promised another dreary day. No clients were scheduled, so it was a great day to sleep in. However, a little after nine, I got a call from my partner Ken. Lydia!” I heard a hint of urgency in his voice. “Where are you?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “We might have a new case. I just got off the phone with a potential client, and she will be here in less than an hour.”
“Calm down, Ken. Why are you so excited?”
“I’m sorry. I guess it’s just that the potential client was almost frantic on the phone, and when I noticed that you weren’t here, I panicked. She will be here soon. Would you like me to do the original interview?”
“Yes. Start the interview, and I will be there as quickly as I can.”
Our new client was Margaret Jackson, a thirty-five-year-old nurse who was hiring the agency to find her missing husband. Ken was able to obtain answers to the usual questions. She had contacted the police, who did not see this as a viable case of missing persons for several understandable reasons. First, she and her husband, Richard, had argued before he disappeared. Secondly, he announced that he was leaving, and as an adult male, that was hardly out of the ordinary. Thirdly, their marriage had hit a rough patch, and they agreed to spend some time apart.
I met the moderately plump Mrs. Jackson later that morning. She was a little over five feet tall with a pretty face and smile. Her long braids were pulled back into a ponytail. “Mrs. Jackson,” I said in greeting.
“Yes,” she stood and gave me a tentative handshake.
“Hi. I’m Lydia James.”
“Glad to meet you, Miss James. Detective Williams recommended this agency to me.”
I watched as she sat in the chair across from me. She was poised and neat, with dark brown eyes. “Is there anything you can think of that might help us locate your husband, Richard?”
“Not really. None of this is like Richard. He is usually very predictable and good at keeping things organized. I can’t even explain what has happened to cause Richard to act so out of character.”
“Exactly what has he done that you consider out of character?”
“He has been argumentative. Snapping at me for no reason. None of this is like Richard.”
“You told my associate that the two of you argued. It may help to know exactly what the argument was about.” I watched her closely as her smile faded. Her head dropped, and she looked down at her folded hands in her lap. She stopped talking, unwilling to say exactly what the problem was between them.
I let a few silent minutes pass between us. “Miss Jackson,” I said. “You must tell me as much as possible.”
Finally, she took a deep breath. “He left and promised to return in a few days. It has already been three days, and I haven’t heard anything from him. I started to worry that something may have happened to him.”
“That’s understandable. What else can you tell me?”
“A few weeks ago, I thought that Richard was cheating on me,” she softly whispered. “He began to get phone calls and text messages late at night, often after we had gone to bed. He never answered those calls, but that made me a little suspicious. I asked who would call him so late, and he just brushed it off.” Tears welled in her eyes as she spoke. I handed her a tissue.
“Did you learn who he was cheating with?” She did not answer right away. “Margaret, you need to tell me more.”
“He wasn’t cheating at all.” She paused, dropping her head into her hands again, and softly cried.
“Tell me how you know this.”
“A couple of days before this, I found a duffle bag in Richard’s closet. It was filled with a lot of money. Probably thousands of dollars in one-hundred-dollar bill bundles. I confronted him, and that’s what the argument was about.”
“Do you have any idea where the money came from?” Again, she didn’t want to answer. “You have to give me something, Mrs. Jackson,” I said as sternly as I could.
“I don’t know, and he refused to tell me, so I followed him. I thought he was meeting another woman, but I was wrong. He met with a couple of guys that I don’t know. It looked like they were arguing, and they kept pushing and yelling at him. I heard one of them say that Richard was a problem that they didn’t need.”
“No one saw you?”
“No. I didn’t park in the lot, and my car was hidden behind a gate and some trees.”
“Where did this meeting take place?”
“In the parking lot of a diner downtown. When Richard came home, I confronted him again. He would not tell me who those men were or where that money came from.” This was getting interesting. Mrs. Jackson got up and began to pace the length of my office. “He said that it was better that I did not know.”
“What happened to the money?”
“He took that bag with him when he left and I haven’t seen or heard from him since.” She began to cry again.
“What kind of work does your husband do?”
“He’s an accountant. He works downtown in the Kent Financial Center.”
“Is there anything else you can tell me about the cash or the men you witnessed with your husband?”
“No.”
“Where is this diner?”
“Cramer Street. It’s the Cramer Street Diner down on Fourth Street. It’s a very sketchy neighborhood, but the diner is well-known.”
“Alright, Mrs. Jackson. I will see what we can find out and be in touch as soon as we have anything to report.”
Ken and I discussed the case over lunch. We both agreed that the money was the key to finding Richard Jackson. Ken began by checking crime statistics, looking for any recently reported financial crimes. If the money were stolen, it would show up in a report.
I began my investigation with Mr. Jackson. Public records and social media are always my initial investigations. It didn’t take long to discover that Richard Jackson was a gambler and, by all accounts, not a very good gambler. He owed a lot of money to some dangerous men.
I called his employer and learned he was a very good accountant but not such a good employee. There were several no-call absences, and he was currently on probation with the intent to terminate if another incident occurred. They assured me that there were no incidents of clients misappropriating funds. I had to ask. The next step was to take a look at the diner.
According to Carl, the Cramer Street Diner had been investigated many times. Back in the 1990s, it was a front for a backroom gambling establishment. The owner, George Cramer, was jailed on unrelated crimes, and his daughter, Linda, took over the business. She turned the diner into a reasonably profitable restaurant.
I pressed Mrs. Jackson on the identity of the men, and eventually, I got a vague description. I pulled photos from her husband’s social media accounts for her to look at, and she was able to recognize one of the men. Carl identified him as Jake Rodgers, an ex-con with a long record of armed robbery and other similar crimes. He was currently employed as a cook at the Cramer Street Diner, which explains why they chose to meet in the diner’s parking lot. “I think I need to speak with this man,” I told Carl that evening.
“Not a good idea,” he warned as we sat down to eat. “This is a dangerous man, Lydia. You can’t just ambush him with questions about your missing person.”
“Why not?”
“First, you don’t have the authority. Second, you have no evidence that he has done anything wrong. You only know that he had a conversation with your missing person.” We were both quiet as I considered what Carl said. As a police detective, he had been at this much longer than I and was usually right. Minutes passed. “Follow him,” he said at last. “See where he leads you.”
For the next three days, Ken and I took turns watching Jake Rodgers. There was nothing suspicious about his activities. He went to work, spent an hour or more at a local bar, and then went to his small apartment above a Chinese take-out restaurant. We both agreed that Jake was a dead-end until the evening that I followed him to the Thirtieth Street Train Station. He accessed a locker there and removed a small duffel bag. I took several photos. From there, he took to the highway, heading over the bridge to New Jersey. I followed him to another diner, where he met three young men.
In an attempt to get a closer look at these men, I went inside the diner and ordered a meal. As I suffered through the worst pot roast I had ever tasted, I noticed that these men were very young. Likely, most were in their early twenties. I was close enough to hear bits of their conversation and learned that one of the young men was a student at a local college. The two others were his friends. The duffel bag never left the car. There was nothing nefarious about this little meeting, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that Jake was into something that would help this investigation.
Before they finished their meal and prepared to leave the diner, I was able to snap a couple of photos with my phone. I left the diner before Jake so that he would not suspect that he was being watched. I sent the photos to Carl, who later confirmed that one of the young men was Jake’s younger brother. I was ready to call it a night and head home. Ken would take over in the morning.
The next morning, I called Mrs. Jackson and asked her to come into the office. I shared the more photos of Jake and his three companions and asked if she had ever seen these people before. She had not. I also wanted her to describe the duffle bag that she saw in her husband’s closet. “It was an army green duffle with tan straps.” Now, I knew that the duffle bag that Jake carried was the same duffle bag that Mrs. Jackson saw in her husband’s closet.
The next few days were uneventful as we followed Jake. It occurred to me that for a known criminal, Jake led a very boring life. His schedule was the same every day. However, Saturday night was a completely different story. He left his small apartment at about eleven that night, with the duffle bag on his shoulder. He was met at the curb by two men who arrived in a Ford pick-up. The driver exited the vehicle and shook Jake’s hand before Jake climbed into the truck. They stood there talking long enough for me to snap several photos.
I followed them out of the city at a distance to far western suburbs. A very wooded area dotted with upscale single homes. They pulled into a driveway. A shingle hung at the edge of the property with the name Carpe. That name was familiar to me. I knew that Jonathan Carpe was a philanthropist and collector of fine art. What could he possibly have to do with these men?
The men were there for about twenty minutes. Then, I followed them back into the city. This time, they went to a dilapidated factory building in South Philadelphia. Jake had that duffle bag slung on his shoulder.
I stayed in my car and out of sight until the men entered the building. The number of cars in the parking lot told me that there was a large crowd inside. I heard loud voices when the door opened as the three men from the pick-up entered. I took a slow walk around the outside of the building. From what I could see, it appeared to be pretty secure. All the windows were painted over with black paint, so I could not see inside. On the back side of the building, I saw a car parked in the corner of the yard. It was covered with a tarp. I took a look under the tarp and found an older model Camry. I didn’t want to be caught snooping with all the men inside this building, so I carefully made my way back to my car. It was a little after midnight when I headed for home.
The next day, I called Margaret Jackson, and she confirmed that her husband, Richard, owned a Cream colored 2006 Toyota Camry. “I’m getting the feeling that you aren’t telling me everything. Where do you think Richard got that money?”
“I really don’t know,” she said. “We are struggling financially. I have no idea where that money came from.”
“I think that you know more than you are saying. Was Richard involved in anything illegal?”
“No. If he was, I promise I didn’t know about it.”
“What can you tell me about Jake Rodgers?”
She hesitated. “Not much. He and my husband met at a diner. They became friends because they both liked basketball. They went to a couple of games together, at first. Then Jake took Richard to some backroom card games.”
“So, Richard is a gambler?”
“Yes, I guess you could say that. But what has that to do with his disappearance?”
“I’m not sure. I think Richard may have won that money gambling. I also think the people he won the money from wanted it back. These guys appear to be some bad people, and they may have taken the money and Richard.” I did not tell Mrs. Jackson, but I was now convinced that Richard Jackson was likely being held in that building. But why, was my question? What could they gain by holding him?
Driving home, I couldn’t stop thinking I had missed something. The name Jonathan Carpe kept coming to my mind. What would a rich, well-known man have to do with these common petty criminals? There was something there. I knew it.
That evening, Carl and I had planned to have a late-night dinner at our favorite city restaurant. I wondered why he wanted to meet so late, but I was so involved in the case that I didn’t ask. I rushed home and changed my clothes, grateful he was not in the apartment.
Carl made reservations and was already seated when I arrived. He smiled as he helped me with my wrap and pulled out my chair. I could see that he was happier than usual. “Why are you so happy? What’s the occasion?” I asked.
“Us!” He said with a wink. “You’ve been working so hard, I just wanted you to get a night off and have a good time.”
“Thank you,” I said. The atmosphere of the restaurant was great. Soft candlelight gave the place a golden glow, and smooth jazz wafted through the restaurant. Unfortunately, I could not keep my mind from wandering. I just kept thinking about Jonathan Carpe. I hadn’t even noticed when our appetizers were delivered to the table. Carl noticed I was distracted.
“Lydia,” he shouted.
I jumped to attention. “Yes!”
“You are still fixated on the case, aren't you?”
“Yes. I’m sorry.”
He took a deep, exasperated breath. “I chose this restaurant and this night because I made a decision that I wanted to share with you. Maybe this isn’t the right time.”
“Carl, I do apologize. It’s just that this case has me baffled.”
“You have me baffled,” he said. “We have always talked to each other, but you have been unavailable since this case started. I need you to listen to me now, Lydia.” He took a deep breath and grabbed both my hands. “Lydia, I want us to spend our lives together. I love you. I’m asking you will you marry me, Lydia?”
For a second, I couldn’t move. Carl and I had been together for a couple of years but at that moment, I was hardly ready for a proposal. His words just took my breath away. I looked into his eyes, and I knew he was sincere. “Yes,” I said while hoping he had not noticed the hesitation in my answer. “Yes, Carl. I will marry you.”
He put a beautifully bright pear-shaped diamond on my finger before he leaned across the table and kissed me. “I love you, Lydia. I have been thinking about proposing to you for months.
“Carl. I do love you. I am so sorry that I’ve been distracted.”
“Can we agree to not speak about the case, at least for the rest of this night?”
“Yes,” I said, then I kissed my fiancé passionately. I gave Carl my full attention and we enjoyed a wonderful evening. We were back in our apartment by ten that evening and enjoyed each other the rest of the night.
I woke up to a pot of coffee and a fresh apple danish from the bakery a block away. We were happy as we ate our small breakfast. “Now,” Carl said. “I’ve got a feeling that you won’t be totally mine again until this case is solved. I am going to help you with this case as much as I can. Now, this is a good time to tell me where you are in the case. What are your thoughts?”
I told Carl everything. I called Ken to see if he had found anything else and to let him know that I would be a little late. Ken had nothing new to offer.
“The one name I just cannot get out of my head was Jonathan Carpe. I can’t figure out why a man like this could have anything to do with these men. I know that there is something there; I just can’t put my finger on it.”
Carl was quiet for a few minutes. “Maybe you are on to something. Don’t assume that because he is rich, he is right. Spend some time looking into this man. He may not be as rich as you think.”
My mind was already on it. So deep in thought that I did not see Carl grab his jacket and keys. He kissed my cheek and was out the door before I looked up.
At the office, after sharing the good news of my engagement, I told Ken what Carl had to say about the case, and we both steered our energies into investigating Jonathan Carpe. An hour later, neither of us had found anything substantial. I was beginning to feel discouraged again when I noticed a blurb in an online newspaper. Art World Today reported that several Art schools, previously supported by the Carpe Foundation, were closed or closing. This news clearly indicated financial problems.
A check of the Carpe Foundation’s web page indicated that the foundation was being serviced by the Kent Financial Center, the same accounting firm where Richard Jackson was an Accountant. This led me to dig into Carpe’s personal finances. The foundation was broke because its founder was nearly broke, but what has this to do with Richard Jackson?
I have never been good with finances, but I knew someone who was an expert. I called my college roommate, Jillian, who was a forensic Accountant. Without an official warrant, Jillian could only examine records that were already public.
Apparently, after losing a great deal of money gambling, Carpe sought to replenish his finances by purchasing and selling fake artwork. He made a great deal of money sponsoring private art shows until several collectors realized that the art they bought was forgery. Of course, Carpe was sued. The art scam came crumbling down and Carpe’s foundation with it. Jonathan Carpe was losing everything and was once again looking for a way to make money.
He met Richard Jackson at the gambling houses they both frequented. After a little more digging, Jillian learned that Carpe owned the depilated factory building, which he once used for storage before it became a secret gambling house.
I went back to that building where I last saw Jackson’s car. The car was gone. I couldn’t believe it. I sat in my car wondering where we go from here. Then, a tap on my window jarred me from my thoughts. I looked up to see Jake Rodgers. I rolled down the window.
“Can I help you?” He asked.
“Maybe,” I said as I exited the car. I gave him my card, which he barely glanced at before he stuffed it into his shirt pocket. “I’m Lydia James, a private investigator. I am looking into the disappearance of Richard Jackson. His car was parked in this lot just two days ago. Have any idea what happened to it?”
He was visibly nervous. He stared at me. His ice-blue eyes were unblinking as they bore into me. I didn’t know if the stare was to intimidate me or hide his obvious shock. “I don’t know any Richard Jackson,” he finally said. “This is private property and you don’t belong here.”
“I am aware,” I said as I climbed back into my car. I started the engine. “The owner of record is one Jonathan Carpe,” I said as I pulled away from him. In my rearview, I could see him standing there with a baffled expression on his face. I was sure that this encounter would cause these men to alter whatever plans they had come up with to hide Richard Jackson. We just needed to keep watching.
Later that day, Mrs. Jackson called to tell me that she had received text messages from her husband. “These messages don’t sound like my husband,” she said.
“Did you call him back?”
“No answer. Right to voice mail.”
I didn’t tell Mrs. Jackson, but at that point, I was beginning to believe that Richard Jackson was murdered. However, Carl still insisted that the police did not have probable cause to search that building.
I decided that Ken would stake out the building because Jake had seen my face. I would stake out the diner. Nothing moved for several days. I watched Jake take smoke breaks behind the diner every couple of hours. Then, late on a Friday evening when Jake should have been getting off, his friends met him behind the diner. They talked for a few moments before I saw one of them toss something wrapped in newspaper into the dumpster. They laughed, patted each other on the back, and left in their big truck. Jake left walking. I assumed he would be going to his apartment.
There were three dumpsters, and a big raccoon was perched on top of one. He looked like he was there to guard the rubbish. I tried to scare it away, but the animal stood on its hind legs as if to dare me. I threw empty water bottles at it, hoping to make it run away. It did not run away. I needed to see what was wrapped in that newspaper. Suddenly, the back door of the diner opened and flooded the alley with light. Other employees left the building, and the activity scared the rubbish protector away. As soon as the alley was cleared, I ran to the dumpster. With rubber gloves and holding my breath, I retrieved the newspaper-wrapped item and left as fast as I could.
The next morning, I opened the package and found Richard Jackson’s cell phone, his driver's license, and a few business cards. Now I was sure that Richard Jackson had been murdered.
It was easy to unlock the phone. The first thing I saw was the text messages that started right after I met Jake Rodgers in the parking lot. Looking at text messages from weeks ago, it was obvious that Richard had won a significant amount of money gambling. In fact, his win was well over seventy thousand dollars, and the gambling house did not have enough cash to pay off. Carpe would have to take the money from his finances, and this would further ruin him. Several messages between Carpe and Richard indicated that Carpe was trying to convince Richard to give a significant amount of money to his foundation before he even received his winnings.
Richard refused Carpe’s offer. Text messages revealed that Carpe was very angry and began to accuse Richard of cheating. Richard would not be deterred. He demanded that Carpe pay up. Finally, Carpe agreed to pay Richard. They arranged a meeting time at the old factory building. Days later, Richard went missing.
I advised Mrs. Jackson that her husband had been missing long enough for her to file a formal missing person complaint with the police, and she did so promptly. Once the police were involved, I knew that they could open doors that were not available to me as a P.I.
I knew that Richard Jackson had been murdered, but I couldn’t prove it. Something told me that I should keep watching Jake Rodgers, so I spent a couple of nights staking out the diner. Unfortunately, Jake spotted me sitting in my car. He swaggered over to me.
“You again?” He said. “This is harassment. Why are you following me?”
I smiled and started my engine. “I believe that you know what happened to Richard Jackson, and eventually, I’m going to prove it.” I pulled away before he could respond.
Two days later, Richard Jackson’s car was found in a junkyard. His decaying body was found in the trunk. He had been shot in the head.
I wrote a detailed report and handed it over to homicide detectives along with the cell phone and Richard Jackson’s identification.
I called Mrs. Jackson and asked if she was available for a visit. This is the worst part of the job, and such news should be delivered in person. When she opened her door, the look on her face told me she already knew. Her tears flowed freely. “I am so sorry,” I said.
“I think I knew for a while. I just had to wait for someone to make it real.” She took my hand. “Thank you, Miss James.”
Jake Rodgers and Jonathan Carpe, along with two other culprits, were arrested and charged with homicide. Richard Jackson was killed for his gambling winnings.
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