infidelity. A wife or husband suspects their other half is sleeping with someone else. Nine times out of ten, their suspicions are well founded. It’s almost depressing how many people couldn’t stay monogamous.
Another common reason for people to hire me is to find missing kids. Normally the rebellious youths are just runaways. I find them and bring them back home. In the more serious cases where I suspect foul play, I contact the cops.
The rarest of reasons to procure my services are serious issues that the police can’t or won’t solve. While those cases were exciting, they never ended well. Something in Mrs. Clark’s voice made me think she had one of those for me.
“Our son, Dennis…” Mrs. Clark couldn’t stop herself from crying. Awkward doesn’t even begin to describe the situation. There I was, waiting for my eggs and hash browns as a stranger sobs on the other end of the line. I got impatient.
“Is missing? Dead?” I know that seems like a cold thing to say but I was running a business, not a therapy service.
“He was found dead a month ago outside of Saint Mercy.”
I knew what she meant by “Saint Mercy”. It was a hospital about fifteen miles from Stone Harbor. But I had to confirm. “The hospital?”
“Yes. He was found outside the emergency room. Doctors said he overdosed.”
“Mm hm, and what did the police say?”
“They ruled it an accident. They said…” Again more crying. “They said he must’ve been doing heroin with some friends and OD’d. His friends panicked and dropped him off at the hospital.”
“And you don’t believe that?”
“No.”
The man who was arguing with his girl in the diner got up. He passed by. I tried my best not to look or make eye contact, but those attempts were to no avail. We briefly locked eyes. There was an expression on his bearded face that made me feel guilty for eavesdropping. That guilt was short lived. They shouldn’t have aired their dirty laundry in public.
“Are you still there?” I realized I kept Mrs. Clark hanging.
“Okay, Mrs. Clark. Let me get your address and I can come down and talk to you in person.” I took out my notepad and pen.
“We live at 107 Bainbridge in Stone Harbor.”
“1-0-7. Okay, got it. I’ll be there soon.”
Mrs. Clark was surprised. “Now? You’re coming now?”
The Other Half
“So this is how the other half lives.” That is the sort of cliché that a character from the slums would say when they head into the more wealthy side of town. As much as I despise a cliché, there was something to it.
Normally, I tend to avoid driving through neighborhoods like Bainbridge. The well-manicured lawns and million dollar homes just remind me of what I will never have. They are unobtainable goals behind veneers of suburban perfection. Older I get, the more I realize that I don’t want that kind of life.
Money often goes hand-in-hand with problems. Look inside the medicine cabinets in any of the homes on the street and you’d find a virtual pharmacy. There are pills for when you’re too sad, too happy, tired, can’t sleep, anxiety and panic attacks. Men in freshly dry-cleaned suits have to take medication to keep the passion alive in their marriages. Women in mom jeans swallow a couple of units so they can force a smile for their kids.
107 Bainbridge wasn’t too hard to find. The number was painted on the curb in front and in iron digits nailed to the door. It was a nice place. There was nothing unique about it. But it was nice.
I rang the doorbell. They had a novelty ring that was a chorus of bird chirps. Behind the door I could hear someone walking down stairs. Mrs. Clark answered.
“Hi, you must be Ms. Reid?” greeted Mrs. Clark. The poor woman was a wreck. Though she clearly tried to look nice for her guest, there were signs of grief obvious to any investigative eye. Her blonde and grey hair was tied back but hadn’t been washed in days. She tried to cover up the dark circles
Another common reason for people to hire me is to find missing kids. Normally the rebellious youths are just runaways. I find them and bring them back home. In the more serious cases where I suspect foul play, I contact the cops.
The rarest of reasons to procure my services are serious issues that the police can’t or won’t solve. While those cases were exciting, they never ended well. Something in Mrs. Clark’s voice made me think she had one of those for me.
“Our son, Dennis…” Mrs. Clark couldn’t stop herself from crying. Awkward doesn’t even begin to describe the situation. There I was, waiting for my eggs and hash browns as a stranger sobs on the other end of the line. I got impatient.
“Is missing? Dead?” I know that seems like a cold thing to say but I was running a business, not a therapy service.
“He was found dead a month ago outside of Saint Mercy.”
I knew what she meant by “Saint Mercy”. It was a hospital about fifteen miles from Stone Harbor. But I had to confirm. “The hospital?”
“Yes. He was found outside the emergency room. Doctors said he overdosed.”
“Mm hm, and what did the police say?”
“They ruled it an accident. They said…” Again more crying. “They said he must’ve been doing heroin with some friends and OD’d. His friends panicked and dropped him off at the hospital.”
“And you don’t believe that?”
“No.”
The man who was arguing with his girl in the diner got up. He passed by. I tried my best not to look or make eye contact, but those attempts were to no avail. We briefly locked eyes. There was an expression on his bearded face that made me feel guilty for eavesdropping. That guilt was short lived. They shouldn’t have aired their dirty laundry in public.
“Are you still there?” I realized I kept Mrs. Clark hanging.
“Okay, Mrs. Clark. Let me get your address and I can come down and talk to you in person.” I took out my notepad and pen.
“We live at 107 Bainbridge in Stone Harbor.”
“1-0-7. Okay, got it. I’ll be there soon.”
Mrs. Clark was surprised. “Now? You’re coming now?”
The Other Half
“So this is how the other half lives.” That is the sort of cliché that a character from the slums would say when they head into the more wealthy side of town. As much as I despise a cliché, there was something to it.
Normally, I tend to avoid driving through neighborhoods like Bainbridge. The well-manicured lawns and million dollar homes just remind me of what I will never have. They are unobtainable goals behind veneers of suburban perfection. Older I get, the more I realize that I don’t want that kind of life.
Money often goes hand-in-hand with problems. Look inside the medicine cabinets in any of the homes on the street and you’d find a virtual pharmacy. There are pills for when you’re too sad, too happy, tired, can’t sleep, anxiety and panic attacks. Men in freshly dry-cleaned suits have to take medication to keep the passion alive in their marriages. Women in mom jeans swallow a couple of units so they can force a smile for their kids.
107 Bainbridge wasn’t too hard to find. The number was painted on the curb in front and in iron digits nailed to the door. It was a nice place. There was nothing unique about it. But it was nice.
I rang the doorbell. They had a novelty ring that was a chorus of bird chirps. Behind the door I could hear someone walking down stairs. Mrs. Clark answered.
“Hi, you must be Ms. Reid?” greeted Mrs. Clark. The poor woman was a wreck. Though she clearly tried to look nice for her guest, there were signs of grief obvious to any investigative eye. Her blonde and grey hair was tied back but hadn’t been washed in days. She tried to cover up the dark circles
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