The Burning Day Read Free

seven-year-old who wasn’t applying himself to his math homework. “No, not on three consecutive days, Mr. Longville. Let me be clear. Rather, I would like you to keep tabs on Mary on three specific days. You see, after I became curious about some of the time that she was spending away from home, Mary and I had a little row. Nothing major; we have always had good communication in our marriage, so afterward we had a long talk.” He looked at his fingernails, frowned, and went on.  
    “Mary agreed to let me know ahead of time when she was going to be away when I came home. I’m no fool. I knew that if she was seeing someone else, she would have to come up with a plausible explanation for any subsequent visits. Now, she has given me three dates when she is supposedly going out of town. I want you to follow her on those three days, and report to me where she goes . . . and who she sees, if anyone.”
    “Well, I understand. Mr. Wiggins. I have to ask . . . do you want pictures of these meetings?”
    The little man seemed very taken aback. “Pictures? Nothing untoward—I mean, nothing of too graphic a nature is required. I would like photos of her talking with . . . anyone of interest.”
    “By ‘nothing graphic,’ Mr. Wiggins, I take it that you aren’t looking to begin divorce proceedings? Because usually that’s what’s called for in those instances. People want pictures or movies of their spouses engaged in consensual sex with other people. It’s an unpleasant part of this business. It’s why some people call private eyes ‘peepers.’ Most times, a guy in your position wants pictures of his wife and ‘persons of interest’ caught in the act, on film or digital camera.”
    Wiggins looked thunderstruck at the suggestion. “No, heavens, no. I’m not bitter toward Mary. They’ll be no kicking open doors and snapping pictures. I want to work this out with her, Mr. Longville. Anyone can go astray, and I know I’ve left my wife alone and lonely far too many times. She’s my soul mate, Mr. Longville; I love her very much. But I can’t confront her, or facilitate any sort of interaction about something like this without some sort of proof, since she is being evasive.”
    Wiggins, it seemed, had a far more forgiving nature than other spouses who had come to my office with similar suspicions. “That’s clear enough. Okay, Mr. Wiggins, I’ll need those dates from you. I’ll also need your address, and so on.”
    “Of course. But I need to make one thing absolutely clear. All of our dealings need to be here, in your office. Don’t come to my home. I don’t want anyone to get the least intuition regarding what’s going on. Every housewife in the neighborhood knows Mary, and the first thing they’d do is tell her. So I just can’t risk you coming by. Is that acceptable?”
    “No visits at your home. Got it. Fine with me.”  
    “Excellent, then. You’ll also need Mary’s work address. I’d like you to begin your surveillance of her from there.”
    “Work? What kind of work does she do?”
    “Well, it’s not a paid position. She volunteers at a local hospice. She says it gives her purpose. I suspect that means it gets her out of the house.”
    “I understand. And the three days in question?”  
    “The dates are, quite simply, the next three Friday evenings. It’s tax season and I will be in the office on each of those nights until late. There’s no way around that. It’s simply part of my job. Mary has told me that since I won’t be available, she’s going to visit friends on those nights, people from college who she hasn’t seen in several years. I merely want you to follow her from our home.” Wiggins pushed an index card toward me with an address and two telephone numbers written on it in calm, square handwriting, “Keep a log of where she goes, and do remember to take photos of her and any individuals who seem . . . pertinent.”
    I was already nodding, glad that Wiggins had come