Alan Cook - Catch a Falling Knife

“Well, I’m here a lot of the time,” Mr. Hoffman said, “except at night, of course, when I’m out on patrol.” He smiled a grim smile. “I do that from my truck so I don’t have to walk much.”

“You’re performing a valuable service for the community,” I said, trying to keep from biting my tongue.

Mr. Hoffman beamed again. He did have a nice smile. “We believe so. By the end of the 20th century, families had been rent asunder by the temptations of modern life. Our group is trying to promote family values before the human race spirals downward to catastrophe. If we don’t save the family unit at the beginning of the 21 ^ st century, we won’t be around for the end of the century.”

“So you think that keeping men out of the strip clubs and home in the bosom of their families is part of the solution.” I was beginning to talk like he did.

“That is where I am concentrating my efforts. The first step is to gather the license plate numbers. Then we can find the owners of the cars and contact their families and friends. We also urge the men who frequent these bastions of sin to seek professional counseling.”

A family portrait stood on the table beside the sofa where I sat. The three people in the picture were Mr. Hoffman, a woman who must be his wife and a girl, perhaps teenage. “I take it you have a daughter,” I said.

“Yes, a wonderful girl. She is the pride of my life.”

“What would you do if a boy came to date your daughter and he had been to a strip club?”

Tess, sitting beside me on the sofa, made a sudden movement. I glanced at her and saw that she was desperately trying to keep from what-laughing?

Mr. Hoffman’s expression darkened as he scowled. He said, “If a young man came here to see my daughter and told me he had been to a strip club he had better run fast in a zigzag manner.”

“I have a question for you about your patrol Monday night,” I said, quickly. “When you were at Club Cavalier did you happen to see a young lady dressed in a jacket with a hood and wearing a mask come out the back door and get in a car?”

Mr. Hoffman looked at me in a funny way so I continued, “You’re trying to save the patrons. Our organization is trying to save the dancers. This particular dancer always wears a mask and we’re not sure who she is.”

“Oh. No, I can’t say I did. What time would that have been?”

“Around 8:15. And again at about 10:15.”

“We didn’t arrive there until almost 8:30. And later we were covering other clubs. They are usually the most crowded between 8:30 and 10:30 on weekdays.”

“Well, you might have recorded the license plate of the car, anyway. You said you find out who owns the cars. She could be a student. Did any of the cars belong to students at Crescent Heights, do you know, possibly a female student?”

“None belonged to female students. I believe a couple of the owners had dormitory addresses. Of course, it’s possible that other cars might belong to students living in apartments or to their parents. But I’d be glad to give you the information on the ones I’m sure of.”

“We would appreciate that.” Maybe she was being chauffeured by a male student. Take what you can get. “Would you like some coffee now?”

I accepted, eagerly, Tess with less enthusiasm. I felt I had earned some coffee, although I almost regretted accepting when I saw what a struggle Mr. Hoffman had getting up from his chair.

While he was in the kitchen I picked up the framed picture from the end table and looked at it more closely. I sucked in my breath sharply and Tess said, “Lillian, what’s the matter?”

“This girl-Mr. Hoffman’s daughter,” I said, trying to keep my voice down but in danger of hyperventilating at the same time. “She’s the one who accused Mark of sexual harassment.”

“Are you sure?”

“Almost positive. She has the same dark hair. Same eyes. But she’s smiling in the picture and I haven’t seen her smile.”

Mr. Hoffman limped back into the room and said, “Coffee will be ready in a few minutes. And I’ll get you the addresses from my computer.”

“Your daughter is lovely,” I said, still trying to control my voice and my breathing. “How old is she?”

“Isn’t she a beauty? She’s twenty. She attends Crescent Heights College.”

“What’s her name?”

“Elise.”

“Elise Hoffman. Pretty name. Does she live at home?”

“No, she lives in an apartment near the campus. She won a scholarship. Smart as well as beautiful. Otherwise, we wouldn’t have been able to afford to send her to Crescent Heights. She would have had to go away to a state school and she’s too young to do that.”

I tried to think of the right question. “Is she having any trouble adjusting to college life?”

“In her first year she was always coming home on weekends. Now we rarely see her, except on vacations, even though she’s so close.” He sighed. “They grow up so fast.” He went back into the kitchen.

“I need to get her address,” I stage-whispered to Tess.

“Well, don’t go tearing up the place,” Tess whispered back. She knows me too well. “Why don’t you just ask him?”

Brilliant. Mr. Hoffman soon returned with the coffee and offered us cream and sugar, which I refused and Tess accepted. I took a couple of grateful sips from a mug with “Durham Bulls” printed on the side, being careful not to burn my tongue, and said, “One of the things we’re doing is talking to young women on college campuses because some of them have been known to work as strippers to earn extra income. Although I know your daughter would never do that, perhaps we could get her to introduce us to some of her friends.” I had trouble getting that speech out and when I had finished I held my breath.

“I think it’s excellent that you’re approaching this problem from the other side of the coin, so to speak.” Mr. Hoffman was smiling again. “Of course Elise would never consider such a thing. She is very supportive of my work, however, and I’m sure she would be glad to help you. Would you like to contact her?”

Yes, yes, I cried, silently, but outwardly I merely said yes. I pulled a small notebook and a pen out of my purse. Mr. Hoffman gave me Elise’s phone number. “What’s her address?” I asked, in an offhand manner. He gave it to me and I started breathing again. Well, why shouldn’t he give us information? We were just two harmless old women.

“Mr. Hoffman doesn’t know much about his daughter,” I said as we drove back toward downtown Bethany.

“You don’t know that,” Tess said. “There’s no reason he would discuss a sexual harassment charge with strangers. Particularly since the proceedings are confidential.”

“Even if that’s true, she’s his little angel and would never work in a strip club.”

“Again you’re making an assumption. You haven’t proved that Elise Hoffman is the Shooting Star.”

Why did Tess always throw cold water on my theories? Maybe her role in my life was to keep me honest. At least I had found out the name of Mark’s accuser without him telling me. Of course it was pure luck, but as a statistician I can tell you that if you want to succeed in life it helps to be lucky. But I would have found out her name in due course, anyway.

Now it was time for action. “I’m getting hungry,” I said. “If you can stand the noise and confusion, let’s eat lunch at the Crescent Heights College cafeteria. It’s a small school and there’s a chance we’ll see Mark there.” Or Elise.

We didn’t see either Mark or Elise at the cafeteria, but we did get some tasty pizza. They don’t serve pizza at Silver Acres and I have been known to talk my younger relatives and friends into going to a Pizza Hut upon occasion.