Peter Spiegelman - Death's little helpers

“When you told the police about the phone calls, did they put traps on your line?” Neary asked.

“Sure they did, at which point the calls stopped. And that was the pattern: I was always playing catch-up. As soon as I talked to the postal inspectors about my mail, the mail tampering stopped and the e-mail shit started. When that happened, our tech guys put some sort of monitor on my account, after which there were no more harassing messages. And then my boss got the fax.”

“Did anybody ever confront Pflug?”

“Several times. He claimed to have no knowledge of anything, of course, and he could prove he was on the other side of the country when this shit was happening. There was no evidence that pointed to him- or to anyone else, for that matter.”

“Are you sure it was Pflug?” I asked.

Gerber was quiet again and I worried that I’d angered him, but when he spoke his voice was soft.

“After the business with the fax and the pictures, things went quiet. A week, a month, two months go by and nothing happens, and I’m thinking it’s finally over. And then…” Gerber coughed softly a few times and took a deep breath. “Then one night I come home and my doghis name was Murrow- is gone. He was a fat old Lab, arthritic and deaf and half blind, who’d sleep all day in the back yard. He barely got himself up to take a leak anymore, and on his best day he couldn’t have jumped my fence, any more than he could’ve opened the gate by himself. But he was gone.

“I called the cops, and ten minutes later a prowl car came to my house. They took me up the ridge to the edge of a ravine, and… down below was Murrow.” He paused again and sniffed. “A jogger had phoned it in just an hour before, and she was all freaked out. And why not? I mean, how often do you see a headless dog?”

Gerber sighed heavily. Neary looked at me and shook his head.

“The cops told me it was probably local kids. They said they’d had problems with pet killings in some neighborhoods on the other side of the canyon, and this was probably the same thing. They said they’d be working it, but they didn’t sound hopeful.”

“What did you think?” I asked.

“Not much of anything, just then. I was… I was pretty much in shock. But afterward… I knew.”

“What happened?”

“About a month later, I was having lunch with a friend of mine at a place in Santa Monica and the waiter comes over and tells me I have a call on their pay phone. I pick it up, and on the other end is Pflug. He tells me he’s calling to say how sorry he was to hear about my dog, and isn’t it terrible about kids today, and what’s wrong with our cities anyway? And then he laughs like a maniac, and says I can change my underwear now because he’s done with me. And then he hangs up.”

“Was he done?” Neary asked.

“Nothing else happened- except I didn’t get a decent night’s sleep for about a year afterward.”

“You go to the cops about it?” I said.

“And say what? I had no proof of anything, and by then I knew Pflug didn’t leave a trail.” Gerber was quiet for some time, and then he found his voice and his bitter laugh again. “So that’s how I know Pflug is good at his work. That’s my cautionary tale. Any other questions?”

Neary and I looked at each other. We were out of questions, and we told Gerber so and thanked him for his time.

“I can’t say it was a pleasure, but if it serves to screw up Pflug a little, I’m glad to do it. Any chance you guys want to tell me a little more about what’s going on?”

Neary smiled. “Sorry, George, but in the words of a fine journalist I know: no fucking way.”

Gerber laughed. “Then I wish you luck- and if you get the chance, give that bastard a kick in the nuts for me… and give him one for Murrow too.”

Gerber hung up and Neary rubbed his eyes. “Hell of a guy, this Pflug,” he said. “Maybe I won’t let him work on my rA©sumA©.” I nodded. “Those pictures- of Jane and your nephews- from what Gerber said, they seem to be right up his alley.”

“It seems so.”

Neary looked at me. “Chances are, he won’t tell us shit about who his client is.”

“Nevertheless, I’m looking forward to the discussion.”

Peter Spiegelman

JM02 – Death's Little Helpers aka No Way Home

Neary said he would work on a meet with Pflug, and I didn’t object. Chances were, Pflug would be more receptive to his approach than to mine, and I knew Neary didn’t entirely trust me to manage it without bloodshed anyway. I took a subway uptown, and the ride to Union Square was filled with the memory of those photographs, the look on Jane’s face as the elevator doors slid shut, and the choked sound of George L. Gerber’s voice. By the time I got home, my head was aching and my teeth were clenched.

The only things new at my place were the phone messages. One was from Lauren.

“It’s me again. Will you please just give me a call?” No. The next one was from Paul Gargosian. His gravelly voice was full of amusement.

“This is one hell of a game of phone tag we got going. Call me back or stop by the building if you want. I’m pulling double shifts the next two days.”

And that was all; there was nothing from Jane or anyone else. I looked around my apartment, at the dust motes and the empty space, and thought about the prospect of waiting there for Neary’s call. I decided to take Gargosian up on his invitation.

A couple of weeks in Florida had left Paul Gargosian deeply tanned, and his teeth were very bright when he smiled. He was fifty-something, and broad-shouldered, and his black hair was dense and curly and dusted with gray. His thick nose was starting to peel. It could’ve been the lingering effects of vacation that made him seem so relaxed and affable, but somehow- from the spray of laugh lines around his eyes and the timbre of his voice- I suspected he was always that way.

“I wasn’t sure you were for real,” he said, smiling. His hands were wide and calloused, and his handshake was strong. “I figured maybe you were just a recording.”

“Some days I think the same thing,” I said. “You have time to talk now?”

“Sure,” he said. He held the door and ushered me into the lobby and over to the concierge station. “What’s so important you had to call a dozen times?” he asked.

“I’m looking for Gregory Danes,” I said. His eyebrows went up. I lied a little and told him I was working for Danes’s ex, who hadn’t heard from him since he’d left weeks before, and who was getting worried. “The guy filling in for you- Christopher- said you knew most of the tenants.”

At the mention of Christopher’s name, Gargosian rolled his eyes. “A recommendation from Chrissy- there’s a career highlight.”

“You know anything about where Danes is?”

Gargosian shook his head. “The last time I saw him was, I guess, the morning he left. It was early, and I brought his bags down and held them here while he went for his car. Then I loaded him up and he drove away. I haven’t seen him since.”

“No mention of where he was headed or when he’d be back?”

Gargosian grimaced a little. “He’s not real talkative- not to the guys who work here, anyway. He said he was going away for a whilethat’s what he said, a while- and he was having his mail held. That was it.”

“Has he ever gone away this long before?”

“He’s been away two, three weeks at a time before- maybe a little longer- but not like this.”

“He have a lot of luggage that morning?”

“A couple of bags, a briefcase- no problem fitting ’em in the trunk.”

“And he was alone?”

Gargosian’s eyes narrowed momentarily. “Yep.”