"The Report"
A Sloan Story
November, 2008
I hated this.
I know, stuff like this is the stock in trade of PI's like me, but sitting in a car taking pictures of some poor slob who is stepping out on his wife or vice versa just doesn't seem the way to earn a living.
But I had to do just that. Earn a living.
So there I was, in a dark parking lot, camera in my lap, waiting for the money shot. Once I had it, I could pack it in and get home where there was a glass, some ice and some Jack waiting for me.
This one rubbed me the wrong way from the start.
Maybe it was the client: Mrs. Kimberly Stark-Murray.
The hyphen in her name said it all.
I checked up on her after the visit she paid me a week ago.
“Mr. Sloan. I understand you are cheap.”
Good way to start there, sweetheart.
“I prefer the term reasonable,” I said as she swept into my office, almost an hour late for the appointment she had made earlier in the day.
“I want to to follow this lowlife and tell me everything he does,” she proclaimed, tossing a small picture on my desk in front of me as I started to get up.
I ignored her.
“Have a seat, Mrs. Murray,” I said, pointing toward the wooden chair on the other side of my desk. She looked at it like it was some sort of animal.
“It's Stark-Murray. I'll stand, thank you. I won't be here that long,” she huffed, flinging her dark hair back over her shoulder.
She had just had her hair done, I could smell the sweet/sour smell of a perm job from where I stood. She was not bad looking, medium height, a bit full in the waist, very expensive taste in clothes. Something told me everything about this woman was expensive.
“And who would this gentleman be?” I asked, picking up the picture.
“My soon to be ex-husband, William.”
I felt sorry for the guy already. “Can I get you a cup of coffee?” I said, walking over to the pot on the shelf in the corner of the office.
“I only drink hand brewed. Not that machine-made swill,” she said, digging in her Prada purse for something.
Okay, then. This was not going well for the home team.
I poured myself a cup in my BPD mug. Clients liked the idea I was a former cop.
“So, Mrs. Murray, what has your husband been doing that you feel I need to follow him for?”
I ignored her hyphen on purpose.
“It's Stark-Murray, for the last time, and he is cheating on me with one of his slut students.”
I really felt sorry for the guy now.
“He's a teacher?” I asked, picking up the photo.
“A professor. Just an accounting professor at Grant College.”
Just a professor at Grant? One of the best private business colleges in the area? I knew that he no doubt had heard that statement before, along with some others no doubt.
The guy in the picture could have been sent from central casting. He looked like an accounting professor. The picture was one of him getting some sort of certificate. He had a suit on, but I could tell it didn't fit him. A little pudgy, balding, with salt and pepper hair. He looked a bit older than Mrs. Stark-Murray.
He was the kind of guy you saw drowning his sorrows at Killian's Bar after he got taken by some woman like this.
“$500 a day, plus expenses.”
“What? You said $300 on the phone this morning.”
“It's $500, and from where I stand, you can swing it!” I snapped back. “If not, there is a few other guys in town that do this, but they are not known for being too discreet.”
Actually, the other PI's I know were great guys, and did a good job, but she didn't know that.
“Yes, of course, that is important, I would just be crushed if my friends found out I had to stoop to this.” She pulled a leather-covered checkbook from her purse. “Here is a check for a thousand dollars. I want a report in two days.”
I took it from her. “It may take longer than that, and I need some background info on your husband, schedule, type of car, license plate, hang outs, things like that.”
“Here.” she said, handing me a folded pack of papers. “Everything is in here.”
I unfolded them, and saw they were a packet done up by Newman Brothers, a corporate PI firm that had an office downtown.
“You had Newman do this, why not have them follow him?” I asked, looking through the papers.
“They were idiots. I fired them last week. My husband spotted them following him He even said something to me about it.”
Something told me that the good Professor Murray didn't say a lot to his wife.
“It happens sometimes in this job,” I said.
“I only hope you are better at it than they are or I will be forced to take my business elsewhere,” There was venom in her voice.
“Would not want that to happen, Mrs. Murray.” I smiled.
She started to say something then stopped. She turned and headed for the door with a flourish.
“Two days, Mr. Sloan. I will call you,” she said, slamming the door for emphasis.
I sat down and reached into the top drawer of my desk and pulled out my flask, added a bit of its contents to the coffee, and started to read all about Professor William Murray.
I added more to the file by making a few calls. Seems Mrs. Stark-Murray was the money of the house, heiress to a small wine importing house from downstate. She had married the then-younger William Murray in a fit of youthful payback aimed at her rather dominating mother. No big surprise that she had then taken the wheel in the career of Mr. Murray. Her family name, which she held onto in a hyphenated form, greased the wheels of an up-and-coming undergraduate accounting student, and moved him into society and money circles that made him a favorite with certain well-heeled private colleges.
I was sure that the very loving and sweet Mrs. Stark-Murray would do well for him after a divorce. Yeah, right. This poor guy was going to get run over, and big time. All she needed was pictures, and he would be toast.
All I had to do was get them for her. Great.
I got right on it. Spending the grand she had given me, I mean.
Actually paid my tab down at Killian's. Had some left over, too.
She called two days later.
“Do have something to tell me, Mr. Sloan?” she asked rather tersely.
“Your husband left from the school and drove straight home the last two days,” I said.
He actually had.
“I told you this would take more time,” I added.
“Idiot!” I didn't know if she meant me or him. “I am out of the country, so I will have money wired to you. Just get the proof I need to see him ruined.”
“I thought you wanted a divorce?” I asked her.
“A divorce from me will ruin him. I promise you that,” she answered. She hung up before I could say anything.
I followed Murray a few more days. He was as predictable as my alarm clock. And just about as interesting.
Leave home in his rather beat up minivan, drive to the college, park in his spot, tote an old briefcase into the building, come out eight hours later, and return home.
For four days, this was the pattern. No sign of any affair, love interest, hobby, or wife, for that matter. Somehow I knew the good professor was happy with this arraignment
Then Friday night happened. I was watching the lot, and realized Murray was late leaving. Okay, it was five minutes, but for him it was late.
He came out of his office and tossed his briefcase and suit coat in the back of the van, and literally ripped off his tie. The man was an animal. Then, he did something really crazy.
He didn't go home.
I followed him to a nice quiet area just east of the college. He pulled into a driveway, got out, looked around, and walked up to the door. He knocked, and the door opened up revealing the other person in his life. A quick kiss, and the two disappeared inside. Of course that moment was captured on film. I am a pro at this.
About an hour later, the two came out and got into the other car in the driveway, a nifty little import. By now I had made a call and knew who rented the house.
Ashley Yates, senior at Grant College, born in London, England. Ashley was tall, blond, athletic, and would be considered attractive to some. Not my type, but I was old-fashioned and liked them a bit more feminine.
I followed them to a well-known night club on Chippewa Street, where they spent most of the night, leaving at almost closing time. They returned to the house, where Professor Murray ended up staying the night.
The old “when the cat is away” thing.
He left in the morning with a quick kiss, and drove home with a smile on his face.
I had burned two rolls of film of the two of them in action, since they had forgotten to close the blinds on the back bedroom where they had finally settled down. I had all the evidence I needed, as would the lovely and sweet Mrs. Stark-Murray.
I had to sit on the pictures for a few days until she blew into my office the following week.
“You have the proof I want.”
Not a question.
“Mrs. Stark-Murray, nice of you to stop by.” I motioned her toward the chair again.
She surprised the hell out of me by taking it.
“You have proof that my husband is having an affair with some little slut co-ed?”
It was a judgment call. I have made some bad ones in the past, but with this one I knew was right.
“Your husband is not having an affair with a female student,” I said, reaching for the folder. “I followed him for several days, and besides being an overly cautious driver, he has done nothing out of character.”
“ Are you sure he is not sleeping with some little tramp girl in one of his classes?”
“Your husband is not. You are the only woman in his life. I guarantee it. Would you like to see the file?” I asked, holding it out for her.
“No. If that is what you found, then I will accept that. I don't need to see a report of how boring he is.”
She handed me a check, which more than covered my costs. “This concludes our business then, Mr. Sloan.”
“Have a nice day,” she added as she stood and walked out.
The money was good. But I hated this part of the job.
I opened the folder and as I marked paid on the invoice, I saw the writing of the report.
“Subject is engaged in a relationship with one Ashley Yates, Senior at Grant College and team captain of the College's Men’s Soccer Team.”
I stood up, grabbed my coat, and headed for Killian's.
On the way, I stopped at a florist and had flowers sent to an address east of the college. The card read, “Happiness is where you find your heart.”
I didn't sign it.
And I paid for my own drinks at Killian's for once.
