Susan Fitzgerald Singleton found herself in an uncomfortable situation. She had never envisioned seeking the services of a private investigator, but she was told that Hartman and Hartman were the best. They came highly recommended by her sister Mary, a prominent New York attorney. Susan suspected that Mary was using the PI firm to keep track of her wayward husband.
Mary told Susan not to be misled by the firm name; there was only one Hartman.
"Theresa Hartman's the least conspicuous person you will ever meet, but there is no better investigator in the business," Mary told Susan.
Mary did not steer Susan wrong. The woman across an over large desk from Susan was small by any standards, perhaps five feet, but she was looking Susan's five-foot-ten inches dead in the eyes because the desk chair was tooled up to its maximum extension with Hartman's stiletto-heeled feet dangling above the floor.
"How can I help you, Ms. Singleton," Theresa asked.
"My sister assures me that you are an investigator who can conduct their work without being noticed."
"My staff and I are very discrete."
"My husband is a lawyer, and more than that, he is a very astute and observant man. The worst thing would be for him to discover that I was having him followed."
"I can give no guarantees, but we are extremely careful. However, to an extent, it depends on what you are seeking?"
"I believe he is having an affair. I need confirmation of that and, if possible, how serious the situation is."
Theresa Hartman seemed to contemplate the request. She was a cool woman who appeared to be in her fifties. Her dark hair was streaked with gray, and she looked to be the last person you would suspect of being a detective.
"What you ask, in regard to your husband, is not difficult. As to determining how serious the parties are, in my experience, that depends on the woman more than the man. Is she seeking a permanent relationship or not? Accordingly, we will need to investigate her as well."
No mention had been made of money, and Theresa knowing the woman's sister had the feeling that it was of little consequence. Still, she said, "You may incur considerable expense."
"No matter, my husband is worth whatever the cost. I'm not going to lose him to save some money," Susan replied.
Theresa could only smile at how similar the Singleton sisters were. Mary might be a dozen years older than Susan, but neither woman would give up her man without one hell of a fight.
"Very well, I will get right on it," Theresa said.
"Don't you need anything from me, a picture, addresses...anything."
"If you have them, it will be helpful, of course, but let me assure you, I'm not so ill-informed as to be unaware of who Steven Fitzgerald is. By the end of this day, I will know where he is and who he is with."
****
"Just what is it, you are proposing and when will you sue?" said the angry middle-aged man in the second row. It was a predominantly white crowd but evenly mixed between the sexes. Steven got the distinct feeling that most of the women present where there as supporters and not victims. The group had filled the small ballroom of what was a former Holiday Inn. The name had changed to Boulevard Inn with the loss of the franchise. Perhaps two hundred people had shown up to take part in what had been billed as a strategy meeting with the new counsel.
The meeting began with introductions mainly presenting Steven Fitzgerald as a lawyer and a former victim of abuse. If they expected him to recount a tale of sexual assault, they didn't get it. Instead, he laid out what they could expect. It was clearly not what the crowd wanted to hear.
"I'm proposing to investigate nothing more, and as for suing that is a bridge we cannot cross until we have arrived with a cartload of evidence. Right now, all you have is a theory and no way to prove it."
There was a chorus of "What about the file."
"What file? Your only evidence is a statement from a dying man. That's not proof," Steven said, and he intended to say no more for he was sure that the audience was laced with spies, and in this, he was correct. Putting aside Theresa Hartman, who had relieved one of her better operatives moments before, and Tara O'Reilly, who had infiltrated the group, there were spies for the diocese, The Vatican ambassador, and several concerned politicians.
A public meeting was no place to discuss what Steven had already discovered. The file had the damning evidence, the diocese had lost control of it, and James O'Reilly was already at least a step ahead of him on the hunt for it. Steven was playing a game of deception now and praying at least some of the spies in the audience would be fooled.
"All right lawyer what do you propose," said a sixtyish woman who seemed to have significant influence over the crowd because as she rose to speak the disgruntled noise from the audience ceased. Steven stood up straight and turned his piercing blue eyes on her.
"I believe if there existed a file it could contain nothing that could not be reproduced. Therefore, I propose to search for the evidence of the conspiracy you suggest in the public record. If it is there, I will find it. After all, I'm in a far better position to know where to look. It's my story. It happened to me. I know what, when, where—And I'm pretty sure who."
The woman sat down the crowd settled with her, and Jason Applewood took over the meeting which ended with an agreement to put off further discussion until next month's meeting.
As the meeting broke up the older woman, who had spoken introduced herself to Steven.
"I'm Silva Keenan. My son Jeff killed himself three years ago. He led a troubled life. After his death, I discovered that he had been the subject of sexual abuse for six years as a child from two different priests.
"When I went looking for justice, I found that in this state, none existed for victims. That's when I helped found this group. I just wanted to thank you for coming and for caring enough to lie about what you are really planning," Silvia said.
