Los Angeles California, 2:00 pm on Tuesday, Oct. 24, 1950
"Jack?" I heard a voice call, slicing through the smoke curling from my cigarette. Looking up, I saw that the voice belonged to none other than my boss, Mr. Dirk. He was a small man, but a stern one. The less I saw of him, the better. He stood in the doorway of my office like a bad omen in an expensive suit, beckoning me to follow him.
"Coming!" I called, getting up and quickly stubbing out my cigarette while grabbing my hat. He was weirdly insistent I not smoke inside his office, though he had a pack and a half a day habit himself. I trailed after him like a dog that didn't know whether it was about to get a bone or a kick. He led me through the corridors, up the stairs, and onto the eighth floor, a world apart from where I spent my days—soft red carpets that whispered underfoot, polished wood that reflected the ambition of men who could afford better vices. Dirk's office loomed at the end of the hall, the kind of room that made you feel like you owed someone money just by walking into it.
Inside, it looked more like a throne room for corporate kings than the den of an insurance manager. The entire back wall was bookcases lined with thick legal volumes.
"Good morning, Jack," Dirk said as he motioned to the hard wooden chair in front of his oversized desk. "Have a seat."
I did, sitting down in the indicated chair.
"Jack, I need you to talk to a..." he trailed off, looking at the memo in his hand. "A Mrs. Evelyn Perkins. She's coming by soon" he said flatly, tossing the memo onto his desk.
"Why?"
He sighed. "Her husband committed suicide, and she wants to contest the life insurance policy. Claims he was murdered."
"You don't think so?"
"No," he replied. "He was found dead in his locked study, a revolver on the floor and a bullet in his brain. The autopsy found enough drugs in his system to keep a jazz band high for a week and a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head. It's open-and-shut. A very clear-cut case of suicide."
"But she doesn't think so," I repeated.
"She's a grieving woman," he told me. "They say and do things they wouldn't normally do. Just hear her out, see what she has to say, and then write a report saying that her claim is invalid. Understand?"
I nodded. "I'll see what I can do."
"Thank you," he said.
This part of the job always made me miserable. You'd have these people come in, thinking that their claim would go through. Then you had to break the news that no, the policy doesn't cover it, or no, they're not going to get their claim approved. They paid us so that we would help them when they needed it, but sometimes it felt like we were doing the exact opposite.
The thing is, most of the time, it was a clear-cut case. We knew who did it, how it happened, and why it had happened. Cases like these were a dime a dozen—someone grasping at straws to make sense of the senseless.
Back at my office, I found her waiting. The kind of woman who could make a priest reconsider his vows. She was all legs and curves, with blonde hair and green eyes that could melt steel. Despite her good looks she struck me as a dame who hadn't seen a lot, she had an innocence about her that I found captivating.
Lily, my secretary, was standing at the door. "This is Mrs. Perkins," she said to me, her voice light and consoling with a sympathetic tilt of her head.
I nodded, trying not to stare as the widow perched on the edge of the chair across from my desk, her skirt riding just high enough to remind me how much trouble a woman like her could be.
"Jack Slade," I told her, extending my hand. She took it "What can I do for you, Mrs. Perkins?" I asked, lighting a cigarette.
"I'm here about my husband's life insurance policy," she replied, her voice shaking. "I think he was murdered."
"So, you want to contest the claim on your husband's life insurance policy, ma'am," I said, glancing at the file Lily had handed me. Randall Perkins: accountant, gambler, drunk. His rap sheet read like a checklist for a man circling the drain. "The police report says suicide. Locked room, revolver, drugs in his system. What makes you think otherwise?"
Evelyn Perkins nodded, dabbing her eyes. She was younger than I had expected her to be, maybe thirty-two, thirty-three at the absolute oldest. Her eyes were red-rimmed and filled with tears. The fact that she became a widow at such a young age was a tragedy in itself.
"Yes, Mr. Slade," she said. "I know that it sounds silly, but I can't accept that Randall would have killed himself."
"And why not, ma'am?" I continued looking over the papers, seeing all of the usual red flags.
"It just wasn't like him," she replied, shaking her head vehemently. "I've read the police report. I know what it says. But there's no way he would have done it. I've known him since I was a girl, and I know he didn't do it."
I leaned back, looking over the police report, letting the smoke curl lazily from my lips. It was the usual stuff for a suicide.
"Mrs. Perkins, the facts don't lie. Your husband had debts, a drinking problem, and no shortage of bad decisions catching up with him. The facts are clear. This is a suicide."
"Please," she begged. "He wasn't suicidal. There was no reason for him to do this."
"I understand," I told her. "But there's nothing I can do."
"Mr. Slade, please," she said, her eyes growing more intense. "My children. They need this money."
I sighed. She had two children, a boy and a girl. They're old enough to remember their father, which just makes it worse.
"Ma'am, the life insurance company won't pay out on a suicide."
"Please, Mr. Slade," she repeated. "He was a good man. I know he didn't kill himself. You have to understand. This is something bigger. Something's wrong."
"Something wrong?"
She nodded.
"Do you have any evidence that it was something more than what the report says?" I asked.
She shook her head. "I just know it. Please, Mr. Slade, if you can investigate this, get to the bottom of it, you'll see."
"There's no proof," I told her. "We can't spend our time and money going after every suicide that someone thinks is a murder."
Her lips trembled and I felt a pang of guilt, but I was just doing my job.
"Is there anything you can do?"
Damn it, she asked the question. Not "is there anything the company can do" - that's a nice, simple question that I could answer. Instead, she asked the right question. Is there anything you can do?
Tears welled in her eyes, but she held my gaze. I should've told her no and sent her on her way, but something about the way she said "something's wrong" made my instincts sit up and take notice.
"What do you want me to do?" I asked.
"Investigate," she said simply.
The word hung in the air between us like smoke from my cigarette.
I'd worked here long enough to have a certain set of skills that could help with situations like this. Against every shred of common sense, I reached for a scrap of paper and scribbled down an address and a number.
"Go here, tonight, at eight. If you have a phone, give me a call beforehand. Let me know you're on your way."
She looked at me, wide-eyed. "What is this?"
"An address," I said. "If you're serious about this, if you want my help, then meet me there."
"What will you do?" she asked, looking at the paper.
Here it was, the mistake that would cause no end of problems for me in the future.
"Investigate," I replied.
"Oh, thank you!" she cried, wrapping her arms around me. Her large breasts pressed against me, her scent wafted up, a sweet, intoxicating smell. I could feel a warmth growing within me, a longing, and I had to fight the urge to touch her. "Thank you so much, Mr. Slade!"
"Don't thank me yet," I warned her. "I haven't found anything, and this investigation is a bit, well, it's outside the law."
"I understand," she said, standing. "I'll meet you at the address. Thank you again, Mr. Slade."
As she left, her perfume lingered in the air—sweet and intoxicating, like a promise you knew you shouldn't trust. I was shoving the file into a drawer when Dirk reappeared, his beady eyes narrowing as he took the widow's measure through the open door.
"So, what did she have to say?" he asked, walking in and sitting down.
"She says that he was a good man who wouldn't have committed suicide," I said. "I told her there was nothing the company could do."
"Good, good," he replied, nodding. "She was a very nice lady, and a shame to have gone through what she did. But the facts are the facts."
I hoped, very wrongly, that that would be the case. That would make things easier for all involved. But of course, things could never be that simple.