There's Something At The Door - Andrew Davie

There's Something At The Door by Andrew Davie

Book excerpt

I first met Monroe Carter after he’d killed himself. He’d taken his own life before, but I’m getting ahead of myself.

I’m an insurance investigator.

Typically, I spend my time waiting around in a car, lurking in alleyways or just blending into the background. Some guy tries to collect on workers’ compensation by claiming he threw his back out on the job. I follow him around for a couple of days and wait. The picture I take of him bowling negates his claim and convicts him of insurance fraud.

It was during an investigation that I met Carter.

The coffee had been doing a decent job battling against a hangover when my boss called. He explained the situation to me as being a top priority. I tried to weasel out of it, but he was firm. As I hung up the phone, I accidentally spilled coffee on to my pant leg. I let rip a series of expletives, then caught the six train uptown. Carter lived in an apartment on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. When I arrived, the police were already on the scene.

“Yeah, Carter,” I told the doorman. He was wearing a burgundy uniform with a matching cap and had a surly demeanor; probably pissed at the number of cops in the lobby messing up his routine.

“Eight D,” he said. I nodded and quickly made my way toward the elevator bank hoping to avoid any further animosity.

The apartment had already been cordoned off with yellow caution tape. The door was open, but a uniformed patrolman had been posted to the side. I showed him my credentials, and he let me pass.

I stepped into the living room and admired the view. Monroe Carter had just been promoted to CEO of an import/export company, which meant he needed life insurance.

A flash went off as I walked into the bedroom. The crime-scene photographer, a runty guy with the nose of a larger man, had an unlit cigar wedged into the corner of his mouth.

“Shame,” he said and continued to chomp on the end of it. Carter’s body lay crumpled on the bed. He’d placed a nickel-plated .45 against the side of his head and pulled the trigger. His skull had been scorched black by powder burns. Brain matter decorated sections of the comforter. Blood had pooled around the body, run down the corner of the bed and congealed on the carpet.

Still, Carter had a peaceful look on his face.

I stood there and took in the smell of cordite. I was occasionally jarred by the flash of the camera, and the hum of the forensic team that was combing the room for evidence. The gun was bagged, and the room was inspected for fibers and residue. All I had to do now was wait for them to rule out foul play. I nodded to the photographer on the way out.

“Damn shame,” he repeated. I noticed the cigar butt was gone and, as I made my way back through the hallway, I couldn’t help but be overcome by the feeling he’d eaten it.

“You idiots!” screamed a rather shrill voice. “He was murdered!”

I walked toward the sound of the voice and into the kitchen. Mrs Carter, or so I suspected, was holding court with two plainclothes detectives.

“Those bastards! They killed him!” she repeated.

“Ma’am, please try to calm down.”

She took a deep breath and inhaled half of the glass of wine in her hand in one pull and didn’t even flinch. It had taken me years of practice to do that. She wore some kind of low-cut dress which accentuated all the right places and even some of the wrong ones.

I could tell immediately she was not a woman to be trifled with.

“We’re sorry about this, Mrs. Carter, but it looks like an ironclad suicide,” the senior detective said. He had a weathered face as if the job had prematurely aged him.

“Listen to me. My husband’s killer is out there somewhere; find him!”

The younger of the two detectives, who hadn’t seen enough of the world yet to know better, voiced his opinion.

“If he was murdered,” he began to say and walked over so they only stood about a foot away from each other, “that would make you a suspect, too, wouldn’t it?” She didn’t reply. He turned to look at his partner. “Maybe we should take you downtown and have you fingerprinted?”

“You arrogant simpleton,” she began. I wished I had popcorn.

“Do you really think I’d offer the theory that my husband was murdered if I had anything to do with it?” she demanded. “I believe the phrase ‘ironclad suicide’ was used not one minute ago. Now, I didn’t murder my husband, but someone did. Go find them!” She punctuated the last part of her diatribe by slamming her fist on the table. Both detectives tucked their tails between their legs and backed out of the kitchen.

“If you think of anything that might help us,” the senior detective managed to say and handed over his business card. She watched them leave without saying a word. She killed the wine in her glass.

“Enjoying the show?” she asked aloud without turning around.

“I… uh.”

She turned to face me, and I got a good look at her for the first time. She was stunning.

“Who are you?” she asked. A hint of anger had crept back into her voice. She threw the detective’s card in the trash.

“I’m from Jones and Biggs.”

Mrs Carter eyed me suspiciously until she recognized the name then warmed up a bit.

“Have a seat. Would you care for a drink?”

“Scotch’d be great,” I offered. Mrs Carter fixed me a double and refreshed her own.

“As I’m sure you already know, Mr Carter had a policy with us,” I said.

“Oh?” she said. Her tone suggested she was surprised. Her charade might have fooled a lesser man, but I’m greater than most.

“Mrs Carter.”

“Please call me Cynthia.” She radiated charm, and I basked in its warmth.

“You stand to receive a large sum of money.”

She sat down at the table and crossed her legs. I tried better to hide my erection.

“However, if he’s found to have committed suicide…” I let the words trail off.

She drank more of her wine. A petite woman like her should have been reeling from the effects, but Mrs Carter was in complete control.

“Do you have dinner plans tonight?” she asked. I tried not to look surprised, but her comment had caught me off guard. Inside I felt like a pinball machine that had gone on tilt.

“I was just going to head home after work,” I said. She rose and escorted me to the front door. She took my scotch.

“Meet me at the Jacobs Club at 8pm,” she said.

She lingered in the doorway. When the elevator arrived, I got inside. Before the elevator doors closed she spoke.

“And wear something that hides the tent in your pants.”

Damn.

***

I got back to the office and typed up my preliminary report.

So far, as the detective said, it looked to be an ironclad suicide. The body had been taken to the morgue for an autopsy. The bedspread, firearm and clothes were all being processed. The only thing I could do was wait for the fingerprints on the weapon to be confirmed as Carter’s to close the case. In the meantime, I combed through the Carter policy and decided to call it a day.

The Jacobs club was a five-star restaurant that overlooked the city from the top of a skyscraper. I waited at the bar until she arrived. The elevator doors opened directly into the restaurant, and she emerged in a platinum gown. Diamonds dripped from her body, and her fragrance was intoxicating. The maître d’ trotted to her and took her mink. I left my spot at the bar and walked over.

“Mrs Carter, we are so sorry to hear the horrible news.”

“Thank you, Friedrich,” she said and frowned.

“Your usual table is ready whenever you are,” he said, bowed, and scampered off to greet the next party.

“You clean up pretty well,” she said.

“Thank you.”

We took our seats at a secluded table at the back of the restaurant. From our vantage point, the skyline of the city was breathtaking. She hardly glanced; I guessed it would take a lot to impress her. We ordered drinks and our food without looking at the menu.

“I take it you’re a steak man?” she said before the waiter could solicit my order.

“He’ll have the porterhouse, medium rare,” Mrs Carter said.

“Very good, Ma’am,” the waiter said and vanished.

She adjusted herself in her seat and presented an ample bosom. It’s a good thing I was wearing briefs.