CHAPTER ONE

 

It is better to have been successful, and lost, than never to have been successful at all?

Bullshit!

In 1998 The Headstone Detective Agency had a dozen operatives working for me, thirty-year-old Johnny Headston.

In 2018 the Headstone Detective Agency consisted of one operative…fifty-year-old me.

I had handled a couple of big cases early in my career, which brought me attention and money, so I was able to open my office on Fifth Avenue in Manhattan. I began hiring operatives, grew to an eleven-man and one-woman staff, until the bottom fell out. (More on that later).

These days I’m still the Headstone Detective Agency, but now I’m down to a staff of one—me! I’m still in the same space—eighteenth floor of 580 Fifth Avenue—with empty desks stretched out across the floor, but that’s because my office is rent-controlled. Even if I moved somewhere with a quarter of the space, my going rate would more than double. And these days, even rent-controlled, is a struggle.

That morning I was pounding the cyber-pavement, looking for work, posting my services on the web through Facebook, Twitter, LinkedIn and any other service I could manage to understand, when my phone rang.

I kept a landline for business purposes, even though I carried my cell phone with me everywhere. When I was out of the office, I simply had the calls forwarded to my cell. But this was the landline ringing, which was encouraging.

“Headstone Agency,” I said into the phone. It was still the best way to let people know they had dialed the right number. Nothing fancy like “How may I help you?” or “How may I direct your call?” There was no call directing. I was it.

“I—I hope I have the right number,” a woman’s voice said, timidly.

“I’m sure you do, ma’am,” I said. “What can I do for you?”

“Well…I was going to come to your office, but I live in Westchester County.”

It would have been a train ride into the city, but I said, “We can do this over the phone, ma’am. Just tell me what the problem is.”

“Is this Mr. Headstone?”

“The name is Headston,” I said, “but the agency is called Headstone. It’s sort of a play—yes, I’m John Headston.”

“The private detective?”

So okay, this was going to be like pulling teeth.

“That’s right.”

“Mr. Headstone, would it be possible for you to come here? To my house? I prefer to do business is person. I like to look into the eyes of people I do business with.”

While her tone of voice was still rather timid, her manner really wasn’t. And she still had the name wrong.

Westchester County, I thought. There would probably be money involved. And by that, I mean, serious money.

“Let me have your address, ma’am,” I said, grabbing some paper and a pen. “Would this afternoon be convenient?”

“Yes, Mr. Headstone,” she said, “that would be very convenient.”

I hung up without correcting her.

 

 

I took the Metro-North to Westchester County, and Lyfted my way from the station to the home of Mrs. Nancy Kessenger. Even twenty years ago when I started it would have been the home of Mr. and Mrs. Templeton Kessenger, but things had changed in more ways than one.

It was a typical White Plains mansion, where many of Manhattan’s elite commuted from each day. I knocked on the door, almost expected it to be answered by a General Sternwood black butler with white gloves, a la Chandler’s The Big Sleep, but I was surprised when the lady herself answered the door.

“Ah, Mr. Headstone,” she said, looking past me. “Your car?”

“It’s Headston, ma’am, and I use Lyft these days,” I told her. “Doesn’t everyone? Saves me on speeding and parking tickets.”

“I suppose. Come in, please.”

She was a tall, willowy woman in her forties, who’s only resemblance to General Sternwood was the stern look on her face. She wore white pants, and a short-sleeved pale blue silk blouse. From the condition of her arms my guess was she spent a lot of time on the country club tennis courts.

“Please close the door and follow me. We can talk in the den.”

I did as she asked and trailed behind her through the large house, which seemed to have mostly tiled, shiny floors.

The den was done in maroon and green, with overstuffed furniture and overstuffed bookshelves.

“Can I offer you something?” she asked. “A drink, perhaps.”

“A little early for me,” I said, feeling underdressed in my best suit.

“Coffee, then?”

I had smelled coffee when I entered, and there was a pot in the corner, so I said, “That would be fine.”

She poured two china cups and handed me one, complete with the saucer. I almost expected cookies, but there were none.

“Please, have a seat,” she said.

I sat in one of the maroon chairs, and she chose one of the green ones. It was warm in the room, but certainly not as hot as General Sternwood’s hothouse. (Okay, I’m done with the Chandler references.)

“I’m not comfortable with this,” she said, “so I suppose I’ll just blurt it out.”

“In your own time,” I invited.

“My husband is missing.”

And she couldn’t have told me that over the phone?