Chapter One

I rarely have use for trees or growing things but that night was an exception. This particular tree had everything I needed-a number of low branches making it easy to climb, an unimpeded view of the bedroom window, and enough distance from the street to make it unlikely anyone would spot me.

I clutched my Nikon SLR tightly, knowing if it dropped I couldn't easily replace it. The telephoto lens made it front heavy and its safety was never far from my mind. My own safety, by contrast, was never of much concern to me. Sooner or later my occupation would be the death of me, so there was no use worrying about it.

I used the telephoto lens as a telescope and kept the camera pointed toward the bedroom. I didn't look away much. That's how you miss things, and this was one shot I didn't want to miss.

I had wedged myself carefully between branches, so I didn't need my hands to hold on. I needed them to steady the camera though, which was heavier than its digital counterparts, but for some uses you still can't beat 35 mm. This was one of them.

Digital images are too easily tampered with, and thus not accepted by most judges. An actual photo could be altered too but not as easily. As I waited (and waited and waited), I reviewed everything I knew about the case.

Evan Snider had approached me a couple of weeks ago with suspicions his wife was cheating on him. After a look at her photo and another at him, I could see why. Snider's face was red and round, and the perpetual sheen of sweat that suffused it made him look like a newly washed apple. His wife was fifteen years younger, thinner, and far more likely to be found on the cover of Cosmopolitan, or the centerfold of Playboy for that matter.

For all intents and purposes Snider was an idiot. What did he expect when he married a bombshell like that? I guess women make fools of us all.

Not that Mrs. Snider was a model but she could have been. I'd have paid quite a lot to see that luscious body unclothed. Hopefully, tonight would be my chance.

Movement from the bedroom window drew my attention. I tensed slightly, shifted, and almost fell. I cursed myself for becoming distracted, then forgave myself because I'm basically a nice guy. I had to be careful-I was being paid a lot of money for this surveillance and couldn't afford to muck it up. So I pulled on my most professional demeanor, totally wasted on the tree but it made me feel better, and once again sought the window through the viewfinder.

As I adjusted the focus, her perfect body crystallized. It was as if she were standing only a few feet before me, talking to someone out of view.

"Son of a bitch!"

They must have entered together and I'd missed it. I kept one eye glued to her. I would have even if it hadn't been my job, for Mrs. Snider was slowly, tantalizingly, removing her clothes. Instinctively, my finger moved on the shutter. I took two shots of each stage of her striptease, in case one didn't come out. I felt a tad ignoble thinking about another man's wife as something akin to a boxed lunch, but only for a moment. It wasn't like they were going to be married much longer anyway.

While I clicked away, keeping in mind the number of shots I'd taken and how many were left, I kept hoping her partner would come into view. Otherwise, I wasn't accomplishing anything. Pictures of a woman stripping by herself are not grounds for divorce. Snider was rich and I was overcharging him. He knew it too but would rather give the money to me than to her. That's the theory at least. But it only worked 'cause I could deliver, another theory I would have to prove.

For another five agonizing minutes she kept up her dance. I stopped taking pictures, since further evidence would be redundant. Then her partner stepped into view and I almost fell again. The newcomer was just as naked, just as female and just as delicious. I clicked away while they rubbed, fondled and kissed. When they moved to the bed, which I unfortunately couldn't make out from my vantage point, I packed the camera away and began my careful descent. I had enough film to prove her infidelity and publish my own porn magazine.

My client would not be happy but he would pay, which was all I was interested in.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Snider. I know this must be very hard for you."

I was again wearing my most professional face. I had to make a conscious effort not to gawk at the pictures on the desk and instead forced myself to look at him. It was a bad trade off. After he left I'd find someone more pleasant to look at. Perhaps someone who might get some pleasure looking at me.

This was, of course, pure male fantasy. I'm not that much to look at. At six-two, I'm too tall, too thin-almost gangly except for the beer gut, making me look like a snake that had only recently eaten-with a large nose, a receding hair line and eyes that have bags under them even when they aren't bloodshot. The combination of my demeanor and appearance makes me look every bit the private investigator I am, though I'm no longer young or attractive enough to bring home the kind of women I am regularly called on to photograph. That hasn't always been the case, but age comes for us all. So I did what any self-respecting man would do. I found an angle in the mirror that almost flattered me and only look at myself that way. Believe it or not, it helps.

Snider studied the pictures. When he looked up at me his eyes were obscured by tears. "Who is she?"

"Her name is Janice Reese. She works in a new age bookstore in the East Village. I guess I don't have to tell you she swings both ways, but she lives alone at the moment and doesn't seem to be dating. Your wife met her in the store. They became friends, then lovers. I can't say how long the sex has been going on but they've known each other for years."

"I don't believe it."

"It's all in my report. It's thorough, believe me."

The phone rang and I picked it up. "Jackson Locke, Private Investigator."

"Hello, Jackson."

It was my ex-wife. She continued to call me periodically for no reason I could determine, except perhaps to tell me what a bastard I was. I knew it already, but a little reminder never hurt.

"I'm sorry, Becky, I'm with a client now."

"Is she pretty?"

"I don't have time for this. What do you want?"

"Never mind. Sorry I called."

And I was listening to a dial tone. I suspect there'd been a point in her life when Becky had been stable but that condition had long since passed. She blamed it on me. I blamed it on the fact she couldn't have kids, which took its toll on both her and the marriage. I'm sure using that fact to end the marriage was something she'd never forgive me, or herself, for. The funny thing was, I never wanted kids, but New York is not a 'no fault' divorce state, and I had to say something. It was either that or live with her mood swings for the rest of my life.

Mr. Snider had gathered up the pictures and was already standing. He extended his hand, and I took it.

"Thank you, Mr. Locke. The check for the remainder of your services will be sent out tomorrow."

"Good luck to you."

I walked him to the door. After he left I returned to the desk, opened the side drawer, removed a copy of the pictures and spread them out on the table. I played solitaire with Mrs. Snider and her lover for a while. There were no rules but it wasn't about rules at that point.

I thought about Mrs. Snider and Janice Reese. I thought about my ex-wife. I thought about getting drunk. But I never thought about what the eventual result of this case would be. My job was done and, unless I was called as a witness in a court case, I wouldn't have to think about it again.

I hadn't expected to hear from Evan Snider again and wasn't disappointed. However, almost six months to the day after I'd taken those photos, I received a visit from his estranged, soon-to-be ex-wife.

She was just as hot up close and personal as she had been from the tree. She seemed very composed as I ushered her into my office. She sat across from me. I took my own seat and steepled my fingers. I don't like surprises, and this was one I was not at all ready for. I braced myself for a verbal assault.

"What can I do for you, Mrs. Snider?"

She smiled, and I fought hard to remember she was the enemy.

"I just wanted to get a good look at you."

"For what purpose?"

"This is the last peaceful day you will ever spend. You were instrumental in ending a marriage I'd cultivated for a long time. I'll still turn a tidy profit on it, but not nearly as much as I would have without your damned photos. So now, you pay."

"And how do you intend to make me pay?"

I let my hand fall casually to the desk drawer, in which I kept my Smith and Wesson .38 caliber snub-nose. I knew I could have it out and ready for use before she could pull a weapon of her own, but she didn't move at all. She continued to watch me, smiling.

"What do you know of magic, Mr. Locke?"

"Stage magic? Ceremonial magic? What kind of magic are we talking about?"

"What do you know about black magic?"

"It's a great song."

She rose and lost her smile. It was like the sun had set. "Good-bye, Mr. Locke. I am so going to enjoy your demise."

I didn't believe in magic. I was intrigued but didn't continue the conversation. I walked her to the door. She winked at me before she left. I was confused and pensive, but she was gone and that was that.

Or so I had thought at the time.

The next morning I woke as I always wake. I was tired, achy, somewhat thirsty, and needed to take a leak in the worst way. I had a bit of a headache, but it wasn't due to a hangover as I hadn't been drinking the night before. Aside from the headache, I was quite all right until I glanced at the alarm clock.

I had an early appointment to meet a client, but the alarm hadn't gone off. I cursed, bolted upright and threw my legs over the side of the bed. Briefly I examined the clock and it was as if I'd never set it-but I knew I had. Had I turned it off in my sleep?

I stood too quickly, waited for the room to stop spinning, and stumbled into the next to look up the client's number. I turned on my computer, and while waiting for it to boot made my way to the bathroom to relieve myself and brush my teeth.

I stood at the sink and regarded myself in the mirror. Then I changed angles, realized I still didn't look so hot and probably would have to figure out another one soon. I picked up my toothbrush and froze. There was something wrong with it.

The tips of the bristles were brown. I held it to my nose, sniffed and immediately regretted it. Someone had put shit on my toothbrush. When had they done that?

"Son of a bitch!"

I'd brushed my teeth before bed, and it hadn't been there then. Someone had entered my house while I'd been sleeping. I dropped the brush in the sink, and spun. I looked briefly in the bathtub but there was no one there. I ran back to the bedroom, opened the drawer by the side of the bed and pulled out a colt revolver. I had a number of guns stashed about the place, not counting the one I usually carried on my person. A man in my line of work can't be too careful.

I moved through the house as carefully and quietly as I could, but there was no sign of intruders. All the windows were still locked from the inside, and the front door was not only locked but bolted. That meant whoever was here had been here when I'd come home and was still here now. There was no way out.

I searched the house and found nothing, then thought about Mrs. Snider and her black magic. I rejected the idea immediately but couldn't stop thinking about it. She had told me I wouldn't have another peaceful day, and the very next morning someone had broken into my house. They'd shut off my alarm, making me late for an appointment, and dipped my toothbrush in excrement. As if that weren't enough to get my panties in a bunch, they were still about, though where they could be hiding I had no idea. I am aware shit happens, thought it had never before happened on my toothbrush. As mornings go, this one sucked.

I had to call my client and apologize. That was the first order of business. I returned to my computer and stared at the screen. There in white letters on a black background were the words 'insert a bootable disk and press enter'. I checked to see if there was a floppy in the drive, but there wasn't. I reach down and pressed reset, but the message came up again.

I booted with a windows CD and checked, but the drive had been cleared. There was no data on my hard drive at all. I howled in frustration, jumped up and swung the colt around.

"Where the fuck are you? You come out now or be prepared to pay the consequences."

There was no movement. No sound. Nothing at all that hinted anything was wrong. I walked to the phone, picked up the receiver and placed it to my ear. It was dead. I looked down. It had been unplugged. I'd checked my voice mail before bed, so once again, someone had to have unplugged it while I slept. That someone still had to be here.

I searched the house from top to bottom but found no clue as to the identity of the intruder. Frustrated, I showered quickly, dressed, and opened the front door.

Whether I believed in magic or not, I was going to pay Mrs. Snider a call.

Copyright © 2004 Steve Lazarowitz