The worst part of my job is the waiting. You have to be patient to be a detective since things cannot be rushed. Stakeouts are a classic example. Another example is waiting for somebody to come through your door to ask for your services. "Come through your door" is of course a metaphor for any manner of inquiries: website inquiries, email, text, Facebook, whatever. I was currently waiting to get a new client. I especially wanted one with the means to pay me. Money is nice, and I needed some to pay my own bills.
I have ways to keep busy while I wait. Being one of those rarities, a female detective, I had a vast supply of 'women's magazines' which I enjoyed reading during slow times. Fortunately, I'm a slow reader, too. Hell, I'm just slow at everything. I even eat slow food.
I have good hearing, and I knew someone was coming. As the steps came closer I realized they were not subtle, but the tap-tap-taps of high heels. Not too many people go to a detective's office wearing high heels. They go to the opera in high heels, to formal high society parties, maybe to work in a fashion store on Madison Avenue, or to a fancy law firm, but to a detective's office? Not so much. It probably meant the client was a certain kind of woman, the kind who simply go everywhere and do everything in high heels. Also she was probably a woman. Most of my clients were women, anyway.
For certain kinds of problems, in particular and especially, for husbands suspected of cheating, some women prefer a woman detective. Perhaps it's easier to confide in a woman when sex is part of the subject matter. Maybe they think a woman would be more likely to share their outrage over a cheating husband?
Perhaps, though it's something else. Sex is an intimate matter, and perhaps sharing one's suspicions about a cheating husband is kind of like wanting to have a woman as your gynecologist. That would explain why such a large proportion of my clients were women. The women clients however just do not typically come to my office in high heels. This woman was different. Indeed, she gave every appearance of being unique among my clients.
For beginners, she was dressed all in black. Okay, this is New York, and most women wear black. Green on St. Patrick's Day if they're young, perhaps, but the usual uniform is black. On the other hand, one's typical woman does not wear black hats, with black veils descending from the tip of the hat. This woman was in formal mourning. She even wore a black armband on her black sleeve. Only her chestnut hair and her piercing brown eyes were not black.
"Welcome to my humble office, Mrs. Eberlein," I said. It was hard not to know she was Mrs. Eberlein. Her husband had just died, and he was one of the lions of Wall Street. It was in all the papers. She ran the Eberlein Foundation, one of the city's principal charities. Photos of her were often in the papers, and she was on the local news from time to time. "May I be of service to you in some way?"
I had never before had such a wealthy and powerful client. Most of my clients were middle class women, and some men, usually with minor problems, such as cheating spouses, wanting to learn the location of a long lost romantic flame, or finding out who was committing minor vandalism in the neighborhood, that sort of thing. Clearly whatever this was going to be, it was going to be different.
"You are the Detective Ms. Atkinson?" she asked.
I realized I had not introduced myself. "Excuse my manners. Yes, yes indeed, I am Ms. June Atkinson."
"Good. I've asked around," Mrs. Eberlein said, "and you have a good reputation. You are both competent and discrete."
She asked around? Who could she have asked? None of my former clients would know someone like her, not even remotely!
As if reading my mind, Mrs. Eberlein said, "My maid servant has a friend who had the misfortune to need to avail herself of your services, I'm afraid. She said you were excellent."
"I see," I said. And I did indeed see. Now it all made sense. I decided to let Mrs. Eberlein set the agenda. She had tremendous presence and waiting for her to speak seemed to me to be the appropriate thing to do. The woman reeked of dignity. Her husband had died only a few days earlier. It was a heart attack, I think I had read in the paper. Or maybe he had died from a stroke?
Mrs. Eberlein finally broke the silence. "I need a promise of absolute secrecy on your part, at least at the beginning. If you learn the truth probably I can release you of your bond for secrecy."
"That is my policy anyway, Mrs. Eberlein. I always keep my clients' confidences. It would be foolhardy for me not to do so. It's just good business," I said.
"This particular job could put you in personal danger. Do you accept such assignments?" she asked.
I thought about all the irate husbands who at one point had threatened me. One had even threatened me at gunpoint. I had been forced to move once my address became known to some men hell bent on revenge. I felt I knew danger. However, the tone of voice Mrs. Marie-France Eberlein used, and the melodrama in her eyes, made me think she meant danger on a whole different level?
"I'll have to see what you have in mind, to be honest," I replied.
"Fair enough. Do I have your word that whatever I tell you is in confidence?" she asked.
"I'm not a lawyer. I don't have 'attorney-client privilege.' But short of that, yes, you have my total commitment to secrecy," I replied.
"I also heard that once you get going, you cannot be stopped, and you use whatever methods are required to learn the truth, short of illegality, or course. Can you confirm that?" she asked.
Wow, this woman was serious. I had never been questioned like this before. What the blazes did she have in mind? I knew though, that she was referring to the rumors that I occasionally used my sexual wiles to get the information I needed. In some circles, especially with the New York Police Department, I was known as 'The Slutty Detective.' Mrs. Eberlein had probably heard my nasty nickname.
"You can't believe everything you hear, Mrs. Eberlein. Those rumors are good for business, but I'm afraid some of them are exaggerated," I replied.
Mrs. Eberlein gave me a knowing smile. I was beginning to like her. She had charisma. "Fair enough," she said. "What are your rates?"
The woman was as rich as Croesus, I knew that, but I quoted her my regular rates; the same rates no doubt I had charged the friend of her maid servant. They had not risen in five years, I realized as I recited them.
"My goodness you are honest," she said. "For this job let's double your rates. No, wait a minute. Due to the risk let's triple them. Also, there's a large bonus for you if you solve the case completely."
It was too much money. That fact was scaring me. "Okay," I said. "You won't get a complaint from me." I wanted to ask her what she wanted me to do but I kept to my strategy of letting her set the agenda.
"Nobody knows this, not even the police," Mrs. Eberlein said, pausing for effect. It worked. I was on the edge of my chair. "My husband was murdered. I want you to find out who murdered him and why."
"Have a seat, Mrs. Eberlein. We'll need a code name. We might as well start now. Do you have a favorite woman author? Or a favorite actress?" I asked. It was all I could do to keep my voice from trembling. I was making a concerted effort to keep my cool.
Mrs. Eberlein instantly understood. She said, "Saint Anne's Church had a soup kitchen in the town where I grew up. I always admired that. How about Anne?" Mrs. Eberlein offered.
"Perfect, from now on we'll call you Anne, okay?" I said. "I'll be another saint. I always liked the town of Santa Maria, in California. How about Saint Mary for me?"
"Mary herself? I like it, pleased to meet you, Mary," Mrs. Eberlein said.
