Crime Takes No Holiday: A Detective Story Novella

  Crime Takes No Holiday

  A Detective Novella

  by Thomas Harvard Lewis

  PART ONE

  Wait: Those Sounds Were Coming From Me

  Thanksgiving. Again.

  It used to be my favorite holiday. It represents bounty. Family. Safety. Security. Optimism. Good will. Not to mention, it’s usually accompanied by a wonderful family meal. If you have all of those things, Thanksgiving Day can be a really nice holiday, because it reminds you of what you have. Of what to be thankful for.

  But if you no longer have those things, or never have, it’s simply a rude reminder that you don’t. Constantly so, during the actual holiday itself. It can be a cruel, mocking joke. No wonder some of us are so blue at holiday time.

  I grew to hate Thanksgiving Day. Unequivocally. I abhorred it. The world it used to represent for me had unraveled too many times for me to still believe in any of those things. Nothing good has ever happened on a Thanksgiving. At least not to me.

  I lost a lot of good buddies on a Thanksgiving in Algiers a few years ago. Nearly lost a leg myself that same day. I got sandbagged pretty good on another Thanksgiving just a couple years ago, which is why I’m now a ‘private’ detective.

  Thanks, FDR, for helping turn it into a shopping obscenity. Great idea. Lincoln’s likely spinning in his grave. Maybe now Truman can repeal the whole damned thing for us.

  Plus, the weather this time of year’s usually lousy in much of the country. Not usually here in southern California, but clearly so this year. In the late forties, air conditioning’s not exactly ubiquitous here in the valley. And it can still be uncomfortably warm even in November, except for today, when there are rare gray skies and occasional raindrops hitting the glass. Perfect. It matches my gray mood.

  As you might have guessed, I’m having difficulty coping on this not-particularly-welcome holiday, sitting here grumbling at multiple U.S. presidents. The one thing I do have, or think I have, and cherish, is Parker. Her being here would be something to give thanks for.

  But things with us have been somewhat strained lately, we’d had a bit of a row, and she’d left earlier in the week to go back east to visit her family for the holidays, in truth, taking a time out from us. So, sadly, I don’t have her either, at least not for the moment.

  This year it’s not so much Thanksgiving. Parker and I failing to launch is the real seat of my grumbling, and I miss her terribly. I can’t be sure if she’s ever coming back to LA.

  Unmarrieds cohabiting isn’t a common lifestyle quite yet, even here in California, and navigating this dynamic is new and different. A bit challenging. Her Indiana family likely wouldn’t approve.

  I’d like to imagine that she’ll always love me, but my wishes might not be enough to keep us together. I do truly love her, but I either can’t convince her of this, or I simply am just not equipped to show it.

  I must fix this. If I don’t, she’ll leave for good, and her ‘visiting the folks’ is currently a definite existential threat. Failure is not an option here.

  Hanging around the bat cave was only making things worse, with Parker not there. Instead of at home upstairs, I’ve slipped one floor down to the second floor, now in my modest ‘John Daniel Investigations’ office sitting in my squeaky swivel office chair, spun around looking out a giant picture window.

  This is where I feel most comfortable lately, even when wallowing in my woes. And this is where I keep the Scotch. I’d bought myself a couple of drinks this morning; it wasn’t even ten yet. They haven’t helped.

  I love this giant chair, this gigantic two-ton desk, and in particular this giant window with the sunburst window above it, with a touch of Frank Lloyd Wright stained glass inspiration, as it rightly fits the architecture of the second floor of a 1930’s-era converted LA storefront. The window faces north, so I never get hot sun streaming in, but I always have great soft light.

  But this isn’t downtown LA so much, we’re in fact located about half a mile up from Sunset in the foothills of Hollywoodland, er, Hollywood … hard to get used to the name change.

  Or maybe it was always so. That name, and originally the big blinking sign on top of Mount Lee, both really only reference a giant 1923 housing development in the Hollywood Hills, but the city’d just taken the ‘land’ part off of the big sign the other day, which I watched happen through this very window, a view that might explain why our rent’s so high. No clients last week. Rent is still due.

  That big sign was born around the same time I was, and now it’s changed significantly. I might have to change, too.

  Not comfortable, I loosened my tie even further. A tie. Why am I even wearing … it’s a damned holiday. The office is closed. Ridiculous, I thought, as I tore at the tie.

  And I’m concerned with how long I can continue to pay the high rent on our office on two and modest apartment on three. I chose the location hoping it would bring in well-heeled clientele, but there’ve been no clients for two weeks. OK, three.

  My family’s loaded, but I struck out on my own, and going hat-in-hand to them’s the last thing I would ever do. I’d starve first. I have to make my own mark. I’ve been about ready to go back to some night watchman shifts, but this would only strain my relationship with Parker even more.

  At least Parker has a steady, if meager, income, but unfortunately this is due to her position as Office Manager and Receptionist for John Daniel Investigations, which makes me, John ‘Jack’ Daniel, her employer, the one who has to cut her checks. So it’s sort of like income that’s really outgo for our little team of two. I don’t want her to feel a need to go back to clerking for the LAPD. And if Parker ever comes back to me, there’ll have to be better reasons than there are now.

  As a private dick, a title with a growing double-entendre meaning for me, I’ve begun to have to take some of the more seedy assignments just to make ends meet. You know, hiding in the bushes snapping pics of illicit affairs for spouses to use as ammo in divorce cases, this sort of wonderful stuff.

  My choice to become a hired peeper was a romantic idea. Something jazzes me about the concept. The truth is, it’s not romantic at all. Not as exciting as I’d hoped. I’ve never had the chance to draw my weapon, no clandestine meetings under a gloomy streetlamp, evil geniuses have never needed to be brought to justice by me, no car chases, no mysteries. No leggy femme fatale has ever breezed into my inner office. I’m still waiting for that one.

  So here I sit, spending the holiday sulking behind my giant desk, unsure about the future, still swearing at U.S. presidents, turned to the giant window with feet propped up, and nursing a string of scotch and waters (with a name like mine, this was inevitable). Not a turkey in sight. I closed my eyes, trying to blot it all out, listening to the rain hit the glass.

  Between the clicks of raindrops, I could still make out the seconds ticking by on the wall clock. I wanted this horrible holiday to be over. Then, a new sound. About ten, an unexpected visitor was clomping up the stairs.

  Oh, hold on, this sounds like Parker’s clomp! Has she … no, the gait was different, and Parker would only use the private entrance. I‘d forgotten to lock the street-front door to John Daniel Investigations, apparently. And yeah, OK, I had them paint the stylized eyeball on the pebbled glass. It’s a stupid cliche, I know. Think I saw it in a Bogart movie. Subtle, huh?

  “Is anyone here?” A young, female voice, sounding like just a kid.

  “Sorry, we’re closed. It’s a holiday,” I bellowed from the far office without turning from the window or opening my eyes.

  With my lovely Office Manager/Receptionist/gatekeeper to my inner sanctum out
for the week, or longer, my visitor, rather than heeding my warning, clomped her way right in. Persistent.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Daniel?” accompanied by light knocking on my inner office door, which like the outer door, I’d left well ajar.

  Sigh. “At your cervix,” I replied sarcastically as I wheeled around in my big chair, a bit unsteady from the scotch.

  Whoa. The next thing out of my mouth was not a word, but a sound, sort of a ‘buhff’, which was an involuntary reaction to how exceptionally attractive my little visitor turned out to be. She’d likely heard this sound before. A lot. Apparently, John Daniel Investigations was not closed for the holiday, after all.

  Don’t get me wrong, Parker and I have a great monogamous thing going, I hope, but there are rare moments such as this when I re-evaluate the wisdom of monogamy. Just for a second or two. I’d never act on it, though. Not ever. And Parker ain’t exactly a fishwife, her damn self. Far from it.

  My visitor couldn’t have topped 95 pounds dripping wet, maybe about twenty-three, and just over five feet. Slight but sturdy, she was sporting a blonde ‘ponytail’, which is some brand-new hairstyle starting to appear in LA among hip young college crowd types, so new it hasn’t even been given this name yet.

  For girls with nice hair, it looks pretty great. Accentuates the hairline. Parker should try this ‘ponytail’ thing. Probably will get pretty popular someday. I just hope all those long-haired hipsters hangin’ around the neighborhood never start wearing them. That would be just awful.

  But boy, do I like travel size, especially when they have the face of an angel. There’s a strong case to be made for compactness coupled with cuteness, which are also two wonderful things about uhhh … Parker, whose name I was having trouble remembering at the moment for some reason.

  My guest was dressed like a coed, could be one. Maybe a bit older. Not a gram of fat on her. It wouldn’t surprise me if ‘slim’ as a body style became exceptionally popular at some point. Even felled by astonishing beauty, an investigator’s basic nature is to investigate. It’s a reflex. And I was surely doing what comes naturally.

  Since I’d failed to move the conversation along for many seconds now, she took charge as she floated a step or two closer. Even the shadow she threw was interesting.

  “I need to hire an investigator,” all business.

  Well, that was pretty precious.

  Now that my systems had returned partly to normal, I actually began moving again and tried all at once to attempt to become professional, as well as taller and better looking, while I moved the fifth of Cutty out of sight into a drawer and straightened the tie. Simultaneously, I found myself rising and gesturing to a chair.

  “Come in. Please. Have a seat. My friends call me Jack.”

  Who was I kidding? Do I have real friends anymore? I’m not sure what all the throat clearing was about as I reassumed my position behind the giant desk.

  Wait: those sounds were coming from me. My visitor floated further in and placed her little bottom precisely in the chair.

  “So tell me why you’re here today.”

  Good. That sounded professional.

  “Smoke?” I offered.

  That didn’t. She declined.

  “You mind?”

  She wagged her head a little. I shook a Lucky loose, I’m guessing my fourth of the morning. I struck the match with my thumbnail. That trick always impresses ‘em. Except not today.

  “I’m worried about my roommate, Elle, Mr. Daniel.”

  “Jack, please,” blowing a cloud at the ceiling as I regarded her.

  “She didn’t come home last night, and this is not at all like her. I’m worried something might have happened to her.”

  My visitor appeared a bit agitated.

  “OK, we’ll find her.”

  “I called the police, but they …”

  “Yes, they like to wait until the trail runs cold. Let’s start at the beginning.”

  I was about to suggest she take a deep breath when she did exactly this all on her own and settled a bit.

  Hmm. Seems like a smart girl. Speaks the King’s English, carries herself pretty well. Damned fine little ankles poking out of those Capri pants. I have a thing for dainty, in case you hadn’t noticed. Her peep-toe espadrilles were making me smile. Parker has a pair just like them.

  I moved out from behind the desk and sat in a chair next to her to hear her story. It seems ‘Elle’ had a lunch date Wednesday with someone my visitor, who’s named Katherine Wellesley, by the way, had not yet met, so she could tell me nothing other than the two of them are students at UCLA out in Westwood.

  Wednesday was the last day before holiday break, and there were a lot of parties and goings-on last night among the University set. As popular as she surely must be, Katherine did not attend, and stayed home last night, anxiously concerned about her roommate.

  The girls split a duplex apartment off of Wilshire, directly adjacent to UCLA, and are lifelong friends from Indiana, the same place Parker’s from and is visiting at the moment.

  Both are grad students. Elle, working on some sort of whiz-bang English Lit degree, and Kate pursuing a doctoral program at the College of Engineering. I know, unusual and impressive for a female in 1949. But Kate seems like a pretty formidable person, with sort of a force-of-nature personality.

  Both girls date off and on, she offered. Neither has a steady or current boyfriend, and neither are party girls. Too young for a disgraced former homicide detective, I assume. Both are serious students.

  “Is there anyone you can think of who might wish her harm?”

  “No. She gets along with everyone. Well, she has been bothered lately by this student advisor who’s been after her to go out with him.”

  “Do you know this person?”

  “No. She says he calls himself ‘Randy’, I think. Says he’s sort of creepy.”

  “We’ll look into him first.”

  Digging in her handbag,

  “I have some photos,” then handing me a Kodak envelope. “I need to call her parents.”

  “Let’s hold off on that for right now” I suggested gently, perusing the photos.

  Elle appeared to also be quite a little sweetie. A different type than Kate, but able to hold her own, evidently. Also a natural blonde, also with the new ‘ponytail’ style, these two perhaps could easily wear each others’ clothes, even be mistaken for each other at fifty paces or so.

  I was drifting … I saw a slow-motion pillow fight in my head for a sec … OK, back to reality. The Scotch was likely bringing out my baser instincts.

  Ahem! “So, did you file a report with them? The police?”

  She shook her head. For whatever reason, I was now second-sensing a number of other interesting layers beneath the surface beauty. Her concern seemed quite genuine, and she needed my help. My heart went out to her a bit.

  I stubbed out the Lucky, placed my hands on the armrests, and looked right at her, both of us holding our gaze for a second.

  “You and I will find your friend. You can trust me on this. I can help you find her. We will.”

  She nodded quickly.

  “Thank you, Mr. Daniel.”

  “Call me Jack, please. My name’s Jack. We’re partners now in this. Finding Elle is my only job now.”

  There was a slight smile as I saw some of the tension melt away. Of course, I had no idea if I could find her friend or really help. But she needed to know, right then, that I would try my best. That someone would be there for her.

  “Alright. First, we should file a missing person’s report, which they will not act on for twenty-four hours. I also need you to tell me every detail you can think of that might lead to finding Elle. You’ve done the right thing coming to us, Miss Wellesley,” again, trying to sound professional.

  “It’s Kate, if you don’t mind.”

  “I certainly do not mind,” rising from the chair.

  Might have damaged my professional demeanor slightly when I stumble
d slightly getting back behind my desk. Must be the scotch. I have the giant desk on a three-inch platform, so I can maintain the dominant position in the room. Judges do it, so can I.

  Maybe I’d had a bit too much Scotch a bit too early. But, wow! I’d always had that fantasy of a femme fatale walking into my private eye office. This was sort of close, but I immediately felt more protective than anything else. And, come on, Parker’s the light of my life, the most wonderful girl there ever was.