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It's an Old Story By ABC de F Chapter One She came into the office like a lynx in heat, all long legs and tight little tail, moving with the sure-footed grace of a wary but confident cat on the hunt. I could almost smell the fact that she was high in the breeding cycle, but her eyes told me so, just in case I missed it. Not that a dame like her was looking to reproduce. But she sure looked ready for the motions. "Are you Mr. Tarlow?" She had that deep, sultry Bacall kind of voice that usually knocked me off my feet. "Samuel Tarlow," I said, rising from my comfortable old wooden swivel chair. I held out my hand. I always like to touch a person I'm talking to. It hasn't told me anything important yet, but you never know. She took my hand. Hers was soft, but her shake was confident. "Have a seat, Miss...." "Mrs.," she said. "Mrs. Maria Margulis." She gave me the spelling. "Have a seat, Mrs. Margulis." She took her time about it. Her eyes surveyed the room first, and I got the eerie feeling that they were penetrating enough to read the files in the second hand cabinets I had against the wall. While she was checking out the office I was checking her out. She was tall, probably five-ten or eleven in low heels, but she didn't hunch the way some tall girls do. There was something vaguely athletic in the way she stood and the way she moved her slim body. It was all tight and firm, but the movements were loose and cool. I know a little about clothes - in this business you get to know a little about a lot of things - and I know rich when I see it. The coat she was removing was simple but expensive, and the perfect weight for a surprisingly mild day in March. There had been snow flurries three days ago and today it was going to hit seventy degrees. She removed the coat with a minimum of fuss and lots of subtle twisting. I kinda liked it. Underneath, the outfit was more like Spring. Rich and tasteful. Short, white pleated skirt, solid red blouse, and a white linen bolero jacket that probably wouldn't have weighed two ounces on a rainy day in the Poconos. She caught me looking at her body and I think I saw her smile. Maybe not. She seemed to be the type that kept things to herself, and that could be a problem. A client that doesn't tell you all the truth is the most dangerous kind of client. Sometimes it didn't matter, but sometimes it did. She was done examining my office and turned to me. "Stereotypical, isn't it?" she said as she sat. "The computer's out of place, but I half expect you to put on a snap-brimmed hat and dangle a lit cigarette out of your mouth." "Yeah," I agreed. "Seems to work." "For your customers, or for you?" she said, and again I saw what might have been a faint smile. Again, I wasn't sure. "Both," I said, "and I call them clients." "Of course you do," she said. I didn't say anything. I didn't like the cat and mouse bit so right off the bat. It was cute, and had the potential for getting cuter, but it didn't create the kind of relationship that made a job any easier. I may have been jumping the gun, and as much as I disliked the idea I began thinking that I might have to pass on this one. Business had been slow and there wasn't much I could do about it. The only reason I started the agency was to make life more interesting, and slow business meant that nothing interesting happened. The cash flow from my commercial real estate was solid, steady and dull. When I hit on the idea of becoming a private eye I figured it as a hobby. Talking with people in commercial property you're only talking about money. They want to pay less and you want to charge more; that's the entire relationship, no matter what kind of dressing you douse it with. Snooping on people, and maybe solving a problem or two, got me back in touch with real people. People with problems, of course, but who doesn't fit that bill. Getting a license had been a stumbling block. All the Eyes in the state, it turned out, had been cops at one time or another. If you weren't an ex-cop you had to get recommendations from two active law enforcement types, one of whom had to be a Detective or above. Fortunately I employed cops as part-time security for some of my buildings and I played golf with people who played golf with the D.A. They introduced me and that was close enough because he put in a word and I got the okay for the license. A lawyer friend in my regular foursome sent me clients, and lawyer friends of his started doing the same thing, but it was sporadic. I had wasted money with a big ad in the Yellow Pages the first year. It brought nothing but requests for security work and one missing persons search. Still, sometimes something unusual would fall in my lap. This one had come from the lawyer friend, a guy my age named Sheldon Green. Shelly had sent me clients before and all of them had panned out okay, so I had no reason to doubt him on this one. Still, it didn't feel quite right. The married lady was playing games. With someone else I would have chalked it up to nervousness at being in an unusual situation, but Mrs. Margulis was hardly a waif in the big city. She seemed to be done examining the room - and me - so I asked her how I could help her. "I'd like you to follow my husband Jason," she said. I waited. So did she. "Why?" I finally said. "Because something's wrong and I don't know what it is," she said. "You have a feeling?" "Yes," she said. "Jason and I have been married just over five years and we virtually lived together for six months before that. You get to know a person. You say A and you expect to hear B or C or D. Not R. Not that there's anything wrong with R as an answer; you just don't expect to hear it. Do you understand what I mean?" "The big things are still right," I said, "but some of the little things have gone askew." "That's it, exactly," she said. "The big things are okay." "Do you think he's having trouble at work that he doesn't want to tell you about?" You'd have thought I'd told a cute little joke. She grinned, and it was a gorgeous thing to see. "You don't know who my husband is?" "No." "MarCo Mining? DM Holding Company?" I shrugged. "Oh wait a minute. The guy killed in a private plane crash in....Indiana?" "Indiana," she agreed. "Jason's father, David Margulis. Jason is the heir." I didn't remember how many zeroes were involved but recalled that it was enough money to wipe out the National Debt, or even buy a one-room apartment in Tokyo. "The family lives here," she said, "and his father was flying out to the company mines in the West. Montana, I think. There are mines in five western states. I hardly knew Jason's father. Except for the wedding I don't think I met him three times. He wasn't close to anyone, not even Jason. His life was all business and he didn't care for people." "Your husband may have found something irregular," I said. "Men like his father, one-man shows in business, tend to play close to the edge. They take big risks, push the envelope of the law, ignore State and Federal regulations meant for lesser men. Your husband might not want to tell you about the problem until he solves it. A guy thing," I suggested. She shook her head. "Jason's father was so by-the-book..." she said. "It drove my husband nuts." "No money problems, then?" "No," she said confidently. "How well have you two been getting along?" I asked. It was a delicate question for some people, but she was ready for it. "We've been married five years and one month," she said. "First marriage for both of us. Jason just turned thirty, five years older than I am. No children. We're happy. The first blush of being newlyweds has worn off, of course, but we're still in love with each other. Our marriage is working. He's committed to it, as am I - and that's why I want to find out what's wrong." That was a little too pat for me to be comfortable with, but I didn't know enough to decide whether it was a lie or simply something she'd rehearsed in her mind before our appointment. Some people are organized. So I've heard, anyway. I went through a list of things I needed to ask, just to see what she'd say. Aside from the fact that her husband hadn't been sleeping well in the last couple weeks I didn't learn anything. If he was a man with something on his mind she didn't have a clue as to what it was - or if she did, she wasn't telling me. We settled the money part and she voiced no objections to my daily rate or the little speech I give about how high and unexpected the expenses could be. She brought out a tooled leather check book case and filled in the amount of my retainer. The rest of it had been pre-written. I was impressed with her efficiency. Mrs. Margulis gave me a packet of materials: a picture of her husband; a list noting his height, weight, hair and eye color, and clothing and shoe sizes; names, addresses and phone numbers of friends, family and business associates; and the addresses of his office, country club, doctor, barber - or, rather, "men's hair stylist", and home, along with the days and hours he was most likely to be at each location. I wanted to hire her as my secretary on the spot. I somehow didn't think she'd be interested, though. "Of course, I don't want our friends or his business associates brought into this," she said. "It's private. Very. But I thought you should have the names in case they came up." "That makes it difficult," I said. "If I can't ask questions, I can't get answers." "Shelly said you were the best," she said. "You'll work it out." I held one photo away from the rest of the papers and looked it over. Jason Margulis was a neat, trim, attractive sort of guy, prematurely balding but keeping his hair short anyway. "He jokes that he's only thirty years old and already looks like his father," she said. "He's very self-conscious about his hair loss." I'm thirty-four and my hair is very fine and I wear it long. I try to tell myself it wasn't to compensate. I don't believe me. "Trim," I said about the man in he picture. "A jogger?" Joggers were notoriously tough to tail. They can meet someone with a car, or catch a cab anywhere along the way, and be gone in a second while you stand there like a putz and watch them drive away. And they think they have something in common with you just because you're jogging a hundred yards behind them, so they notice you. "Swimming and lacrosse," she said. "He played in school, and they have a club now. Until this year, anyway." "Oh?" "You're right. I didn't think of that," she said. "He decided not to play this season, but that was six or seven months ago. It wasn't a surprising decision at the time, but now... Well, I don't know if that means anything or not." "But it is a change in his pattern?" "I suppose it is," she said. "Not surprising at the time, though." "And he just turned thirty? Could all these little things you mention be an adjustment to being thirtysomething now?" She snorted, but in a very proper, ladylike way. "I don't think he could care less about age," she said. "If anything I'd say he liked it because it's a little difficult being taken seriously when you're in your twenties." "What does he drive?" I asked. "Damn," she said. " How can you follow someone if you don't know what they're driving? I tried to anticipate what you'd need, and didn't think of the most obvious thing." "Purloined Letter," I said. "No one notices the obvious." She nodded to herself. "We were taught Annabelle Lee and The Raven in High School, and I could never get them out of my mind. So simple but so ... haunting, I guess." "Poe invented the first Private Investigator, or so they say," I told her. "So you have an interest in him," she said, and smiled. This time I was sure it was a smile, and it was a doozy at that. "I wonder if his friends called him Eddie?" I laughed. "I can't imagine it, but maybe so." "When I was little my Mother told me never to be intimidated by people," she said. "We had a lot of important people visiting us - visiting my father, really - and she told me to just talk to them like I did the other kids. So Senator So-and-So would be Billy to me. They thought it was cute. They still do." We were smiling at each other. She abruptly stood up. "Well," she said. She told me her husband might be driving either one of two vehicles, told me what hours I could contact her (mornings, when her husband was at the office), and held her hand out. I took it and said I'd be in touch. ***************** Jason Margulis was a snap to follow. He stayed put in his office all morning, at least as far as I could tell. The parking lot only exited to the street where I was parked, but the building had a back exit and he could have slipped out, walked across a field, met someone on the next street over, gone and done a dirty deed, and returned without my knowing it. I would have had to call in someone from another agency to cover the building properly, and I didn't think the case warranted that, at least not yet. That day he drove the Ferrari-red SUV, and when he left for lunch I could have tailed him with one eye closed. My private eye, of course. Margulis seemed to be well respected. For a guy in such good shape and so light on his feet he didn't do much moving, and when he did it was almost lethargic. Others came to him. They talked more than he did, but he still seemed to be the one in control. He had lunch with three other suits, and all three of them talked to him, rather than among themselves. He only spent half an hour in the office after lunch, and then I tailed him home. Mrs. Margulis' Jag was in the driveway and I decided to let her keep an eye on her husband for a while. There was a new restaurant less than a mile away that I'd heard served great Finnish food. Not that I knew great Finnish food from bad Finnish food, but I was willing to learn. I like new experiences. I swung back by the Margulis house after eating. (I had learned it was a long way from Finnish Fish to the friendly flounder at Fred's Fry House down on the river). The couple had three vehicles, a "His" - the SUV, a "Hers" - the Jag, and a spare - an ugly Beemer that had the arrogance to be painted BRG. All three were still there. Their house, and all the rest on the street, were upper-crust. In today's world wealth buys quiet and space, just like it always has. One of the city's finest "Not a lot of crime happens here, but rich people live here so we'll allocate a lot of manpower to patrolling it" types would happen by before long. Since I didn't have any soothing answers for him, parking and watching was not a real option. Cruising by every couple of hours didn't sound very productive either. So I went home. Home is the only house I've owned. People find that surprising because I buy and sell commercial properties fairly often. But after school I borrowed money from my Dad and started my little one-person business. As soon as I had it rolling I paid him back, and started looking for a house. The Federalist thing where I hang my hat is what I found, and what I fell in love with. It needed work, which was wonderful because I needed to buy it under market and wanted a place I could fix up to match my personal preferences. Once it was fixed up I couldn't imagine any reason in the world to sell it. There have been two women who have lived in the house with me. I thought the last was going to be permanent, and so did she, but we gradually changed our minds. The clarity of immediacy. As a goal a permanent commitment looked great, even with all the legal problems we'd run into, but as it turned into a soon-coming reality the light changed and lit some shadowed areas we hadn't noticed before. We were still friends, and occasionally we slept together, but we no longer lived together. It was about that time that I applied for my Investigator's license. Sigmund might make something of that, but I don't think he'd be right. Especially since I turned out to be pretty good at it. The job consists mainly of reading people and finding out about things, two requirements for which I discovered I have a natural aptitude. When I take on clients I take on their troubles to some extent. I expected that going in. What I didn't expect were cases where the clients turned out to be the trouble. It comes with dealing with people, I guess. Clients is my middle name. I spent the early afternoon searching all the public databases that mentioned Jason Margulis, Mrs. Maria Margulis, Jason's dead-in-an- Indiana-cornfield father David, and the family-owned companies. It was interesting, but not helpful. After a two-hour siesta, a half-hour in the lap pool, a shower, and a quick meal I got into the other stuff. This is the part of the job that causes people to refer to P.I.s as snoops and peepers - until they need us. Most people use computers at work and at home, and they think their computer is their partner. It's not. It's the partner of anyone who knows more about their computer than they do. The suits and skirts in the offices, and the Dockers and DKNYs at home think if they throw a file in the trash and then empty the trash the file ceases to exist. They think if they send an e-mail it only goes to the address they put on it. They think that a faster connection - 24-hour cable or DSL - is wonderful because the 'net is always there and always quick to respond. They don't realize that when they're connected to the web, the web is connected to them. You gotta love 'em. The first thing I did was use some backdoors I'd previously opened in combination with CrackWhore and Nmap software for medical, credit, shopping, travel, porn, telephone, government and 'net surfing tracking databases. Then I hacked their machines, running stuff like SubSeven, ToneLoc and DirectorySnoop to rummage through their files, including those that had been trashed but not overwritten, and opening locked folders with password cracking software. Next was a Javascript tap and a web log-on notifier on their computers at home, and the one in Jason Margulis' office. By 4:00 in the morning I knew them better than they knew themselves, and I still hadn't read everything. The one abnormality that stood out was that both of them were very circumspect in their emails and files; they sounded like very careful, controlled people. Twelve hours later I discovered it was all a waste of time. Jason Margulis had disappeared. Chapter Two I was the first person Maria Margulis called with the news. If it had been good news I would have been farther down on the list. Her husband had left for work and never showed up. He had a meeting scheduled for 3:30 pm, and his secretary had called to see if Mrs. Margulis knew where he was. She was stressed, but under control, and upset that I hadn't followed him from their house to his office. I told her I had been up very late, working on her case, and thought that was a better use of my time than tailing him to the office. But I had guessed wrong and told her that, too. She was decent enough about it, admitting that there had been no sign he was going to disappear on us. I suggested that finding him might take leg work and more people. I tried to alleviate her stress by saying that he may have just gone to a meeting he'd forgotten to tell his staff about, or made a spur of the moment decision to do some shopping or something else. She wasn't buying it, and neither was I, but it was worth saying. I also suggested she call one of two agencies I'd worked with before and knew to be discrete. I told her to call Shelly Greene if she wanted further recommendations. As soon as we hung up I screwed up again. I ran a quick check on his credit card activity. My idea had been to check the databases that tracked and totaled her husband's computer card information. There was no action - no plane ticket, no Amtrak, nothing. My screw up was not to think of his corporate credit card issued under the company name, with him as an authorized signatory. It was a full day before we found out where Margulis had gone. I guess there was a good reason that Private Investigator licenses were usually only issued to ex-cops. They would have thought of the corporate card right away. A good cop would have, anyway. When my brain finally kicked into gear I hacked into the card site and pulled up the activity report. As soon as I saw the latest entry I called Maria Margulis. "I know where your husband is - or where he was, anyway," I told her. "He charged some things here in Center City yesterday, and today he charged more things - expensive things - in New York City." "New York?" she said. She sounded a little bewildered. "What kind of things?" "I don't know," I said. "Lord & Taylor, and a place called David Yurman's." "A jewelry store," she said. "Ah. So he bought jewelry, and some things at Lord & Taylor's." "You can't find out what?" she asked. She seemed more interested in what her husband had purchased than where he might be, and I wanted a clue as to why so I answered without comment, "It's just listed as 'merchandise' from both places." "How much? How much money, I mean," she asked. "At Yurman's it was two items, $11,000 for one, $950 for the other. At Lord & Taylor's there were sixteen items. The total is $8,411." She was silent. After a moment I asked, "Mrs. Margulis, do you have any idea what he might have purchased, and why?" "No." This time I tried the silent thing for a few moments, but she didn't bite. Finally I said, "I think I'd better go to New York." "I'll go with you," she said. I didn't like that at all. "Before we decide," I said, "I'd like to come over and ask a few questions. I'd also like you to take a look around, and see if there's anything missing." "Missing?" "Anything that your husband might have taken with him," I said. She paused before saying, "Maybe you should come over." "Good. I'll see you in thirty minutes." During the drive I thought about the couple. Twenty-seven and thirty, moneyed, attractive, healthy, and supposedly living in a happy marriage in a care-free world. Some people did have it all, but Maria and Jason Margulis weren't the ones. Jason had skipped out on his Capraesque wonderful life and there had to be a reason. Mr. Detective Person just didn't know what it was, though I had a feeling the happy bride did. She greeted me at the door looking even better than she had in my office. It might have been the surroundings. Then again it might have been the Royal Blue silk jumpsuit that hung on her lithe body like teasing scarves, revealing the shape of her nipples and every curve of her hips and thighs. I was betting on the jumpsuit. The venue, though, wasn't bad either. Lots of shiny marble floors in the foyer, and again in the sun room where we ended up. White wicker furniture, lots of plants, and a glass ceiling gave the room a tropical outdoor feel without having to sully our persons with the reality of actually being outdoors. Then Maria Margulis added vulnerability to all that. The one-two punch of jumpsuit and sun room weakened my defenses. The third punch in the combo, the vulnerability, made my knees rubbery. "I really need you now, Mr. Tarlow," she said. "I just know that if we can find Jason quickly it will all be all right. But if we don't, I think I'll lose him." Clients often treat P.I.s the same way they do lawyers. They want us to believe them, and to put our hearts into their case, so they try to convince us to be on their side. They do that by pleading their case, by leaving things out of their stories, and sometimes by saying the things they think we want to hear. It's not unknown for them to act, either. The vulnerability was a change in character from the self-assured woman who had walked into my office and poked a little fun at the private eye ambience, but how could I know if she was acting now or not. I couldn't, unless she hit a false note, so I went with the flow until I had more evidence. In the meantime I could use it to get some answers. "I'll do all I can," I said. "Does your husband have friends in New York?" "None that I know of," she said. She was thinking the same thing I was. A man who suddenly deserts his wife, runs to New York, and spends a lot of money on jewelry and clothes, is probably a man who has left his wife for another woman. He may have a "friend" in New York she didn't know about. The thought had shaken her, making her question her worth, and it had destroyed her vision of her future. Time would repair both, but right now she was a little low in the confidence area. "Business associates?" I asked. "Every large business has some business in New York," she said. "We have people there who handle things for the company - a law firm, a PR firm. Marci - Jason's secretary - says that's all." "Have you cal..." I started, but she cut me off. "Neither Marci or the law firm have heard from him," she said. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be curt. I'm... a bit upset. Worried." "I understand," I said, making my voice softer and comforting. "Did Mr. Margulis take anything with him? Empty the bank account, take personal items, pack clothes, that sort of thing?" "Please call him Jason," she said. "I'm Maria. You're very much involved in our personal lives now, and it seems awkward to be so formal. If you don't mind?" It was a rhetorical question and I did mind, but it wouldn't have helped the cause to object. The best way to conduct a successful investigation is to keep it on a professional level. Getting close to clients can cloud your vision, and that could be trouble. I let her have a little smile and smaller nod. "Did you have a chance to see if Jason might have taken anything with him this morning?" "Yes." Her eyes left mine and glanced into the room without really seeming to focus on it. "Money," she finally admitted. It didn't come out of her easily. "Cash. He hardly 'cleaned out our accounts'," she said, "but he did take an inordinate amount of money with him. Over $50,000. Not a lot of clothes; he did take a small suitcase and a garment bag but that's all." "How many bedrooms does this house have?" I asked. She frowned, confused, and then smiled. "We sleep in the same bed, if that's what you're asking," she said. "There is no problem in that area. ..was no problem... as far as I know..." Suddenly she burst into tears. This is the unsolvable dilemma for the average guy. Should he keep quiet? Should he say something? If so, what? Should he take her hand? Should he stand up and go over and hug her? Whatever a guy does, including nothing, always seems to be the wrong thing. I had a leg up on the situation, and of all people, I should have known what to do, but I didn't have a clue. She solved my problem by reaching out and putting her hand on mine. She squeezed. I turned my hand over and clasped hers. "Please," she said through her tears, "Would you just hold me for a minute. I need to be held." She felt good in my arms; softer than her slim body indicated, and she had some innate little magic that made her effortlessly fit me in all the right places. I tried to tell myself that I was comforting a client in a moment of bereavement, and that we weren't really being carnal, and that the fact that she was beautiful and sexy didn't matter one bit. I managed to convince about ninety-five percent of my body. When she pulled her head away it was only to let me see her smoldering eyes. Then her lips were on mine like Bridgid O'Shaughnessy's on Sam Spade's. We played tongue tango from the start, and the touch of her hands on my belt buckle threatened to wipe out any common sense I had left. When she said "Let me do this for you, please," and slipped to her knees. I almost let her go. "Wait," I said, grabbing her by the shoulders. I pulled upward and she reluctantly came back to a standing position. "You're very beautiful, and maybe someday," I said. "But I've got very strict rules about mixing business with pleasure, Mrs. Margulis. I almost got killed for breaking them once, so I'm pretty tough on myself now. I'll find your husband, and then maybe we'll talk." She kissed me again. It wasn't the kiss of a temptress, just of somebody who wanted to be kissed. "You're right," she said softly. She smiled sweetly and looked me directly in the eyes. "You're right," she whispered. Chapter Three Before I left I had managed to convince her that I could work in the city more efficiently by myself. I packed a few things and then checked the credit card activity database again. No more charges reported. It was only a two-plus-hour drive up to New York, but I wanted to get there early so I went to bed early. I was glad I did, because the next morning I checked the database again and noticed there was a preliminary credit approval from a hotel in Manhattan, but no charge recorded. It was timed at 10:15 pm the previous evening and for the price it was for either two suites or two nights. No charge recorded meant Jason had checked in and not yet checked out. If I was lucky I could get there before he got up. I called and got a reservation in the same hotel. I also called Maria Margulis. "What hotel?" she asked. "If you try to call him he'll leave," I said, "and he'll do a better job of disappearing next time." "I understand that," she said. "I asked because I assume you're going to check into the same hotel, and I want to know how to get a hold of you." She was smart, and I didn't think I'd have a problem, so I told her the name of the joint. The hotel refused to let me park in their garage until I checked in, and I wasted three-quarters of an hour finding another place to store my car. As luck would have it, that was just enough time to make me miss Margulis by "about ten minutes" according to the desk clerk. Then I got lucky because he added, "Miss Packard might be able to help you." He nodded in the direction of a pretty blonde sitting on a sofa on the other side of the lobby. I was going to thank him when he gave me a knowing look. Nudge, nudge, wink, wink. I looked at the blonde again. Obviously the clerk thought there was a little push-and-grunt going on between Jason and the girl, and he wanted to impress me with his knowledge. Nobody was going to put anything over on Mr. Sharpy, The Leering Desk Clerk. I almost stiffed the jerk but thought I might need him later and slipped him a twenty instead. I hate it when I do that. The blonde Miss Packard was seated in such a way that she could look out the big plate glass window. I was debating about the best tack to take with her when she jumped up and walked briskly through the revolving door and into the street. A dark blue SUV was double-parked, engine running, and the blonde jumped into the passenger's seat. I got a look at the driver, another pretty blonde also in her mid-twenties, and caught the license plate number. There was no cab around. The doorman came up and offered to call one but I saw that the SUV was rounding a corner a block away and knew it would be futile even if one of his regular cruisers was ready and waiting. I checked into the hotel and, thanks to the twenty I'd parted with moments ago, I got a room on the same floor as Margulis' room. King Leer told me Miss Packard's room was next to Jason's. Wink, wink. I took a cab the eight blocks to the parking garage I was using, got my car and drove back, only to be told the hotel garage was now full. I love New York. I drove back to the first garage, got my luggage, and flagged a cab. Manhattan blocks are longer than Philadelphia blocks, but I still could have walked it, even in the colder weather; I just didn't want to be away from the hotel for longer than I had to be. Once in the room I unpacked my laptop and plugged it in. Like all modern hotel rooms it had an extra 'phone line at the "business center", an area of the suite with a large working desk and various accoutrements, as well as wifi. It didn't take long to get into the New York Department of Motor Vehicles database and look up the plate. The name that popped up was Donald Hagin. The address was in Manhattan, not more than a mile away. What I really wanted to do was take a shower and do some stretching exercises to get ready for what I anticipated would be a full day. The dynamic duo in the SUV might not wait for me, though, so I logged off and went downstairs to get a cab to get my car. Driving in Manhattan was never one of my favorite things, but there was always the possibility of either a long stake-out or the SUV making tracks again, so I was better off driving my own vehicle. Besides, the foreign-born cab drivers have seen too many old movies and tend to laugh at you when you say "Follow that car." The DMV-provided address was a co-op with its own below-ground garage. I drove around in circles for half an hour before I found a place to plant my wheels. Skirting the guard at the garage exit was a snap, but I walked confidently through the garage in case there were security cameras watching for people who didn't belong. Halfway down the first aisle I spotted a camera hanging from the ceiling. But I also spotted the SUV, so I had what I needed. I felt my pockets, as if searching for my keys, underplayed some irritation, and did an about turn. Three hours later I was bored stiff and my feet were getting cold. I had made small talk with some of the clerks in the ground level shops on the street, pretending to be a friend of Donald Hagin, the name attached to the SUV by the DMV. I was reminded, PDQ of course, that this was New York and that the residents felt they had a reputation to live up to. Most of them consequently ignored me. The rest told me to get lost. What now? The heated hotel lobby and the Leering Desk Clerk beckoned. Another twenty bought me the information that Jason Margulis had registered for a single night but had paid for two suites, one in the name of Felice Packard, and one under his own name. They had both carried a minimum of luggage, and Margulis had tipped the bellman big for carrying it upstairs. Mr. Nudge-Nudge-Wink-Wink told me he got off at 4:00 but if anything happened between now and then he'd call my room. After 4:00 pm "Stan would keep an eye out" for me until Midnight. Then it was Sean I should talk to until Nudge-Nudge came back on duty at 8:00 tomorrow morning. The larcenous trio must have been a well-rehearsed act, and I wondered just how many private eyes visited this hotel. Private eyes and jealous husbands and suspicious wives, all with pockets full of twenty dollar bills. Then again, maybe they'd just seen the same old movies the cab drivers had seen. I left the appropriate bribes for Moe and Curly and went upstairs. I did some stretching, followed by some make-do exercises lifting the sturdy desk chair like it was a barbell, and finally got my shower. Then I got back on line. Donald Hagin owned a wholesale beauty supply company, and was an investor in a scrap metal company. He was twenty-eight years old, single, and had purchased the co-op two months ago for an impressive sum, though maybe no so impressive by Manhattan standards. The SUV was his only vehicle. I couldn't find a Felice Packard in any of the databases I was able to access. The laptop didn't have all the software I had in my desktop, though, so all that really meant was that I'd have to wait to properly research her. I ran Margulis again on the credit card database, just to see if he'd gone shopping or had stopped for breakfast anywhere. If he'd done either, he hadn't charged it. Staying in Manhattan suddenly didn't look like such a fantastic idea. I'd found out quite a bit, mostly by simply being in the right place at the right time - Felice Packard, Donald Hagin, the co-op, the SUV. I didn't like buddying up to Nudge-Nudge in his little leering jungle, but I had to admit that he was probably right. Jason Margulis had left his wife for a blonde named Felice Packard. They had spent the night together, then left separately, both probably heading for a rendezvous at the co-op owned by Donald Hagin. Another blonde had given Miss Packard a ride. She could have been a friend of hers, a friend of Margulis', or a friend of Hagin - or maybe a friend of all three. They might have had a foursome going for all I knew. Whatever the arrangement it was sure to T-off Mrs. Margulis. There are points in every case where you have to decide what to tell the client, and when to tell them. What did you know, and when did you know it? For most of them a 'phone call every ten minutes would come close to making them happy. Given my druthers I'd rather not talk to them until I hand them a report when it's all over. If then. I thought about checking out and going home. I could follow the credit card trail from the office, and when something interesting happened I could come back to New York. I don't mind driving when there's no snow on the ground, and two hours wasn't such a big trip. On the other hand, I was already close to Margulis, and it wouldn't hurt to stay around. There wasn't much hope of catching him in flagrante delicto, but it was likely I could confirm what appeared to be happening, and pile up some additional circumstantial evidence. I decided to think about it during breakfast. The hotel's main restaurant was a strange place. It had all the old, heavy sturdiness of a typical Northeastern business, and plenty of expensive touches, while at the same time it tried for sleekness and an ultra-modern look. Bright chrome design elements, for example, but the chrome was thick and hardy. It didn't work for me, but I didn't have to pay the interior decorator either. The menu was a nice touch, though. It was too late for breakfast and too early for lunch - there were only three other customers in the main room - and the waitress brought me the "Brunch Menu". I ordered a brunch of stuff and settled in with the Times. It wasn't the Inquirer, but neither was the Inquirer anymore. Somewhere past the eggs but before the last cup of coffee I decided not to call Maria Margulis until late afternoon. It was a good meal, but a waste of thinking time. When I got back to my room the telephone by the bed was ringing, and it was the lady herself. "Have you found out anything?" she asked without preliminaries. "Is he there?" "No and yes," I said. "Your husband checked in late last evening. He left early this morning, minutes before I got here, and I haven't located him yet. He hasn't checked out." "Was he... with anyone?" she asked. "He checked in alone, I don't know if anyone visited his room, and he left alone this morning," I said. Some people might call that technically true, but truth isn't deception and it wasn't the truth that I was telling her. "What do you plan to do?" she asked. "At the moment I'm not sure," I admitted. "I'll be notified when he returns. I'm checking his credit cards for activity. You told me he didn't know anyone except the law firm and the P.R. firm here in the city, and they're off limits so there's no one I can question. When he comes back, I'll go sit in the lobby and wait for him to leave again." She was silent for a moment. "I guess that's all you can do," she finally said. "I think we'll get a break when he leaves," I said. "You'll call me?" she asked. I detected a little pleading in her tone, but not so much that it was irritating. "It may not be until sometime tomorrow afternoon," I told her. "Oh. Well, I'll be available at any hour, day or night." "Good. I'll be in touch," I said. Chapter Four I wandered the neighborhood, learning its nooks and crannies just in case. In this business you never know. The tall buildings blocked the sun, and the cold wind wound through the canyons. I didn't stay out that long, and I'd made sure to catch Nudge-Nudge's eye before I left the building, and when I returned, but he had nothing for me. In the afternoon the telephone rang again. "This is Jason Margulis, Mr. Tarlow," the caller said. "Come over to the apartment building, and Mary will meet you in front. Twenty minutes." Click. That was bad. How the hell did he know who I was, where I was, and how did he know that I knew where he was? There was only one answer to that. I put my jacket back on and went down to the lobby. Nudge-Nudge was behind the counter, and he grinned when he saw me. "Working both sides?" I said. Unfortunately, I'm too short and slim to be menacing to many people, and my voice, which I can never seem to make sound tough, is no help either. He shrugged, still grinning. My twenties must have been chump change to the Three Stooges. I took a cab to the co-op. The pretty blonde that had been driving the SUV that picked up Felice Packard was standing on the sidewalk. As I got out she crooked her finger and turned. I followed. In the elevator I asked if she was Mary. She smiled at me, and put a finger to her lips in a hushing motion. The Donald Hagin apartment was on the fifth floor and was large by New York City standards. It was full of those tacky brocades and useless little desks against walls that indicate the owners have a great deal of money and very little taste. The only saving grace in the whole place was a mounted and lighted Hardingfele and bow on the west wall. Jason Margulis and Felice Packard were standing by the bar. They made a nice couple. "You're a private investigator from Philadelphia, and you're following me," he said. "I want to know why." "Nice to meet you, too," I said. I looked at the blonde next to him. "You're Miss Packard?" She looked at Margulis, then back at me and nodded. "Sam Tarlow," I said, introducing myself. I looked back at Margulis. "If that's all you want to talk about, then I wasted a trip. Are you and Miss Packard having an affair?" "I see," he said. "Maria. I assumed so, but...." He turned toward the bar and seemed to stare at the bottles for a moment. I looked at Packard and the girl he'd called Mary. They were both blondes and both in their late-20s, but very dissimilar. Packard had long, curly hair and Mary had a shorter, more business-like do. Packard had the better figure; Mary wasn't as curved, and was smaller-breasted. Felice Packard seemed the more mature of the two, but it was difficult to explain why. "Would you like a drink, Mr. Tarlow?" Margulis' tone was softer, more friendly. It wasn't quite 5:00 o'clock yet but I threw convention to the wind. I'm a risk-taker. "Whatever you're having," I said. "Would you ladies excuse us for a few minutes," Margulis said as he poured my Scotch. Packard started to say something, but stopped herself. She looked directly at me in a way that was hard to read, and then the two blondes left the room. Margulis handed me my drink and motioned to the couch. "I care for my wife," he said, "but I'm also in love with Felice - Miss Packard. It is a difficult situation and I recently came to a point where I had to make a choice. I didn't - and don't - want to hurt Maria, but I don't believe I had any option but to do what I did. I've tried to tell her a dozen times, but was unable to. A character fault." He took a sip from his glass. I held my tongue. "It was cowardly to leave the way I did," he said. I was silent. "Well, I've created a problem, and your presence has added to it," he said. "You were very resourceful in finding me so quickly. Frankly, I expected to be found before I worked up enough nerve to call Maria, but not this quickly. I'm impressed." He looked directly at me, so I nodded. "You don't have to bother collecting evidence of adultery or desertion, as the courts call it. I'll concede that. I owe Maria that much. More. I would like to keep this out of the public eye, for obvious business reasons, as well as a natural aversion to having my private life displayed on the front page of the paper and on the local news programs. Even though I still care for her and she still loves me, Maria will be angry, and that will turn into a short-term desire to hurt me. It always does in these situations." He took another sip. "I've handled it very badly." "Who's Donald Hagin?" I asked. His head jerked up. "Donald? This is his apartment," he said. "He's a friend of Mary's. He's out of town." "And Mary is... ?" "Mary is a friend of Felicia's," he said. "Mary was in a similar situation, and she sympathizes. This, unfortunately, is an old story, Mr. Tarlow. It's sordid to those outside, but it's not sordid to me." He sat there quietly, just staring at his drink, and I finally had to say something to break him out of his reverie. "I have to tell Mrs. Margulis what I've found," I said. "Certainly," he said. "How long have you and Miss Packard been having an affair?" "We've been in love almost from the start," he said firmly. He didn't want it called an affair. This was true love, buster, and don't make it common. But common it was. As he'd said, an old story. "There are certain questions Mrs. Margulis will ask," I said. "It's natural. If I don't have the answers I'll have to come back and find out what they are." "We're leaving for Europe for six months," he said. "We won't be here. I'll be in touch with the company and my attorneys - and with Maria, I hope." He sipped his drink and I realized he was using it as a prop. The sip meant he was either going to go silent or change the subject. He went silent. "When did you first meet Miss Packard?" "A little over a year ago," he said. "I came to see our lawyers here, and she was at a function they hosted. So was Donald, by the way. They came together, but not as dates. Anyway, we hit it off. Felice, as it turned out, was about to move to Philadelphia, so we had something to talk about at the party. "We had more than that in common, of course, as our conversation revealed. But there was something else, something more than having a few things in common, and we both sensed it. A month later she moved, and she called me." He looked up from his drink. "I'm not going into the details of our relationship. That's nobody's business but ours. We fell in love. I've left my wife. Felice and I are going to get married, as soon as the divorce is final. Period." "Fair enough," I said. "What was wrong with your marriage?" His head jerked up like it had when I'd asked him about Hagin. He didn't react well to little surprises. "Wrong?" he asked. "Nothing was wrong. Maria is a super lady. I'll never say a word against her." "She's going to ask me if I asked you that question, and if I don't give her an answer she's going to ask you. Your choice." "I don't know what to say. I suppose I discovered we just weren't right for each other. We got along fine, and I truly like her as a person, but ... I could see us five, ten, fifteen years down the road. Friends. Close friends, but not a marriage in the sense I think of a marriage. Maybe I'm being childish. I think there should be a spark that lasts; something exciting..." "And new?" I interrupted. He put the drink down angrily. "You don't understand," he said. "I've tried to explain, but you don't understand. I'm going to have to ask you to leave, Mr. Tarlow." He stood up. This guy was a mess. I didn't figure to get anything else out of him, so I thanked him for seeing me and let him escort me to the door. I took a cab back to the hotel. There was a message for to call Maria Margulis. I erased it. Checking out and leaving meant joining the afternoon rush hour off the island, and I wasn't in the mood for that. I wasn't in the mood for much of anything, really. I ordered a meal from room service, and had them bring a bottle of good wine with it. Jason Margulis was a selfish bastard. Felice Packard seemed nice enough, though I'd hardly gotten to know her. Mary - I didn't even know what her last name was - Mr. Detective had forgotten to ask - could have been anything from a Saint to a serial killer, but odds were she was just a friend helping out a friend. That left Maria Margulis. She was the one completely innocent person in all this, and the one who was going to get hurt. And - Mr. Detective 'fesses up - also the one that I wouldn't mind offering a comforting shoulder to, should she need it. I hit the room's mini-bar when the wine was gone. I got two more calls before I passed out somewhere around two in the morning. I hadn't answered either call. Chapter Five The Margulis property was well manicured, and as I drove up to the house it struck me that they had lived a very orderly life until now. In their financial class there are prescribed ways of doing things. Rules for the ruling. Etiquette meant a lot more to them than to the average Joe, and I wondered if they had rules of behavior for things like this. I guessed that they did. Maria Margulis handled the news better than I thought she would. She listened without making a sound, and only a slight wince every now and then gave her away. When I was done with my story she wet her lips and started to say "Excuse me, for a moment, Mr. Tarlow." At least I think that's what she was going to say. She got two and a half words of it out before she choked and ran off. Bearer of Bad Tidings, that's me. People hire me to find out the truth, but usually a truth is worth hiding only if it's bad news to someone. I rut around for a little while, and usually come up with the truth; people aren't as good at hiding things as they think they are. But what do I do with the succulent little morsel I've found? I do what I've been hired to do: tell my client the bad thing. It's the only part of the job I don't like. Hubby running off with a new honey was one of the most painful truths, and one of the most common. Happens every day, probably a million times around the world. And if that's not the scenario, then it's the wife running off with a new guy. Same story, just a quick cast change. I was sorry it was happening to Maria Margulis; she seemed like a nice lady. She came back to the sun room about ten minutes later, carrying two cups of coffee, along with cream and sugar, on a tray. Her eyes were a little red, but she was composed. "It's just plain coffee," she said. "Instant. I hope you don't mind." "I'm not one for mixing shredded daffodil petals in my coffee," I said, giving her a supportive smile. "No, I didn't think you would be." She sat down and poured for both of us. We both took it black. "Tell me, do Private Investigators have the same rules as lawyers and psychiatrists and priests?" "You mean confidentiality? No. Unfortunately." "But you're a discrete man," she said. "Very much so," I said. "Good. I like a discrete man," she said. The old Sydney Greenstreet line sounded odd coming from her beautiful mouth. She took a sip of coffee. "I had a serious birth defect, Mr. Tarlow. It was a terrible thing, and it made my childhood miserable. When I was sixteen I went to my parents, and we talked about it. Fortunately, they are wonderful, understanding people and they got me to a series of sympathetic doctors - medical and psychiatric. When I turned eighteen I began a series of hormone treatments and some minor plastic surgeries. I had breast implants when I was nineteen, and for the first time in my life my body matched my soul - almost all of it, anyway. The defect that had given me a male body and a female soul at birth was overcome." She looked directly at me. If she was trying to guess what I was thinking she didn't have the chance of a snowball in Hell. "And your husband..." I said. "He had no problem with it," she said. "Not to say it wasn't a surprise to him, but I told him very early in our relationship, and we talked about it. I didn't let him put his hand in my panties and find out for himself." She was still looking directly at me, trying to read my reaction. I was with her, but a part of me was off in my own world. Birth defect. A woman born in a man's body. Surgery. Matching the body to the soul. It all whirled around in my head, dredging up memories and feelings. "I'm sorry I broke down," she said, "but the names Donald Hagin and Felice aren't unknown to me. I met him at one of the company gatherings, and we recognized each other. Not that we'd met before, just that we were kindred souls. That was over a year ago, but we talked on the phone a couple times shortly after the party. Donald was born with the same birth defect I had, and was following the same path I had followed. He was becoming a complete woman. He told me he was going to get his name changed to Felice and hoped to get Sexual Reassignment Surgery in Europe. I didn't hear from him after that. But I guess Jason did." This was the first time a client had ever turned the tables on me and filled me in on what was happening. It was a role reversal that I didn't like, though under the circumstances it was the only thing that could have happened. "Jason said they were going to Europe for six months," I said, just to say something while I got my emotions under control. "I see," she said. "Well, I guess I have to talk to a good divorce lawyer. I guess I'll have to do a lot of things I never thought I'd be doing." "I'm sorry it couldn't have been better news," I said sincerely. "You didn't make it happen, Mr. Tarlow," she said. "You just found it out, and I would have found out myself eventually. Now, with your help, I won't be in the dark for as long. I'm thankful for that." I was glad I helped and I told her so. What I didn't bring up was how Jason Margulis had conned me. Nudge-Nudge, Moe and Curly had been on his payroll and delivered the script he wanted me to hear, leading me to the conclusions he wanted me to reach. The stuff at the Hagin apartment had been more of the same. If Maria hadn't told me her background and Donald/Felicia's background, I would have chalked the whole thing up as a very prosaic case of adultery. When the Margulis' divorce became public that was the story Jason wanted circulating. What he didn't want was to have a private eye feeling like he should dig a little deeper, so he told me a story I could believe. And I had believed it and stopped digging. Maria was kind enough to say that she probably should have told me from the start, but at that time she'd had no idea that Donald/Felice was still around. I said it didn't make any difference, as it turned out, and it didn't. Oh, a small matter of professional pride, maybe, but no difference. "If you need me," I said, "I'll be around." Epilogue I've kept in touch with Maria Margulis over the last two months. Jason behaved as well as he said he would. His lawyer contacted her lawyer and agreed that Jason would admit to adultery and desertion. The lawyers are working out the property settlement. Maria and I have bonded, or whatever you want to call it. I figure she senses, but doesn't actually know that I had suffered from a similar birth defect, though in the opposite direction. I can sympathize with her struggle to match her body and her soul, and her reluctance to take the final surgical step. One day the doctors may get it to a point where we're both happy with the idea. Of course her version is already pretty close. It's going from female genitalia to male that's the tougher job. I'm willing to be patient. I think she senses that we're soul-mates and that's why we're getting closer. Who knows, we may wind up together. I like the idea, and stranger things have happened. In the meantime I'll keep waiting for the phone to ring, hoping it's a lawyer with an interesting case. ****The End**** The appropriate category that should have been checked but wasn't, because it would have given away one of the surprises at the end, is, of course, Female to Male (the private eye). I hope there was a large enough TG element to interest you. I was attempting to write about the TG life in Real Life, rather than the process of becoming TG.