Sometimes I’m psychic, like when the phone rang Saturday afternoon at five-oh-four, and my ear detected trouble.  I stood at my door, a bracelet of keys dangling from my freshly manicured fingernails. 

     I rubbed the afternoon stubble on my chin and wavered: to flee or not to flee?  My Protestant work ethic won.  I crossed to the phone.  “Harry Bennet Investigations.”  I’m Harry.  No pun intended.

     A female voice came back, “This is Laura Crane.”

     My ears perked at the socialite’s familiar name.  “Laura Crane?”

     “Yes.  Can you see me tomorrow?”  Her voice broke.  “Please, don’t say no.”  My appointment book stood open, and I penciled her in.  Sure I die for my Sundays, but I’m not heartless.  “Fine, nine o’clock.”

     Crane hung up quickly without giving me a topic.

     I assumed divorce.  As a private investigator, divorce cases keep sushi on the table.  It’s a dirty business, full of lewd photos--sometimes I look.  What can I say?  I’m a naughty boy.  I’m also good at my job, loyal to my clients, and harsh on infidelity.  I’ve been there with Hank.

     I locked the office and drove to Siesta Key beach across from my condo.  The sugar-fine sand does it for me.  I kicked off my shoes and pondered the fact that wealth and morals are seldom bedfellows.  I breathed in the sweet salty air, and thanked the Almighty for work.  I needed money. 

     Crane arrived early the next morning, tall, big-boned, and trim with a two carat diamond that made me quiver.  She wore a pale blue sheath dress.  Personally, I prefer brighter hues, yellows and oranges, but blue worked for her.  A handsome middle-aged woman except for the droop: shoulders, mouth, even her limp blonde hair. 

     I ushered her inside, glad I’d upgraded my client chair to a plush Broyhill wingback.  “Can I get you a club soda or water?”--the only drinks I keep in the office. 

     She declined.  “I’m sick about my daughter, Monique.”

     So it wasn’t divorce.  “What’s happened?”

     Crane lowered her eyes. “We had a falling out, and she moved in with a man we don’t trust.  She’s only twenty-one, and ... and now she’s missing.”      

     Crane gathered her breath.  “A month ago Monique overheard her boyfriend, Brian, arranging to kill her.  He talked about staging an accident.” 

     “Did you call the police?”

     “Monique begged us not to.  The police can’t always protect you.  Jim agreed.  He’s my husband,” she clarified.

     An unfortunate truth, but off the track. 

     Except for wackos, people don’t kill for fun.  I sought motive. “If they aren’t married, how does Brian benefit?”

     “He’s the beneficiary of her life insurance policy.”

     The idea of a twenty-one-year-old thinking about insurance bothered me almost as much as the obvious motive.  “Tell me about the insurance?”  

     “I’m baffled.  Monique’s never wanted for anything, and then she ran off to Tarpon Springs with Brian and rented an ordinary house; Monique who always craved fine things.”

     I knew the place. “It’s picturesque,” I added.

     “To Monique St. Moritz is picturesque.” Crane started to cry but caught herself.  “She’s our only child.  Jim is going crazy.  He told her to cancel the insurance policy and get out.  We sent her twenty thousand.”

     The sum made my eyes water.

     Crane explained, “Monique is hiding under an alias.  That takes cash.”

     “What name?”

     “We don’t know.”  She added, “Jim told her to get a gun.” 

     I lifted an eyebrow.

     “There’s a time for self-protection,” she said. “Six weeks ago I surprised a masked man in our living room.  At first I thought costume party.  He looked like a pirate with his black bandanna.”

     I shifted in my chair, enjoying the image.

     She went on, “He demanded money.”  Her voice fell.  “He’d have killed us, but Jim, pulled his semi-automatic.” 

     I sobered.  Firearms happen in my business, but enthusiasts make me nervous.  “Where is Monique?”

     “She’s still in Tarpon Springs.  Supposedly, Brian thinks she’s come home and that we’ll ship her off to Europe.”  Delving into her purse, Crane retrieved a slip of paper.  “The address at the top is where they lived, and this one,” she pointed, “is where we sent the money.  But she doesn’t live there, and we’ve no way to reach her.”

     “No phone?”

     “Monique says phones are traceable, but why hasn’t she called from a pay-phone?”

     I wondered too.  “I’ll find her, but first, I’ll talk to your husband.”

     Crane paled.  “Jim warned me not to come here.”

     “Why?”

     After several beats she said, “He wants to handle Brian.”

*** 

That afternoon I called on James Crane.  He’d told me not to come, but somehow Mrs. Crane had convinced him otherwise.  He reluctantly greeted me at his door, a tall man, blond like his wife with eyes a shade darker, a sultry lapis blue.  Gorgeous, gorgeous, gorgeous. 

     “Harry Bennett.” I offered my hand. 

     Crane didn’t take it.  He frowned.  “Come in quickly or the damn alarm goes off.  I suppose Laura told you we were robbed.”

     I nodded and stepped inside his gulf-side mansion.  Rich fabrics in shades of beige went on forever, a few ornate antiques tossed in for accent, stuff I’d seen in Architectural Digest but never in person.

     Crane moved toward his wet bar; his annoyance showed in the set of his jaw.  “Do you want something to drink?”

     I wanted his house.  “Nothing right now, thanks.”

     Crane poured himself a glass of imported water, the kind I buy when I’m flush. 

     I meandered over to an oil painting behind the sofa.  A delicate creature looked back from the canvas with misty dark eyes, shoulder-length black hair, and budding breasts.  “Monique?”

     “Yes, my daughter.”

     He crossed the room to where I stood, and my gaze switched back and forth between him and the painting.  Nothing about Monique resembled Mommy or Daddy.  Her porcelain face had a long slender look.  Her ebony eyes brooded, nothing like their bonny blues.  Crane noted my confusion.

     “Monique is adopted.”  Turning, he stared out at the Gulf.  “Such a beautiful child.  We gave her everything.”  He tightened his fist.  “She’s drawn to bad men.  Suave, hungry, you know the type?”

     Did I ever. 

     “Last year she hooked up with Euro-trash, a real loser, Antonio.  I bought him off.  Monique hated me for a while, but it had to be done. We thought she’d learned her lesson; then Brian came along.  He’s from a respected Sarasota family, but he’s a thief.”

     I asked for a photo.

     “All the recent photos are upstairs.”

     I followed him up a sweeping staircase. 

     Monique’s room was a pink truffle set off by sugar-white wicker and accented with Lladro figurines.  It looked edible.  Yum. 

     Snapshots covered her bulletin board, each with a tag: Surfing in Maui, Senior trip Paris, Skiing Italian Alps.  In the ski picture, Monique snuggled against a swarthy stud.  His bright yellow scarf caught my eye.  I covet yellow. 

     “That’s the man before Brian, Antonio Ferrara.”

     As enticing as Antonio was, I reached for the photo of Monique and fair Brian.  “I’ll take this one.”  I studied Brian’s angelic face. 

     Crane saw my doubt.  “Believe me, he’s bad.  I golf with Florida Trust’s President.  He fired Brian for churning elderly client’s accounts.”

     “What?”

     “Churning is when you buy and sell just for commission.  Sometimes Brian bought and sold the same stock three or four times in a day.  Raked in fees on the trades.”  Crane shook his head.  “What attracts her to these men?”

     Tight buns, broad shoulders, six-pack abs, pouty lips?  I feigned incredulity and pocketed the photo. 

     We descended the stairs. 

     Standing at the door, Crane’s temper surfaced.  “If ... If that son-of-a-bitch thinks he can get away with murder....” He didn’t finish.

     Payoffs to gigolos were one thing, blowing someone’s brains out another.  Crane’s allure faded. 

     “No one gets away with murder, if I can help it.”  My undertone implied, not even you, Mr. Crane.

     Crane’s eyes narrowed.  “I want my daughter back.  Laura says you can do it.”  

     I told him what I told his wife, “I will find your daughter.”  What I didn’t say was dead or alive.

*** 

The next day, I drove up to Tarpon Springs and found a motel overlooking a lake edged by mansions, a testament to the once booming sponge business.  Ah, for the days when Ouzo flowed like water.... 

     Once I’d emptied my suitcase, I drove past Monique and Brian’s former love nest.  A For Rent sign stood in the yard.  I noted the phone number.  Next I headed for the address Mrs. Crane had given me, a mailbox place called The Postal Plaza.  It offered customers individual addresses to receive mail and custom shipping services.  Criminals and scam artists use these places, as well as the innocents.  Certainly, it offered a place for Monique to receive Daddy’s money and not be traced.  Crane said they’d addressed the envelope to “occupant.”  A chill caught me, thinking of the trash mail I toss daily.

     A short stocky woman with an afternoon shadow on her upper lip greeted me.  Anna.  Unfortunately, I had more in common with Anna than with Monique.

     I flashed the photo of Monique and Brian.  “Have you seen this woman?”

     Anna stifled surprise.  “Yes.  Nice girl, this Mary Watson.”

     I made note of Monique’s new name and pumped her for times.  “When?”

     Anna closed up and it took me some cajoling and the partial truth that her parents were worried about her. 

     Finally Anna said, “Mary came in yesterday.  This girl, she got big problems.”

     I tried to sound casual, “Problems?”

     Anna’s dark eyes lowered. 

     I prompted, “I’d like to help her.” 

     “To God, I swear.  She come in yesterday and say, ‘I got to hide.  There’s a man outside?’  I see him, sure.  A blond man, nice looking, but Mary’s big-eyed scared.”  Anna pointed to the photograph.  “That’s him.  He’s crossing the street, coming here.  Mary begs me, ‘Don’t tell him nothing.’  She hides behind the door.”  Anna indicated a room stacked with boxes.  She continued, “He don’t come in, but he peeks in the window.  I’m about to die from not breathing.  Once he’s gone, Mary comes out.  Calls a taxi, goes home.”  Anna wiped her brow. 

     My brain spun.  So, Brian had traced Monique to Tarpon Springs.  But had he found her condo?  “Did Moni--I mean Mary say anything?”

     “Nothing.  I don’t ask.  But it’s not money.  This girl’s got plenty, with the clothes, and always the taxi.  The driver--my cousin, Dimitrio--he says she comes from those new golf course condos.  Fifteen dollars each way, plus big tips.  Yuppies.  The waste.”

     I yearned for waste.  

     Anna directed me to the condos. I thanked her profusely.  Basically she’d solved my case.  I now knew Monique’s alias and where she lived.  First day on the job and a wrap-up.  It seemed easy--way too easy. 

     I sped down Highway 19 toward the rolling hills of Tarpon Woods Golf Club and pulled up to the guard gate.  Flashing a smile at the acne-faced security attendant, young and corruptible....  I wondered, then got back to business.  I asked for Mary Watson.

     He came back, “You with the Sheriff’s department?”

     “Why?” nearly popped out, but I caught myself.  Something was up.  I played along. “Yes,” I said, in my best imitation cop tone, thinking my Chevy Caprice might pass for an unmarked.

     “Who got killed?” he asked. 

     “Can’t say.”  My brain pulsed the word killed while the guard directed me to Monique’s unit.  I felt that sick sensation that comes when you know you’re too late.   

     Monique’s high-rise building faced the water--an idyllic setting except for the crime scene frenzy out front.  Strobes flashed on Pinellas County green and whites and other official vehicles...even a body wagon.  My heart thumped like a flat tire.    

     I showed my credentials to the deputy at the door.  He eyed my nails and snarled.  After a lengthy discussion, he called his supervisor, a former cop from Sarasota.  He looked happy to see me though he didn’t carry on, just said, “Harry’s okay.”  The lowly deputy grudgingly let me under the yellow crime scene tape and led me up to a penthouse.  

     Monique’s taste, like her parents’ was top-of-the-line, and from the looks of the place, they must have sent another twenty thou’ to Postal Plaza.  And what did their money buy?  Not life.  The covered body lay on the floor under a picture window framing the turquoise Gulf of Mexico waters. 

     The medical examiner was removing his snappy rubber gloves. 

     I sidled up.  “How long has she been dead?”

     He shrugged and uncovered the head for me.

     A shock of blond hair caught my eye, then Brian’s sweet face with that God awful empty stare.  “Whoa,” I whispered. 

     “The girlfriend’s in the bedroom.”

     “Monique?”  I pivoted on my heel, pushing past technicians.  I pictured her, holding a smoking gun.  But as I parted the crowd around her, I had my second surprise of the day.  James Crane.  His muscular frame hovered over his little girl.    

     I fumed, sure the bastard had killed Brian. 

     Crane introduced me to the local detectives and described Brian’s death threats. 

     Monique outdid her photos, a study in vulnerability.  She appeared near collapse. Understandable, but I’d expected some sign of relief with her nemesis dead.  Instead I detected fear.  She wrung her pale hands. 

     Crane said, “Monique called me, said Brian was stalking her.  I drove up, immediately.  Brian broke through the door early this morning.  We thought he was armed.”

     Monique called Daddy.  Called Daddy.  I spotted a buff-colored phone.  Flags waved: phone. 

     My legs trembled, listening to Crane vow his assistance to the detectives.  Gorgeous did not describe his lying eyes.  He sucked. 

     I panned the room. 

     It looked like an explosion in a boutique.  Her designer frocks scattered over the bed and open suitcase, the colors of home, all beiges and off whites.  Caught up in my own fury, I almost missed the second flag.  Bright and fluid as lemon pudding, the yellow scarf draped over the sandy hued garments.  It struck like a train.   

     “Mr. Crane, we’ve got to talk.”

     Monique’s slender hand brushed away tears.  “I want to forget.  Can’t you understand what I’ve been through?  The man I loved tried to....”  To Daddy she said, “Let’s go home.”  Just what he wanted.

     Crane shot me with words, not bullets,  “Your services are no longer needed.  Send me your bill, Bennet.” 

     I left determined to pursue my suspicions.

                                 *** 

     I spent days making calls.  Using the number on the For Rent sign, I phoned Monique and Brian’s former Tarpon Springs landlady.  After due persuasion, she offered an earful, and so did my next interview, the salesman who sold the infamous life insurance policy.  The next series of calls were to the State Department’s Bureau of Vital Statistics.  By the end of the day I had cauliflower ear.

     The next day, I had proof. 

     I called the lead detective with the Sarasota Police Department.  He gave me an afternoon appointment.  I hung up dissatisfied. 

     I’d detected trouble at that first telephone warble, and my psychic sense stirred again.  Something inside me said to call the Cranes.  

     Monique answered. “I’m on my way out.”

     “Are your parents home?”

     She hesitated.  “Yes, downstairs.”

     “Let me talk to your mother, Monique.”

     “No.  She’s getting ready for a fund-raiser.”

     “I know everything.” 

     Her silence proved eerie, not golden. 

     I filled the void, “You told Brian to come back, set him up, even the incident at the Postal Plaza.  Then you called Daddy, claiming Brian was stalking you.  Your dad came fully armed.  He wasted Brian, didn’t he?”  Monique didn’t answer.  I went on,  “You were beneficiary on Brian’s policy.”

     She gasped. “How did...?”

     “The phone in your condo; little things that bit me.”  In the background I heard the whooping sound of a burglar alarm.  I envisioned a dark-faced robber.  “Don’t do this to your parents, Monique.  Today’s the day, isn’t it?” 

     She hung up.  No answer meant yes.  I took the stairs down two at a time, punching 911 on my cellular phone as I went.  I slid into my car, cranked the engine, and flew like a banshee.  The Cranes’ place wasn’t far, and I beat the police. 

     The scene inside their house resembled a two-tone Jackson Pollock painting with red blood splattered on the creamy pale sofas and carpet.  Monique held a tidy Smith and Wesson.  Gunpowder thickened the air.  I reached out.  “Give it to me.”

     Her skin paled as translucent as hoar frost, a cross between ice and ash.  She said, “I...I changed my mind.  I tried to help, didn’t I?” 

     Once I had the weapon, I rushed to the Cranes.  They lay in each others arms.  Mrs. Crane moaned deliriously, “Monique saved us.” 

     James labored for breath. 

     Before I spoke, the paramedics stormed in, then the law.  They started for the body slumped against the wall.  Antonio.  “He’s dead” I said, and pointed to the Cranes.  “They need assistance.”

     Antonio’s mask had fallen, exposing his dark hair.  In deference to Mrs. Crane, he resembled a pirate.  Like me he had a yen for bright colors.  Blood oozed from his chest barely discernible against his vivid fuchsia shirt. 

     Monique knelt beside him.  “He’s my husband.  We had dreams, a place in St. Croix, one in Lake Como.  We loved beautiful things.  I tried to keep him happy.”  She sobbed.  “But he wanted too much.”

     “I know,” I said.  According to Vital Statistics, licensing division, they’d been married six months.  Monique stood to inherit everything, just as Antonio planned. Who knows what Monique’s fate would have been after her honeymoon.

     “Tony made it sound easy,” she murmured.  “I didn’t know he’d kill, I....”  Her voice trailed off, and she grasped her stomach.  I understood.  Bang, bang you’re dead only happens in old movies.  Bodies bleed.  Lungs struggle for air.  Screams pierce your ears.  First time killers, even observers, puke their guts out. 

     “Antonio posed as the first robber, right?  Masked, armed, and dangerous....  The police have it on record so this second robbery looks like the culprit returned to finish the job.  Everything was yours, Monique.  You blew it.”

     Monique’s lips trembled, and I imagined she wanted to purge her guilt.

     But before she opened her mouth, her father whispered a warning, “Don’t say a word, baby.  Call our attorney.” 

     The medics hushed him, prepping him for transit to the hospital.