Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine. Vol. 40, No. 6, June, 1995

“Just read the damned thing, will you?”

“And today’s winner is...”

I leaned forward.

“William Ackerman of St. Mary’s!”

“Damn!” I pounded my fist on the carpet hard enough to raise a cloud of dust.

Crazy Carlos was still blathering. “Now, Bill, you know the rules...”

Yeah, yeah, I knew the rules, too. The winner had to drive down to KRZY’s studio by five o’clock to pick up the money. If he didn’t, there’d be another drawing, this one at five fifteen. I switched off the radio and checked my watch: three oh-six. Maybe I’d get lucky and Bill Ackerman would have a flat on his way downtown.

I walked into the kitchen and made myself a consolation snack — buttered saltines and a Diet Coke — while I considered my options. Mai Benderson might have some extra work he could throw my way. Surveillance, maybe, or even a few hours of research on a missing person. Not much, but it might keep me from pulling my hair out waiting for the phone to ring. Or I could call my mom and see if she’d lend me enough to get through the month. But then I’d have to listen to her lecture me about how private investigation is no job for a woman, even though we both knew she was thrilled as hell the day I got accepted at the police academy. Which is pretty much the same thing, riskwise.

Of course, it’s not the danger that bothers her; it’s the fact that I work alone. As in, without any eligible men around. I sighed and crammed another cracker into my mouth. The only other option was to ask Dennis for an advance on my alimony check, and I’d sooner starve than do that.

Fortunately, I was spared all of the above when the phone rang.

“Cartwright Investigations.”

The voice on the other end made me think of cappuccino. Dark and rich.

“Miss Cartwright?”

“Cath. What can I do for you?”

“My name is Gordon Lively. Malcolm Benderson gave me your name.”

Good old Mai. I owed him one for this.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Lively?”

“I’d like to hire you to investigate someone for me.” He chuckled nervously. “It’s a long story, really. One that doesn’t translate well over the phone, I’m afraid.”

“I see. Well, I work out of my home, Mr. Lively, so I usually meet my clients at their place of work. If that isn’t good for you, we could meet at a restaurant, or the library...”

“Oh no. My office is fine. I think everybody around here knows the score by now anyway.”

“Sounds good.” I yanked a flyer for free carpet cleaning out of the trash. “When’s a good time for you?”

“Can you make it tonight? I should be free by five thirty. I’m afraid I’m in a bit of a hurry.”

I tested my pen out on a corner of the flyer. “Five thirty it is.”

He gave me the address and a cryptic set of directions that I more or less ignored. I never venture downtown without a map anyway. I told him I’d see him in a couple of hours and hung up, smiling. This was even better than Crazy Carlos’s thousand bucks. This was a case!

Five o’clock rolled around faster than I’d anticipated, and I found myself flying down the freeway to get to Mr. Lively’s office on time. I parked in a lot that advertised a three fifty maximum for parking after five and ran the three blocks to Lively Enterprises, located at the top of the U.S. Bank Building. I stepped into the elevator and pushed the button for the thirty-second floor.

Mr. Lively was still busy when I walked in. The receptionist offered me my choice of herbal tea, Evian, or espresso, all of which I declined in favor of five minutes in the bathroom to fix my hair and tuck in my blouse.

There were cloth hand towels in the ladies’ room and bowls of potpourri that smelled like spiced peaches in the lounge. The fixtures were gold-plated, and the floors were marble. From the look of things, Gordon Lively was a man who put his money where his mouth was. I finished drying my hands and headed back out to the reception area.

There didn’t seem to be anyone else around. I took a seat and looked at my watch: five thirty-six. Bill Ackerman had shown up at the KRZY studios just as I’d been walking out the door. Crazy Carlos put him on the air and made the man do his own version of Carlos’s hyena laugh before he’d given him the check. Honestly. The things people will do for money.

A small, neat secretary appeared and showed me to Gordon Lively’s office. Mr. Lively was sitting behind his desk in an enormous room full of chrome and leather furniture, but he stood when I entered the room. The place had an unobstructed view of the river and maybe a quarter mile straight down, which I tried not to examine too closely.

“Miss Cartwright,” he said, offering me a well manicured hand.

“Cath,” I corrected.

“That’s right: Cath. I forgot. Please, sit down.”

I did.

Gordon Lively’s hair was jet black with just the right amount of gray blended in at the temples. He had the barest hint of an accent and the courtly manners of a Southern gentleman. It was the middle of May, and already he’d acquired a tan that many of us would kill for.