Rolling down the window, I called him over. He leaned into my car. "I have a job for you," I told him, watching as his smile turned to a frown. I reached into my purse and flashed him my Private Investigator license. "Don't worry. I'm legit."
"What type of job?"
"I need a file clerk." Okay, I could have taken applications and conducted interviews, but I enjoyed taking people off the streets and giving them a new start at life. "Climb in."
"I don't need your hand-outs, Ma'am." He walked back to his previous position. "And don't appreciate you wasting my time."
I smiled, "You'd work hard." I turned down the radio, folding my arms. "No one in my office gets a free ride."
Reluctantly, he jumped into the Corvette. "You have to be careful on the streets." He pulled the shoulder harness across the chest. "My name is Ben Carter."
"Stephanie Randell." I turned the radio and continued down the street. "Do you have any family?"
He shook his head.
I drove to my house. Glancing at him, I knew I had the right man.
Later that morning, while Ben was taking a shower, I phoned my client--Leslie Watson. I held the receiver away from my ear. Leslie was a screamer. I knew she didn't mean to but talking to her was like being in the middle of a shouting match.
"Did you find him?"
I smiled. "He was working the stretch between 88 Avenue and Jackson," I told her as I sank into my desk chair. "He's taking a shower now."
"You can keep him occupied at your office until I get back," she whispered. Then continued a second later, "As a file clerk."
"Yeah, but I still don't know what this is all about."
"You will soon enough, Detective Randell." The receiver went dead in my hand.
One day last week, this woman walked into my office-- outfitted in a short, lace dress with pearls surrounding the neckline. She hired me to find Ben Carter; no questions asked. Because she was the daughter of Cathedral's founding and richest family, I granted her my services. I thought she would have informed me once I found him.
I headed upstairs to check on my house guest. Three weeks until she returned from Japan.
When I arrived in the upstairs bathroom, I wasn't ready for what I found. Ben's motionless body rested on the blue towels that he had laid on the floor before entering the shower. Blood stained his naked back. I rushed into the hallway to call 911.
As I returned, I pulled back the shower curtain. I glanced up at the window. It was shut, but the glass was smashed. Looking down, I noticed the fragments in the tub.
Kneeling down beside Ben, I reached for his wrist. I checked his pulse. Faint. I took one of the towels and pressed it against the wound.
"That's good," a voice in the doorway commented.
I glanced up to see a tall, dark man in a white, starched uniform, smiling. As soon as I looked up, he moved toward the body. He called back to the others. "Let's get this one on a stretcher."
The Paramedics rushed in, lifted Ben onto the stretcher, and left as quickly as they came. The Police arrived about five minutes later. "We'll have to take you downtown for questioning."
"Wait, you didn't check the spot where he was shot!," I protested. They followed me upstairs. I pulled back the curtain and showed them the shattered glass. They took fingerprints off the curtain and window. A detective questioned me about my whereabouts at the time. When the police left, I hunted for my own evidence, starting with why Leslie hired me.
After stopping by the City Courthouse to obtain a copy of Ben Carter's birth certificate, I looked Francesca Carter-- his mother--up in the White Pages since his father wasn't listed on the certificate.
When I pulled up to her home, I was surprised at how maintained the property looked--the mowed grass, the pruned trees, the blooming flowers. I walked up to the door, and I knocked. A woman appeared in a pink, long-sleeved shirt and dark blue dress pants. She had short hair and a mole on her right cheek. I flashed her my PI badge.
"Are you Ben Carter's mother?" Responding to her "come on" gesture, I reluctantly handed her my badge wallet.
She frowned. "What happened to him? Is he hurt?" She handed me back my badge.
"He was shot yesterday and is in critical condition at Cathedral Memorial."
She stepped outside with me, sitting down in a lawn chair next to the door, "Who shot him?" Tears formed in her eyes. Soon they rolled down her cheeks. She turned her head, but I could still see her red eyes.
"That's what I'm trying to find out." I gave her a weak smile. "Do you know who would want to commit such a murder?"
She looked up at me. Her tears flowed more rapidly "Anyone who knows David Watson knows that he is Ben's father," she said between sobs.
"I don't understand." Unfortunately, I wasn't as up on my Waston family tree as I should have been.
"I was David's first--and least publicized--wife." She offered a seat in another lawn chair before continuing, "David left all his money to Ben. David died last week...," her voice trailed off.
I put my arm around Francesca. "Thanks. You've pointed me in the right direction." I headed down the sidewalk, then turned back. "Let me take you to see your son."
We got in the car and drove to the Cathedral Memorial Hospital.
An hour later at the City Courthouse, I got a copy of all the marriage and birth certificates listing David Watson. With those copies in hand, I drove over to Katherine Watson's--David's second daughter, third marriage--house.
David, as it turned out had a third, fourth, and fifth wife. Five children, one with each wife. Ben had been the only boy.
At first, I thought maybe it had been a stranger who attempted to murder Ben, but I was slowly realizing it was most likely a sibling. David had been filthy rich, owning Cathedral's largest hotel and hospital.
I knocked on her door. Nice white house with blue trim--a porch with a swing at one end and a hammock at the other. Rickety steps led up to the porch. Seconds after initial contact with the big-boned woman, she invited me in, offering me a seat on her couch--which had plastic covering it. Taking a seat, I realized I had interrupted *Oprah*. Her big screen television was tuned to the show. I noticed the rifle collection above the television. "Do you know Ben Carter?
She put her finger to her lips. Watching the television intently, she shoved Bon-bons in her mouth. "She's talking about men." When didn't *Oprah* talk about men, I thought. I waited until a commercial to repeat my question.
"Should I?" She glanced at me, rising to her feet. Her house was sparkling, not a crumb on the floor or stains in the carpet. Nothing fancy, though. Small and quaint.
"He's your half-brother; same father, different mother."
"It's so hard to keep track. He had five wives." She turned her back toward me.
I smiled, moving to the edge of the couch. "I guess, I've wasted my time."
I had reached the door before I realized the spot in the rifle collection labeled "Winchester Model 30, 1897" was empty. Was it being cleaned? Was Katherine's husband using it?
I knocked on Rachel Watson's door for several minutes before pushing the door open with my finger. She was David's first daughter. Inside, Rachel--or a young woman--lie on the floor, shot in the back just like Ben. I again called 911. Another suspect near death. That left one more to interview.
Next I visited Alice, Samatha Watson's mother. I hope somehow she could shed light on this whole mess. Alice refused to come out of her apartment, or let me in. "I live in a bad neighborhood," she replied when I asked me why.
"Do you know where Samatha lives?"
"On 43th Street and Buchanan," she talked to me through the cracked door. A chain between us. "In the cemetery."
Damn, another dead end. I hit the passenger's seat of my car several times before reaching the Police Station.
I sat in the Police Station waiting area for almost two hours, staring at the light blue walls while working over the case in my head.
Finally, someone acknowledged my presence. The officer introduced himself as Officer Morgan. I replied by showing him my badge wallet. "I need the results in the attempted murders of Ben Carter and Rachel Waston--fingerprints and bullets.
"I'm not sure whether I should..."
I stood in front of Officer Morgan's desk. I gave him a smile. "That's your decision. I do have information in this case you might want to hear."
"In exchange for the forensics results?"
I nodded. I sat down in a leather chair next to his desk.
"Okay." He typed "Carter" into his keyboard, calling up the file. "The bullet matched the Winchester rifle left in an abandoned car near 43th Street and Buchanan."
I stared at the family photos set on his desk. "The rifle is registered to Katherine Waston."
"Actually to Mark Hensen, Katherine's husband."
"Katherine's prints were on the rifle, right?"
"Yeah, that's right." He turned to me, folding his hands. "The car was registered to her as well."
I wasn't convinced that Katherine acted on her own. "I assume you took her into custody."
"Of course." He leaned forward, picking up a silver-framed picture of a boy and girl sitting on alphabet blocks. "We arrested her a few hours ago."
A good place for her at the moment. "With Samatha and Rachel dead, that leaves us with only Katherine and Leslie."
How much did I really know about Leslie? Was she really in Japan when she said she was? She didn't leave me a phone number to contact her at. I bet, though, she was at her house. I'd have to take a drive over there. "I need two officers, pronto."
"For what?" Officer Morgan stood, slapped his palms against the desk and leaned forward.
"To capture the 'brains' behind our killer." I turned to the door. "Before we go, can I use your phone." I moved back toward the desk.
"You wait outside until you hear I am in danger." I straightened the wires attached to my body, buttoning my creme-colored blouse. The two police officers hid in the large bushes.
After knocking on Leslie's door for about five minutes, Leslie opened the door. Surprise to see me, I'm sure. "Detective, I was just trying to call you."
"I figured you would rushed right back after learning of Ben's shooting." I smiled, stepping into her foyer. "I hope I'm not disturbing you."
She told me to come in and have a seat. "I heard about Rachel too." Her finger wiped away an invisible tear. "You've got to find their killer."
"We did." I sat down on the white leather couch. "Katherine Watson. I really didn't think she had it in her."
She took a seat on the opposite end of the couch. "That's terrible. I hope she gets all she deserves."
It was hard to believe Leslie committed the crime. She seemed so poise, so calm. She even looked me straight in the eye. "I have a theory, though. I think Katherine has an accomplice."
She gasped. After she composed, she frowned, "Who did you have in mind?"
"You."
"I didn't kill Ben or Rachel."
"No, you didn't." I stood up, pacing in front of her. "You convinced Katherine to kill her own flesh and blood." I stopped momentarily. "In exchange, you promised to split the inheritance."
"You can't prove that."
I was silence for a moment. "The Cathedral telephone company confirmed you called Katherine just before each murder."
"You're wrong." She stood up, walking toward me. "Katherine did it all on her own." She inched closer to me. My heart pounded. Did she have a gun? Before I knew it, she lunged at my throat. We fell to the ground.
"Freeze!" The two policeman burst through the door. One grabbed Leslie off of me and handcuffed her. The other helped me to my feet. Another criminal in custody. Ben and Rachel could recover in peace.