The Line
Look, there are days I don’t even like me, much less what I do. But, even the dirty jobs need doing, so they might as well be done by someone who is good at it.
Name’s Jack Lumley. I’m a private eye by trade, but I’d found a niche as a fixer for Hollywood types trying to avoid this scandal or that. Lots of stars with extracurricular activities the studio heads didn’t want to see in the headlines. You can guess the usual fare here. Something about being a star makes them not able to keep it in their pants when they should. Which is most of the time.
So, when I got a call that night from a VP at one of the studios, I didn’t think much of it. I suspected it was one of their A-listers who got caught on camera - again - with a boy young enough to be his nephew let’s say to be charitable.
The VP didn’t want to give me details over the phone, so I drove over through the heavy rain that was falling that night, and was on the lot in under a half hour.
The guy had one of those bungalow offices, set out in a row with a yard and flower bed, and all that good stuff. Seemed like an unnecessary extravagance, but what do I know about making pictures?
I walked up and knocked on the door, and the guy inside asked me who I was. Since I had nothing to hide - or at least didn’t know yet what I was supposed to be hiding, I identified myself.
I heard the bolt of the lock, and the door opened. The VP, a short heavyset man hustled me in. I noticed he wasn’t wearing a jacket or tie, and his rumpled white shirt was soaked through with sweat. Of course, the blood on his right sleeve and the front of the shirt stood out even more.
“What the hell is going on?” I asked. I’d worked for this guy before, and I never liked him. I know he thought of me as a contemptible nuisance he had to use from time to time, but be damned if he’d think of me as anything of more significance than a cockroach.
“You will keep confidences and be discreet, won’t you, Lumley?”
I gave him the spiel about that being the whole point of my job and that privacy was my bread and butter.
“Alright, this way,” the VP said, turning away from me before I could acknowledge him. The bungalow wasn’t huge. There was the reception area which we were in, with a couple of doors to either side. He took me to the one that had a sign with his name and title on it and moved to open it.
“This is bad,” he said without turning to me. “Just. well, bad.”
I muttered that I understood, and he opened the door.
The office was as big as the reception area. There was a large wooden desk with dark red leather chair behind it and two matching armchairs in front. One side wall was dominated by a fireplace, and the side had three sets of shelves. Across from the desk was a couch - all these guys had couches in their office - with plants on either side. There were the usual photos with celebs and various awards from great to small on the walls. A coffee table between the couch and armchairs was flipped on its side, with a cascade of magazines and plaques flowing on the floor. And, next to the table was the body of a blonde.
Blood had poole around her head and it was obvious that she had been hit with a heavy award statuette. The fake gold really set off the blood. It was a weird thing to notice, but it was just one of those images that burrows into your skull and sticks with you.
“When did this happen?” I asked.
“Just before I called you.”
“What happened?”
“Does it matter, Lumley? Just fix it.”
I suspect it mattered to the girl a great deal. And, it mattered to me for a lot of reasons.
“Who is she?” I asked.
“Donna Koslowski, my secretary.”
I whistled. “So, why did you kill her?”
The VP looked at me. I could see the wheels grinding away inside his head. He wanted to lie, and he was just trying to decide if I would be dumb or deferential enough to accept it.
“I was sleeping with her, ok?”
“Go on.”
“Look, we were working late, I’d hate a little too much to drink, and she told me it was over. Her husband was starting to get suspicious, and she loved him, blah blah blah.”
“Who is her husband?” I asked, intentionally sticking with present tense.
“Some Pole laborer who works on sets and stuff. Blue collar guy. Nobody important.”
I really hated this clown.
“I take it you didn’t want it to end.” I said. It wasn’t a question.
“No. I got carried away. I….no.”
“So, how did your relationship with Mrs. Koslowski start?”
“You know, a lot of these girls out here will throw themselves at me. They all want to be in pictures, you know. Donna didn’t. Not for a minute.”
“So you started it?”
“Yeah.”
“Did she want it?”
“I assume so, or she wouldn’t have done it, right?”
“Well, you know how it is. Did she feel like she had a choice?”
“Lumley, I expect certain things from the girls who work for me. It’s part of the perks of the job. Don’t be naive.”
“So, to be clear, you forced her into it.”
“Never. She made her choices.”
“But if she hadn’t agreed she, and probably her husband, would have been out of work.”
“Possibly. Possibly. But it was her choice. I never threatened or hurt the girl.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“Before tonight. You know what I mean.”
“Okay, so you want me to get the girl out of here and make sure there’s no evidence linking this to you, right?” I asked, trying - if not too hard - to keep the hint of disdain out of my voice.
“No. I mean, that won’t help. Everyone here knows the score. Most of them wouldn’t say a word about my relationship with her, but once the cops start turning the screws, well, who knows?”
“So what do you have in mind.”
“Give them a viable suspect,” he said, almost too quickly.
“How’s that?”
“Look, I’ve worked this out. Make it look like someone else did it. Someone who knew she’d be working late. Someone with a motive.”
I could see where this was going. But I wanted to make sure.
“Who did you have in mind?” I asked.
“It’s obvious. The husband. For all I know he’s capable of it. Besides, the cops will believe it from him. Big, dumb guy. Probably jealous. Surely capable of murder.”
He had said it so nonchalantly that I was thrown for a loop. This man had already plotted the job. He just needed some meathead - that would be yours truly - to carry it out.
“What did you have in mind?” I asked.
“It’s raining, right? If you got his shoes and made footprints from the window to body, it could work. And then, when you are done, stash the muddy shoes in the car along with the awards statute. You’ll want to wipe award down, you know, fingerprints.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard of them.”
“This works out, that idiot will be in jail by tomorrow at noon,” he said.
“He may even get the chair. That worry you?” I asked.
“Not my circus, not my monkeys. Look, I’ve got a lot of worth around here. This Koslowski guy is a nobody. No one will care what happens to him.”
I looked down at Donna’s body.
“Listen, Lumley, it’s a job. I’ll pay double your usual rate. What do you say?”
“Well…there’s one thing you are forgetting.”
“What’s that.”
“An alibi. We need you to be somewhere else. Go somewhere where someone will vouch for you for the whole night. Shouldn’t be too hard for you. Be seen. I’ll take care of the rest.”
“Yeah, I can go to The Havana. That’ll work.”
I knew the joint. A high scale club where the rich and powerful could see and brag about seeing each other. Presumably he had enough bootlickers there that he could get someone to say he’d been there all night.
The rain was letting up outside. “Go on. It’ll take me a couple of hours to get this done. Go straight to the Havana and stay put until…,” I checked my watch, “1 a.m. Then straight home. When the cops talk to you, and they will, you left here around 7, and were at the Havana by 9. Got it?”
“Sure. Yeah.”
“I assume Koslowski isn’t the same shoe size as you.”
“I wouldn’t think so. He’s a big guy. I’m a 9.”
“Ok. Give me Koslowski’s address so I can nab his shoes. And yours so I can swing by when it’s done and give you the all clear. Don’t worry, I won’t come in. Just honk twice if the coast is clear.”
The VP gave me the addresses and I picked up the bloody statue with my handkerchief.
“Be home by 1:30, okay?”
The VP thanked me and we left. I told him to leave the door to his office unlocked, and we parted ways.
*****
Stealing the shoes was a piece of cake. I just had to pick the lock to the back door, which was easy peasy. No one was home, and I found a pair without difficulty. I was in and out in five minutes, tops.
Back at the VP’s office, I pushed the shoes into the mud of one of the floor gardens and then made a set of fake prints going through the front door and into the office area. The prints were good and clear.
Finally, I took the shoes and the statute and jimmied the trunk of the right car. I tossed everything into the trunk and shut it.
Come 1:30, I was outside the VPs house. I could spot him looking out his front window. I glanced around, and, seeing no one, I honked twice then drove off.
*****
The next morning, I hauled myself out of bed and headed to a diner near the studio that I sometimes haunted. The food was not great, but the coffee was, and the place was open 24/7. What’s not to love.
I ordered a cup of Joe, made a quick call and settled in.
*****
Now, I wasn’t there for this part, but based on what I heard after the fact, it went down like this.
Donna’s body was found around 9:30. The cops arrived about the time the VP strolled into work without a care in the world.
He stuck to the script we had worked out, and Koslowski was told to drive over to the office toot sweet.
Fortunately, the cops had cordoned off the building, so Koslowski didn’t have to go in and see his wife at the crime scene. When G.K. Driscoll, a homicide detective, began questioning him, with the VP hovering around looking all confused, Koslowski said he had tried to report his wife missing late last night, but the boys downtown didn’t take a report because she hadn’t been gone long enough.
As for his whereabouts the prior evening, Koslowski told Driscoll he and a couple of the guys working on the set of that new musical comedy had gone to grab a few drinks after they knocked off for the day. He would have taken Donna home, but she said she had to work late. Again.
Driscoll asked if he could see Koslowski’s shoes. The guy was puzzled because they still hadn’t told him what this was all about. But, he showed them his shoes. They weren’t clean. But they weren’t muddy.
At this point, a cop walked up to Driscoll and said that the murder weapon was nowhere to be found.
This is when it clicked. Koslowski started asking who was murdered, and then with a horrible dawning, he realized it was Donna, and he knew they were looking at him for it.
Koslowski started to cry, big and ugly.
Driscoll - in a sympathetic voice - told Koslowski that if he could say anything that would help them, now would be the time to do it.
Koslowski glared at the VP. “Ask him. If anyone knows anything it’ll be that….him.”
“And why is that,” the homicide dick asked.
“He’s been sleeping with her. He thought I didn’t know, but he has!”
Now, this couldn’t have been going better than the VP had planned. Koslowski just shouted out his motive. But, the VP was rattled. He somehow thought this whole thing could play out without at least some of his secrets seeping out. So, in his flustered state, he blurted out. “He did it! Check his car! You know he did!”
Driscoll nodded and looked at Koslowski. “You mind if we search your car? If you didn’t do anything, it might help rule you out. What do you say, son?”
“Search whatever you want! But you better have your guys hold me back so I don’t hurt that bastard.”
“Not the worst idea,” Driscoll said, waiving over a uniform. “Officer White, why don’t you let Mr. Koslowski have a seat in the back of your prowler. No need for cuffs right now. Mr. Koslowski, is that okay with you?”
Koslowski nodded.
“Good. Say, mind if we get your car keys?
Koslowski handed his keys to Driscoll and wordlessly followed Officer White to the police car, where he was put in the back without incident.
Driscoll and a couple of other uniformed officers walked over to Koslowski’s car. The VP trailed behind. Like I said, I wasn’t there, but I can almost imagine the show the guy put on, pretending not to know what was about to happen. Then again, maybe the guy can’t act. He’s a suit, not talent after all.
Driscoll handed the keys to one of the officers and said “Open it up, Jerry.”
They searched through the car’s interior and didn’t find anything of note.
I can imagine the VP boiling like a potato just waiting for them to get to the trunk.
When they finally did open the trunk door, they could all - cops and the VP - that inside the trunk was a spare tire, some tools, some miscellaneous junk, but no muddy shoes. And no murder weapon.
“Well that’s disappointing,” Driscoll said, turning to the VP. “Any other ideas where the evidence may be.”
“I. It should be. I. Maybe his house?”
Driscoll nodded. “That’s a good idea. We’ll check out his house. Thank you for your help, and sorry you had to deal with this. The coroner will have her out of your office shortly, and you should be back in business.”
The VP thanked them.
Driscoll started to walk away and then stopped as if he had forgotten something minor. “Oh, hey, since we are here, do you mind if we do a couple of housekeeping things to help narrow the suspect list. I mean, obviously I think we’ve got our guy,” Driscoll said waving towards the car that Koslowski sat in. “But I’d like to eliminate you altogether just so his lawyer doesn’t get cute. You know how they are.”
“Of course,” the VP said.
“So, could you open up your trunk to. Just so we can check it off the list.”
The VP was happy to oblige and walked to his ‘53 Packard drop top. He unlocked the trunk and flung it open.
Inside were a pair of muddy shoes and a coveted award covered in blood.
The VP, by all accounts, stood in a stupor. “Those your shoes, sir,” Driscoll asked.
“No! Wait. Yes. They. Hold on!” the VP stammered.
“Cuff him,” Driscoll said.
And they led him to a different car from Koslowski and took him away.
*****
The police brass in this town will usually look the other way when studio heads bend or break the law. But they have their lines that they won’t cross, and murder is one of them.
But the cops aren’t the only ones with moral lines in the sand. Even I have them. I’m sure you are smart enough to put the pieces together as to whose shoes I took and whose car I put the evidence in.
As for that call I made, it was to Driscoll. All I told him was to make sure to check all the cars at the office during his investigation. I didn’t say anyone in particular’s car. And I didn’t need to. Hell, Driscoll may have even done it anyway as part of his process.
Still, I did what I had to do for my own sake.
I read in the paper last week that my employer was convicted and was going to get the chair. Good. He deserves it.
But, all that to say, I still have a regret.
It’s not breaking my confidence as a P.I. or even betraying my client. Sometimes the greater good demands it.
No. My only regret is that I forgot to get paid for that job in advance.
Live and learn.
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