You had a big day. Besides, we private investigators need to hone our listening skills.”
She laughed again. “Tell me about your day.”
I told her and she was fascinated. “What are you going to do? How do you start?”
“Ma’am,” I mimicked in my best Bogie, “I haven’t a clue.”
Early the next morning I was in the office playing PC solitaire and pondering a plan of attack. I always played solitaire when I wanted to think something out, usually something like a big stock purchase. I had done some police work for “Big Bob” Wilson, my high school buddy who now happened to be the chief of police, and some investigative work for a few lawyers in town and for an insurance company on an insurance scam. None of it would have taxed anyone with half a brain. I had never tried to find a missing person, so the solitaire had its work to do.
Meanwhile, I had a ten thousand dollar check that I wouldn’t cash until the job was done, and a half-finished second cup of coffee was cooling on my right-hand mouse pad—I had long ago trained myself to use the mouse with either hand, so I had mouse pads on both sides of my keyboard. I was playing solitaire using Vegas rules, one look at the card. Use it or lose it. I had four aces up early, caught a few breaks, and ran the deck for the entire $208. I was up $174 when I paged Roy Husky. He called minutes later.
“Cherokee Investigations,” I answered most officially.
“I have a Cherokee I need investigated,” came the reply. I didn’t know Roy had a sense of humor. I might like this guy.
“Jeep or person?” I replied.
“Funny!” he deadpanned.
“You too.”
“You paged me,” Roy said.
“Pictures?” I questioned.
“On my way with them now,” came the reply.
“Cell phone?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m in the office,” I said.
“Ten minutes,” Roy said and hung up.
I went back to solitaire and promptly ran the table and won another $208. Back-to-back wins are not uncommon even though winning once sometimes takes twenty or thirty hands. I was up $382 when Roy walked in.
“Where’s security?” Roy cracked.
“He’s over there in the corner asleep,” I said pointing at Jake, but I knew Roy was asking about Billy. “What have you got?”
“Nice dog. Take a look at these,” Roy said, handing me a stack of photos.
What Roy had was a lot of pictures of Sarah Ann Fairchild and not that many of Ronnie. Sarah Ann obviously liked the camera and Ronnie did not. The best pictures of Ronnie were the wedding pictures, but even in those he was not looking into the camera. There were only a few good candid shots of Ronnie, when he wasn’t aware of the photographer.
“Ronnie disliked cameras,” I commented.
“Evidently.”
“Thanks, I’ll get these back to you later.”
Roy nodded and left, a man of few words.
I studied the pictures and thought. If I were Joseph Fleet and had a daughter who was heir to his fortune, I would want to know everything I could about the man she was marrying. I pulled out Roy’s card and dialed his cell phone number.
“Yes sir,” Roy answered.
Either Roy had developed tremendous respect for me in a very short time or he assumed Joseph Fleet was calling. I assumed the latter.
“Relax. It’s your friendly gumshoe. Did Fleet have his son-in-law checked out when he started dating Sarah Ann?”
“Of course.”
“By who?”
“I think you mean by whom,” he said. “Some guy in Knoxville.”
“That helps a lot,” I bantered. “Find out.”
“I thought you were the private investigator.”
“Yeah, right,” I replied in my most sarcastic voice and hung up.
I went back to my game of solitaire and almost got shut out on the next deal, losing $47. By the time the phone rang again I was down to $208.
“Thomas Slack Investigations, on Gay Street in Knoxville.”
“Gay Street?”
“Knew you would like it,” Roy chuckled.
“Thanks,” I said. “And don’t let him know I’m coming. And I’ll call you if I need more smart remarks.” I hung up before he could retaliate.
The next morning, after an early workout at Moto’s, I worked my new Pathfinder LE over to I-81 and south to I-40 West and on into Knoxville. I knew the area well from having attended so many University of Tennessee football and basketball games when I was younger. I had not called ahead. If Slack had a file on Ronnie Fairchild I wanted it intact. I had no reason to believe it wouldn’t be, but why take chances?
The day was cool and overcast with battleship gray clouds that threatened rain. I was dressed to the nines in a blue pinstripe suit, white shirt, and a red-striped power tie. My trench coat lay over the passenger seat and my briefcase with laptop securely inside lay in the passenger-side floorboard. A suitcase packed for two days nestled behind the driver’s seat—I didn’t plan on spending the night but it paid to be prepared. With my radar detector on, I made Gay Street in an hour and fifteen minutes.
Thomas Slack Investigations was on the second floor of an older but well-kept office building. Why did private investigators always have offices on the second floor, I wondered—life imitating art? I opened the door and encountered a very pretty young blond receptionist. Cherokee Investigations could use one of those, I thought.
The phone rang. “Tom Slack Investigations,” said a pleasant voice. A pause and then, “I’m sorry, he’s on another line. Can I take a message? Uh-huh, uh-huh, right, okay.”
She smiled at me and started to say something and the phone rang again and the scenario repeated itself. Before she could hang up it rang again and she put the call through to someone. Then it was quiet.
“Sorry, can I help you?” she asked.
“Busy day, Emily?” I asked. I guessed her name not because I am such a crack investigator but because the nameplate on her desk read Emily Wright.
“Not
