The one thing that police work and private investigation have in common is reports. There were legal statements and client reports, and my new least favourite—the summaries we had to log with Police Services to keep our license to work with them.
Carmedy and Garrett Investigations was more than the incorporation of a couple of P.I.’s. We were consulting detectives too...just like my childhood hero, Sherlock Holmes. Not very like Sherlock Holmes though—especially now. Also, Chief Thorsen was no Inspector Lestrade. He was smarter and a lot harder to impress. He had been one of my father’s rookies. I’d known him all my life. That was one of the things that made my decision about whether or not to leave Police Services so hard. Fortunately he gave me an exit that allowed me to return. He let me combine compassionate leave with a training sabbatical. Sooner or later, though, I’d have to make a choice.
Because Thorsen trusted my father, his former partner and mentor, Garrett Investigations had preferential status. In theory, Carmedy & Garrett Investigations maintained that preferential status but I had to wonder, would Joe Garrett have taken a cat-killer case?
At four, Carmedy sat on the edge of my desk.
Carmedy was built along square lines, broad shouldered, deep chested, muscles designed for strength, not speed—the complete opposite of my father. I used to think my father only hired him for muscle. I know better now, but when he wants to be, like now, Carmedy can be an immovable object.
I don’t have my father’s height or Carmedy’s breadth, but I’m not easily intimidated or distracted. I kept going until I’d finished the section I was working on. If he really wanted my attention, he could use my name. But that was another source of tension between us.
I was used to being referred to by my last name by my colleagues. Coming from a military background, Carmedy was used to the same. But for him, my father was Garrett. So, I called him Carmedy and he avoided using my name whenever possible. This time he used a shoulder tap to get my attention.
“Are you going home or upstairs before the stakeout?”
“Upstairs. I brought everything I’d need.”
“Then you should go rest.” He sounded like my mother. “If I tell you to go upstairs, will you take a quick nap, or will you go back to packing up your father’s stuff?”
I shrugged. I almost rolled my eyes. I hate it when Carmedy reminds me of my mother. I love her dearly, but I only need one of her in my life.
“Well?”
“I’ll have a shower,” I said, giving in. “If I nap I might not want to get up again.”
“Then go,” he said, pointing to the inside door. “I’ll call you in two hours if you haven’t returned.”
I nodded. This was an order I didn’t mind following. Desk work was exhausting.
Flipping Carmedy a salute, I bypassed the inside steps and used the main entrance accessed from the fourth floor foyer—the location of my father’s personal mailbox. Not much came by post anymore, but the odd sympathy card showed up from older relatives.
“Ms. Garrett!”
Great!
I slapped a smile on my face before turning to greet my new tenant.
When I inherited half my father’s business, I also inherited a third interest in the building. Effectively, that meant I had control over the fourth floor where the office was and the attic where my father’s flat was. When the financial advisor from the third floor asked if the space across from the office was available for his son’s new business, I figured it would be a good way of generating additional income.
Carmedy wasn’t happy about it, but at least he had the grace to say he wished I had consulted him, not that I should have done so. Now I wondered if he knew something I didn’t. Mother again.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Koehne.” I took his outstretched hand.
“Always a pleasure to see you,” he said, cupping my hand in both of his. “I was wondering if you had a chance to consider my offer.”
I pulled away.
“I already considered it, Mr. Koehne. I said no.”
“Ms. Garrett…Kate…may I call you Kate?”
“I wish you wouldn’t.”
That put a small road bump in his pitch, but didn’t slow him long enough for me to make my escape.
“The thing is, Outreach Dating has plenty of men on its lists, men who are looking for Ms. Right—or at least Ms. Right for now—but we don’t have many women. I’ll throw in a hair and face make-over before your interview. Not that you aren’t lovely as is, but the fashion is for up-dos and swing-era-retro is in, so if you have an appropriate outfit … Wouldn’t you like a date for New Year’s Eve? All we have to do is book a time…”
“Time is one thing I don’t have. I’m also short on money. Specifically, I’m short the money you owe for last month’s rent.”
It was better than a boot in the rear for getting rid of the pest. He exited, with a hearty “Happy Holidays” before I had a chance to extract another promise he wouldn’t keep.
Inside the apartment, I tried to avoid looking into the open living area. The bedroom was safe, cleared of emotional booby-traps.
My stepfather David helped me go through Dad’s clothes, the bulk going to the Graveyard and Stinktown shanties where I knew they’d be distributed fairly. I only kept a few items—a Shetland cable-knit sweater Grandma Garrett made, Dad’s academy issue sweats and tees and his second best black trench coat. His best coat was buried with him.
The few personal items left out included a silver-backed brush set that had belonged to my great-grandfather and a few framed photos that were nostalgic but not sad. There were other things, packed away by David, for me to look at later. I didn’t ask. He didn’t tell.
The living area was a whole other ball game. Keep, store, give and recycle bins were set up for sorting through the contents of the combination living room, dining room and kitchen. Everything had to be packed away so a contractor could come to replace the mouldy plaster ceiling.
“You couldn’t have fixed it last spring, when the damp started,” I said, looking heavenwards. “No. You had to leave it to me to deal with. I love you, Dad, but you’re a bum.”
Sighing, I made a beeline to the fridge where a collection of leftovers waited. Three-day old Punjabi, two-day old Greek and yesterday’s pizza remains. Making up a mixed plate of finger foods, I grabbed a beer with the plan of packing a book box or two while I ate. Books were easy. Just pack them up for storage. Yes, there were a lot of them. My darling father loved electronic gadgets but he preferred to read hard copy books.
“Downloading information on a screen is convenient,” he’d say. “Reading a book is a holiday. Rereading a good book is like visiting an old friend.”
I guess he infected me with that outlook because I wouldn’t dream of selling, or heaven forbid, recycling his library. Getting rid of his books would be like shooting his dog…or poisoning his cat.
“Why poison a cat in such an elaborate way?” I shook my head. “Doesn’t make sense. Does it have to?”
I dug through the bin I just packed and pulled out one of the books I remember him giving me to read when I was writing a paper on serial killers and mass murderers for high school sociology. It wasn’t the most recent work even then, but Dad thought it was important enough to keep on his reference shelves. Tucking The Anatomy of Motive under my arm and grabbing my dinner, I left the packing to go eat and read in the bedroom.
A bugle tattoo woke me with a start. I’d have to change the ring tone on the landline before it gave me a heart attack. Apparently I fell asleep reading after my shower. I switched on and squinted blearily at Carmedy’s face on the viewer. He gave a little cough, and I noticed that my towel had slipped down.