The Million Dollar Detective (6) had a bad experience, also." She smiled a crooked, rueful smile at him. "You go first," she said. "Tell me about it." He squirmed and said, "I don't know. It's a sad story, and I'm not a hero in it." "Pish-tosh," she said. "You know you want to tell me." He snorted a laugh. "You're so certain of everything," he said. He said it not with sarcasm, but with wonder and respect. He sighed and gave in. "All right. I was married once. This bears on why I'm glad you're smart. I married a stupid woman. She made me miserable, and I divorced her. I sound like a jerk saying this, but she really was stupid." Bart couldn't help feeling low, and maybe cowardly, telling Meredith about his failed marriage, the worst failure of his life. "Yet you don't seem like a jerk," Meredith said. "I suspect there's more to this story. Why did her stupidity make you so miserable?" Bart considered. It sounded like Meredith wanted to make him the good guy. But he had trouble seeing it himself. It was sad, just sad, and thinking about it made him feel tired again, as he had many times during his brief, yet painfully prolonged marriage. He tried to explain. "Well, it was her style of stupidity. She turned routine everyday matters into momentous problems. Like, she would lock her keys in the car." "Goodness, Bart. I did that one time myself. It's not that unusual." "She did it regularly. The local locksmith knew her by name. I learned how to break into cars myself." "You learned how to use a Slim Jim?" "I learned how to make a Slim Jim. I made many copies of her keys, too. She lost them. Then there were doors. She always, always had trouble opening doors. One time, I swear, I watched her push on a pull door for a full minute." "Bartholomew," Meredith said, "a gentleman might open the door for the lady." "I did eventually. And she snapped at me for it. That was another aspect of her stupidity. She wouldn't let me help. According to her, it's sexist for a man to open a door for a woman, or to do anything helpful. It's condescending. It implies the woman is too incompetent to do things for herself." "Yet, she was incompetent to do things for herself." "Yes! But she insisted on doing them anyway, and I'd end up untangling her from the barbed wire." "Barbed wire? I hope that's metaphorical." Bart shook his head sadly. "Horseback riding. She wasn't hurt. Tore up her coat pretty bad." It amazed Bart that years later, these incidents still pained him. "I always worried about her. I could never stop worrying about her." He sighed again. Then he almost laughed, remembering how often he sighed during his married days. "Did you know she was like this before you married her?" Meredith asked. "Yeah, but I thought afterwards, things would change and I could take care of her. That was my stupidity, I suppose, thinking I could change things. Naturally, she wouldn't let me. It was so frustrating! She had to try it herself, bungle it, then I'd spend ten times the effort fixing the problem. It drained all the energy out of me. I dreaded spending time with her." He shrugged, put his wineglass on a side table, put both arms around Meredith, squeezed her gently, and rested his chin on the top of her head. "So, anyway, I'm glad you're smart." "How long were you married?" "Three years." "Three years!? That's a long time to be miserable." Bart rested his cheek on her head, treasuring how soft and warm she felt in his arms, and how clean her hair smelled. "Yeah, that was my other stupidity. I denied anything was wrong for a long time. Then when I admitted to myself I was miserable, I refused to admit the source of my misery. I invented many theories to explain it. They all failed, until one day I allowed myself to imagine, just for a moment, what my life might be like without her in it. The feeling of relief was so strong and so immediate, I hated myself for thinking it. I buried it, tried to hide it. From myself, I guess. But I couldn't help thinking it again, more and more often. I hung on grimly, stubbornly, for nearly a year longer, before I said anything to her." "Did you call her stupid to her face?" "No. With the utmost tact and diplomacy, I talked only about my own unhappiness. It turned out she was miserable, too. She thought I was showing her up all the time, making her feel stupid. But I couldn't help that. And she accused me of an absolutely terrible crime, 'being Mr. Perfect.' It became apparent that she hated me. And she hated me for being smart." "Did you hate her?" Bart reflected. How had he felt? And he smiled to himself thinking how this woman, beautiful, brilliant Meredith, made him think, made him exercise his brain so often in the short time he had known her. It felt good. "No, I don't think I did hate her. I didn't love her anymore. I suspect I never really did. That's probably the saddest aspect of the whole case." After a few moments of mournful silence, he said, "Okay, your turn. What's your sad story?" "Mine is a good deal simpler and more classical. My ex-husband cheated on me." "He cheated on you?" Bart was truly astonished. What kind of moron would cheat on a woman as wonderful as Meredith? "I don't think it had anything to do with me, really," she said, as if answering his unspoken question. "I found him in bed with another woman. Our bed. I found out later, during the divorce proceedings, she was not the only one. He had been unfaithful the whole time he knew me. He loved the thrill of seduction. It was some sort of pathological obsession, apparently. That entire time, I never knew. I suppose that was my stupidity." "No, it was his. First, cheating on you at all. Secondly, thinking you wouldn't find out." Bart scowled, anger building for a man he had never met. "I'm feeling a distinct urge to find him and beat him up." Meredith laughed. "That won't be necessary. His punishment is he lost me. Don't you think that's sufficient?" "A severe sentence, indeed." Gently he asked, "Are you sure you're okay?" "No, I don't think one can ever completely get over such . . . humiliation." She was silent for a time. Bart hated that he couldn't take away her pain. What good were his muscles and his black belt against this kind of problem? Meredith clucked her tongue and said, "You want to hear the funny part?" Without waiting for an answer, she continued, "When I caught him in flagrante delicto, he said to me, 'Wait, I can explain!'" "No, he didn't," Bart scoffed. "Oh, yes, he most certainly did. I said, 'You can? Please, do enlighten me.' He sat there quite a long time, thinking hard, obviously lacking any prepared explanation. Finally, he blurted out, 'She's a model.'" "How does that explain anything?" "Well, in point of fact, it doesn't. He could conceivably justify the presence of a model in our home, since he fancied himself an artist. To my knowledge, he never sold a single artwork, but he always introduced himself as an artist, never as a purchasing agent. However, it fell far short of explaining her presence in our bed." "That he even tried is pretty funny," Bart agreed. "There's more," Meredith assured him. "When his paramour saw him trying to make up to me, she became furious with him and stormed out as well. He lost two women in less than a minute. Worst of all, worst, I say," she said, "was he put me at risk of contracting some dreadful disease. Luckily, I didn't catch anything. The scars are all emotional, not physical. I suppose I should be flattered that of all his women, he respected me enough to marry me. " Now she sighed and turned away again. "I find his behavior despicable," Bart said. He held her, trying to comfort her with his presence, and his touch. "I've seen more than a few divorce cases," he said. "Clients, friends, relatives. Every one feels like a failure. We'd like to think, if we were only clever enough, pretty enough, good enough, we could get along with anyone, even Genghis Khan. And when it turns out we couldn't get along with a reasonably normal person, we can't help feeling there's something wrong with us. Divorce is always sad. There's anger and bitterness, but there's a sense of loss, too. I guess we grieve for what we've lost, though we might never have had it in the first place." She looked up at him again with a suitably sad look on her face, and said, "Bart, do shut up." He laughed through his nose, and smiled a half-smile. Meredith made a move to put her wineglass on the table to her side of the sofa, but she couldn't quite reach. Bart held out his hand, offering to take it from her. She looked at his hand, then his face, and gave him the glass, deliberately accepting his help. The significance of this gesture was not lost on Bart. He nodded to her, made an approving expression with his lips, and set her glass next to his own. Meredith took advantage of having both arms free to slip them around Bart's waist and pressed her cheek against his chest. He put his arms back around her. They both sighed together and shared their melancholy. Bart said, "It's a strange thing that hugging should feel so good, isn't it? Why should wrapping our arms around another human being provide such comfort? Yet it does." "It's a monkey instinct, Bart," she said. "All the primates cling to each other for warmth and comfort, especially young ones to their mothers. It's programmed into us." She squeezed him more tightly and added, "But it's a lovely instinct, isn't it?" Bart smiled tenderly. Her statement struck him as oddly romantic, in a science geek sort of way. "Do we have many of these monkey instincts?" he asked. "Oodles." She nuzzled him and inhaled deeply. "I like your smell. Lavender, I think, on top of your natural manly smell." "Um, I think my soap is lavender-scented," he said uncertainly. Then he decided to play along. He put his nose in her hair and inhaled an enormous lungful of air. He couldn't resist trying to impress her with how much his chest could expand. "I like the smell of your hair, or at least your shampoo," he said. "I heard a theory, more speculation, really, that humans are not so rational as we like to think, and the sense of smell plays a large part in selection of a mate, as it does with most other animals. According to this theory, romantic attraction is literally chemistry, and we rationalize it after the fact. Anyway, perhaps it's a good sign we like each other's scent." Dubious, Bart tried to see her face, to see if that teasing, mischievous light was back in her eyes. "Do you really put any credence in this theory?" he asked. "Not much," she answered. "Though the negative side of it does make sense. That is, if two people don't care for each other's smell, one would hardly expect them to become intimate." "Good point," he said, and went back to nuzzling her hair. After another moment, she said, "Bart." "Yes, Meredith, I'm here," he said. "I don't want to feel sad any more. Tell me a happy story, a triumphant story. Tell me about one of your cases in which you were the hero, and justice was served. Surely you must have had such successes. Otherwise why would people keep hiring you?" Chapter Ten Bart thought of just the case story to tell her. "I worked a kidnapping a few years back," he said. "It was a good case. We got the kid back unhurt, nobody got killed, we caught the kidnappers, and I had a few Sherlock Holmes moments. Best of all, I got to make fun of the FBI. So anyway, this guy called me in--he was an executive at a large corporation. His son had just been kidnapped. . . ." Bart didn't really want a new case right then, he just wanted to digest his dinner (it was early evening), and tried to assure the worried father that the FBI could handle a kidnapping as well as he could. But the man was truly desperate, and furious with how little progress the Feds had made. "They're just sitting around waiting for a call. They're not doing shit!" he yelled. In the background, Bart could hear a special agent protest, "Sir, that's not true. We have a number of agents following a number of leads." The father didn't care that they overheard his complaint. He repeated it with more emphasis. "They are not doing SHIT! Look, Bart, you know me. You know my son. They took him right from in front of his school. And I heard about that case you worked on in Florida. Please, I'm begging you. Help us." It swayed Bart that he had golfed with the man, and knew the son from karate. He liked them both. The boy, about ten, was a good kid, solid student, never in trouble, levelheaded, probably keeping his cool better than his parents were. And Bart knew that the father's pride made it remarkable that he would beg for help like this. Still, Bart was lazy (so he claimed to Meredith), and tried one last thing to escape the responsibility he felt sucking him in. "You know me, too. You know what I charge. Are you sure you want to spend that much at this time?" "Well, if I need the money for ransom, can your fee be part of that? Just temporarily." "Yeah, of course, I'm not heartless. And I keep cash in my safe to help out in cases like this, too." Meredith interrupted at this point. "Bart, should you be telling me that? If word got out you keep a lot of cash here, it might tempt people to rob you." "Rob this house?" Bart threw his head back and laughed. "That would be worth a movie of the week at least. I have an elaborate security system, really beyond the pale, installed by the very best experts in the world. The last line of defense is we record the serial number of every bill. Any criminal who takes it might as well try to pass counterfeit money. Anyway, to resume: The father said, 'That's good, because they asked for 9.8 million dollars.'" "That's an odd amount," Meredith interrupted again. "Yeah, it is," Bart agreed. "In the detective business, we call that a clue." "Oh, of course. Sorry. Do continue." The father said, "They demanded payment of 9.8 million in small bills." Bart asked, "They've been in contact with you already?" "Yes, a guy on a motorcycle threw a note into the driveway. The stupid police let him get away. They didn't have anyone ready to chase him or anything." The background voice said, "We have people in position now. If he comes back, we're prepared." The father said, "They're prepared for NOTHING. Just like at that stupid school. They let the kidnappers walk up and take him, in front of a bunch of other kids. Bart--" Bart interrupted him, "Did anyone see which way the biker went?" "Not really. They talked to a few people, AFTER he got away. About all they know is he turned onto, well, your street actually, then they don't know." "Are you saying this kidnapper drove right past my house?" "Um, maybe. Hey, Special Agent, which way did that biker turn on the next street, east or west?" Voices in the background conferred. The angry father said, "Idiots! They don't want to tell you." Then he whispered, "One of the cops pointed your way, though, so I think, yeah, he must have gone right past your place. About three hours ago." "Okay, I wasn't here, so I missed seeing him. Still, it's kind of an affront. I think I'm offended." "Yeah, whatever," said the father. "Will you help?" Without further hesitation, Bart said, "Yes. What phone are you calling from? Do you need to hang up in case they call with more instructions?" "No, I borrowed a phone." "That's okay then. What did the ransom note say?" "Um, you know, standard kidnapper stuff, I guess." "I want to know exactly what it said." Bart could hear the father sigh. It sounded unsteady. He was barely holding himself together. Probably the anger was the only thing keeping him from collapse. "'If you want boy back, get $9.8 M ready. Small bills (20s). Wait for more instructions. No cops.' They cut the letters out of a newspaper, USA Today, the idiots think." The background voice said, "Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to get off the phone. The information you're giving out could compromise our investigation." The father, really furious, shouted at the special agent, "Why don't you shut the fuck up, or GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!" Bart silently applauded him for standing up to the FBI this way. While the special agent made soothing noises, Bart said, "It's okay, George." "I'm going to call him George," Bart said to Meredith. "I'll be over shortly," Bart said to George. He told Henderson what was up, then went to retrieve a few phone numbers he might need. On his way out the door, Henderson handed him a videotape. "What was on the tape?" Meredith wanted to know. Bart smiled cryptically. "I'll get to that," he promised. Bart decided against driving over. The police might give him trouble at George's gate. He walked to one of George's neighbors, hopped their fence and strolled back along the lot line. The fence gave way to a line of bushes at a certain point. Bart pushed through a thin spot. He came up to George's house from the rear, walked across his patio/barbecue area, and waved to George through the glass doors. George rushed over, opened the doors, and said, "Oh, Bart, thank God you're here. Save me from these morons." A man in a suit, the quality of tailoring proclaiming him FBI, spotted Bart, pointed, and said, "Who's that?" Other men in suits sprang up and moved toward Bart. George stood between them and Bart, facing them down and said loudly, "This is Bart Manning!" Another man in a suit, not quite as nice as the FBI suits, which meant he was a local detective, said, "Bart's a PI. The guy he called on my phone." The head FBI agent glared at the local cop, then at Bart. The local police
Go to part: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15
Copyright © 2005 T C Lambert |