The name's Harken, Sam Harken. I'm a private eye.
It was a cold February night in my office in the Knickerbocker Building, and I just couldn't bring myself to go over that stack of bills and invoices one more time. I found myself instead assuming a Buddha-like quiet while listening to the radiator drip. Somewhere, across the lonely city, a fire engine was on its way to a fire.
It was about this time that my secretary buzzed me unexpectedly.
"Mr. Harken, there's someone here to see you."
I avoided toppling backward and answered back.
"Really?" The surprise came through in my voice.
"Yes. Shall I send her in?"
"Uh ... yeah ... yeah, sure."
I had hardly cleared my head and realigned my body in the general direction of the door when it opened. A long shadow fell across the room, leading up to an apparition, the figure in the blue satin dress slinking into the room. I could almost see my breath, as the strongest signal she gave off was coldness, from her pale blonde hair, to her icy eyes, to her skin that looked like moonlight on snow. Still, she had the sort of raw beauty that made the first primates do battle for a would-be mate.
Only the clop of her high heels against the bare wood of my floor put her on my level. While I was sure she made men feel inadequate on a fairly regular basis, the state of my office, a textbook case of squalor complete with hanging light bulb and general disorganization, still made me self-conscious. But then, she probably wouldn't expect anything else from your typical scrambled detective. And it was pretty exciting when she finally opened her mouth.
"I need your help," she cooed.
As I was fairly certain this wouldn't involve smearing warm coconut oil all over her, I remained calm and listened to what she had to say.
"My husband ... is missing."
Husband ... bummer. Missing ... now that held some promise.
"How long?" I asked, going for a cigarette.
"A week," she said. "He never came home after work. A few days ago, the police found his car in a ditch several miles out of town. But there was no trace of him."
I offered a cigarette. She pulled it from the pack.
"Who was your husband?" I asked, lighting my cigarette, then hers. "Did he have any enemies?"
"He's Hector Spector, the lawyer," she said.
Lawyer? So much for the enemies question.
"So, you're Mrs. Spector?" I ventured.
"Regina," she nodded.
"Ah yes, Regina Spector," I nodded back.
She squinted and smiled ever so faintly. "You've heard of me?"
"Of course."
Regina Spector had been a darling of the Hollywood gossip sheets for a couple years now. While her husband was the hotshot attorney, she was the one with the real ambition — wanted to be in pictures. Wanted to be a leading lady, but had such a penchant for being the bad girl. I cleared my throat.
"So, uh, did your husband have any enemies, Miss — Mrs. Spector."
She stepped away, the moonlight from the window backlighting her profile.
"I don't know about enemies." She took a puff. "But his clients were certainly interesting."
"Is that so? ... Who?"
"Well, up until last week, he did work for the mayor's office, Third Eye Motion Pictures, Grassly and Gramm Pharmaceuticals and Ethereal Estates Mortuary.
"Impressive list," I nodded. "Do you have a photo of your husband?"
"Yes, in my purse," she said, and holding the cigarette aside between two fingers she began to dig through her handbag with her free hand.
I took a breath. The list of clients was impressive — and tainted. The mayor's office was so corrupt, it made Bugs Moran look like Bugs Bunny. Third Eye Motion Pictures had a lock on every career in the film industry right down to the men's room attendants. The pharmaceutical company had never been the same since their former CEO, George Grassly, died from a side effect of one of their own skin creams. Wasn't pretty, I hear. As for Ethereal Estates ... let's just say they knew where all the bodies were buried. This was going to be a tough case, especially if she couldn't even find the lousy photograph.
"Oh, here it is," she emerged victorious and extended the picture to me between another two fingers.
I took it in. So this was the lucky jerk.
"Mrs. Spector, I'm afraid this case is going to take some time, given the list of possibly involved parties you gave me. It's going to take a while to track people down, talk to them ..."
"Or," she leaned in seductively, "you could just come to the party next week at the home of Lenny Inhofe, the radio show host. They should all be there, ripe for the questioning."
She turned suddenly and breezily made her way back out of the office. I hung in place, acclimating to her sudden absence. I grunted.
"Yes ... very ripe."