you.
BAD DETECTIVE
F our weeks had passed since we took on our collection of domestic cases and I still couldn’t tell you why my sister had doctored the Vivien Blake report, or why Gerty extended her San Francisco visit for another two weeks and then virtually disappeared, or what motivated my mother to rush off to classes that she clearly did not enjoy. I still had no idea what Rae had done to my brother. Nor could I comprehend why Mrs. Slayter wanted Mr. Slayter followed. The one thing I could say for certain was that there was no reason to surveil Edward Slayter. Because Mr. Slayter did nothing at all.
I should clarify: Mr. Slayter went to meetings, he met men in suits for lunch, he met more men in suits for dinner, he went for long strolls in the park, he had tennis dates and even a few doctor’s appointments. Mrs. Slayter merely wanted to know where he was and yet she didn’t seem particularly interested in what he was doing when he was there.
At one point I suggested she stick a tracking device in his coat pocket when he left the house, which might have been more accurate and cost-effective than hiring a PI. She seemed to mull the idea over for a few seconds and then replied, “But sometimes he leaves his coat at the office.”
I voiced my concern to Mom at one point. She asked me if Mrs. Slayterwas current with her payments. I replied that she was. Our conversation ended there.
I voiced my concerns to Dad. He asked me the same question Mom did. I gave him the same answer. “Then what’s the problem?” he replied.
The problem was that I didn’t trust Mrs. Slayter. It’s one thing if a client asks me to follow a suspicious spouse, but following an unsuspicious one is a truly uncommon request. I’ve been at this job long enough to know when I’m being played and I couldn’t shake that feeling when it came to Mrs. Slayter.
When I was younger, I always had an excess of broke friends to hire on a moment’s notice for backup on a surveillance job. In the intervening years those friends moved away, got married, had kids, became gainfully employed, or discovered that surveillance was about as interesting as bird-watching. No offense to bird-watchers.
My point: I had to call Fred again, since what I was doing was in the shady section of the PI department store.
“Now, let’s go over this one more time, Fred,” I said when I dropped off Finkel in front of Mr. Slayter’s office building on Market Street. “All you have to do is follow him and text me his current location. You don’t provide subject with directions, transportation, or medical advice, or offer to buy him lunch. Got it?”
“What if he’s hit by a car?”
“Call 911.”
“What if he’s bleeding profusely?”
“The ambulance guys will take care of it,” I said.
“They’re called EMTs,” Fred replied.
“Finkel, do you want to make fifty bucks in cash or not?”
“I do.”
“Then shut up and do as I tell you.”
Silence.
“Got it?” I asked.
Silence.
“Acknowledge you understand me.”
Fred nodded his head. I drove off before he could convince me to take him off the job.
Mrs. Slayter sent me a text message while I was parked three doors down from her house, requesting her husband’s coordinates. I informed her that he was at the office, which, as I far as I knew, was the truth.
Fifteen minutes later, Mrs. Slayter left her home carrying a gym bag and wearing what I presume were workout clothes. There was some writing on her ass, which I couldn’t make out, so I kept staring at it. I couldn’t figure why you would have something written on your butt unless you really wanted people to stare at it. For the record, the primary reason I stopped wearing my extra JUSTICE 4 MERRI-WEATHER T-shirts was because I got tired of people reading my chest. Another thing I noticed about Mrs. Slayter was that she was in full makeup, which I think is kind of gross if you’re going to the gym. Turns out Mrs. Slayter wasn’t
BAD DETECTIVE
F our weeks had passed since we took on our collection of domestic cases and I still couldn’t tell you why my sister had doctored the Vivien Blake report, or why Gerty extended her San Francisco visit for another two weeks and then virtually disappeared, or what motivated my mother to rush off to classes that she clearly did not enjoy. I still had no idea what Rae had done to my brother. Nor could I comprehend why Mrs. Slayter wanted Mr. Slayter followed. The one thing I could say for certain was that there was no reason to surveil Edward Slayter. Because Mr. Slayter did nothing at all.
I should clarify: Mr. Slayter went to meetings, he met men in suits for lunch, he met more men in suits for dinner, he went for long strolls in the park, he had tennis dates and even a few doctor’s appointments. Mrs. Slayter merely wanted to know where he was and yet she didn’t seem particularly interested in what he was doing when he was there.
At one point I suggested she stick a tracking device in his coat pocket when he left the house, which might have been more accurate and cost-effective than hiring a PI. She seemed to mull the idea over for a few seconds and then replied, “But sometimes he leaves his coat at the office.”
I voiced my concern to Mom at one point. She asked me if Mrs. Slayterwas current with her payments. I replied that she was. Our conversation ended there.
I voiced my concerns to Dad. He asked me the same question Mom did. I gave him the same answer. “Then what’s the problem?” he replied.
The problem was that I didn’t trust Mrs. Slayter. It’s one thing if a client asks me to follow a suspicious spouse, but following an unsuspicious one is a truly uncommon request. I’ve been at this job long enough to know when I’m being played and I couldn’t shake that feeling when it came to Mrs. Slayter.
When I was younger, I always had an excess of broke friends to hire on a moment’s notice for backup on a surveillance job. In the intervening years those friends moved away, got married, had kids, became gainfully employed, or discovered that surveillance was about as interesting as bird-watching. No offense to bird-watchers.
My point: I had to call Fred again, since what I was doing was in the shady section of the PI department store.
“Now, let’s go over this one more time, Fred,” I said when I dropped off Finkel in front of Mr. Slayter’s office building on Market Street. “All you have to do is follow him and text me his current location. You don’t provide subject with directions, transportation, or medical advice, or offer to buy him lunch. Got it?”
“What if he’s hit by a car?”
“Call 911.”
“What if he’s bleeding profusely?”
“The ambulance guys will take care of it,” I said.
“They’re called EMTs,” Fred replied.
“Finkel, do you want to make fifty bucks in cash or not?”
“I do.”
“Then shut up and do as I tell you.”
Silence.
“Got it?” I asked.
Silence.
“Acknowledge you understand me.”
Fred nodded his head. I drove off before he could convince me to take him off the job.
Mrs. Slayter sent me a text message while I was parked three doors down from her house, requesting her husband’s coordinates. I informed her that he was at the office, which, as I far as I knew, was the truth.
Fifteen minutes later, Mrs. Slayter left her home carrying a gym bag and wearing what I presume were workout clothes. There was some writing on her ass, which I couldn’t make out, so I kept staring at it. I couldn’t figure why you would have something written on your butt unless you really wanted people to stare at it. For the record, the primary reason I stopped wearing my extra JUSTICE 4 MERRI-WEATHER T-shirts was because I got tired of people reading my chest. Another thing I noticed about Mrs. Slayter was that she was in full makeup, which I think is kind of gross if you’re going to the gym. Turns out Mrs. Slayter wasn’t
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