The Headstone Detective Agency

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?

CHAPTER TWO

He left for work several days ago and hasn’t returned.

Did you call the police?

Yes, apparently this sort of thing happens all the time. They suggested I call back in forty-eight to seventy-two hours. I—I couldn’t wait that long.

She looked around, spotted what she wanted and took a cigarette from a box on a nearby table. It was one of the smokeless kind, but these days they say those’ll kill you just as easily. She didn’t ask if I minded, but then it was her house.

But you did wait two days.

I…thought he might come home last night.

Has he done this before?

He’s come home late before, but not…not days.

Well, you might consider calling the police again.

I will, she said, but I’d like you to get started looking for him, Mr. Headston.

Okay. I didn’t tell her that I would probably have to check in with the White Plains detectives, just to safeguard my license.

Where does he work? I took out my notebook. I should have been using a tablet, but I wasn’t that progressive, yet.

Wall Street.

A brokerage house, or a bank?

Brokerage house. Herman James.

Herman James was one of New York’s top brokerage firms. Kessenger must have been a top-notch wheeler dealer to be working for them.

Have you called his office, talked to his secretary? His boss?

Yes, and yes, she said. Today’s Wednesday. He left for work Monday. They say he showed up that morning, but later in the afternoon they couldn’t locate him. And they haven’t seen him since.

That was going to be my first stop, when I got back to Manhattan. I had to make this trip to White Plains worth it.

I’ll need a photo, I said. One you won’t mind if I don’t give back to you.

No problem.

And I’ll need a retainer.

I expected that. It sounded like she was judging me, but I didn’t care.

Let me ask a few more questions, and then you can get me those things, I suggested.

All right.

How’s your marriage?

She hesitated, then said, Convenient.

Is the romance gone?

If you knew Templeton you wouldn’t ask that, she said. There was no romance to begin with.

Could he be seeing another woman?

He could, she said, but I doubt it.

Are you seeing another man?

No. There was no expression on her face, no inflection in her tone. This woman was very hard to read, but I had the feeling she was lying.

Do you have any children?

No, we’ve never had children.

How long have you been married?

Twenty years.

Could this be some sort of reaction to that? I asked. What I mean is, perhaps some kind of a midlife crisis? How old is he?

He’s forty-five, she said, thoughtfully, and you might be right. But when that happens don’t men usually buy a new car, or stray?

Those are the usual signs, I said. Has he changed his hair, his hygiene habits? Maybe lost some weight? All the things a man having an affair would do.

None of that.

Has he gotten quiet? Moody?

He’s always quiet.

Does he have an office here in the house?

Yes.

Can you show it to me?

Of course. She didn’t get up.

Now? I said.

Oh, yes. This time she stood up. If you’ll follow me, please.

I followed her to a central staircase, and up. Her pants were tight, and I followed what I was dead sure was a tennis or Pilates shaped butt up the stairs.

She took me down a plush carpeted hallway to an open doorway, then stood aside and gestured for me to enter ahead of her.

This is his office, she said.

It looked like a model office, with a desk, a chair, a file cabinet and some bookshelves. What made it look even more like a model was that it appeared unused. There were no papers on top of the desk, nothing was out of place by even an inch.

I walked around, opened the desk drawers, the file cabinets. The usual stuff was there, pens, paper clips, file folders. I also noticed there was no dust.

In one drawer I found a stack of phone bills that showed his carrier was AT&T. That was good. A friend of mine had shown me how to get AT&T records on my computer. Not legal, but helpful.

I’m gonna take one of these, I said, grabbing the top bill and showing it to her.

Take whatever you need, she said.

Do you have a cleaning woman? I asked, pocketing the bill.

Yes.

And she comes in here?

Yes, she does.

I looked at the books on the shelves. One whole section was fiction, and another nonfiction.

Did he do much work in here?

I don’t know, she said.

I looked at her.

He would come in here after dinner and close the door. I don’t know what he did here.

Mrs. Kessenger, I asked, does your husband make a lot of money?

Mr. Headstone, she said, you sound like you’re from Brooklyn. Are you?

Born and raised, I said, not bothering to correct her. Sometimes you’ve just got to let things go. And as long as she signed the check…

Well then, you’ll understand this very well, she said. My husband makes a shitload of money.

CHAPTER THREE

We went back downstairs to the den.

What staff do you have in the house?

The maid, and the cook.

Both women?

Yes.

Young?

No. If you have visions of a nubile young girl in a French maid’s costume, you’re mistaken. Both of them are older than I am.

I had the feeling she had made sure of that when she hired them.

Do you belong to a country club?

Yes.

Both of you?

Templeton rarely goes, she said. I use the facilities for tennis, Pilates, that sort of thing. And to take lunch.

Take lunch, not have lunch. People with money talk differently.

Can you get me that photo now, Mrs. Kessenger?

Yes, of course. I’ll just be a moment.

While she was gone, I strolled the den, looked at books on the shelves there. The titles meant nothing to me, it didn’t seem as if there were any novels. And then I noticed they were color coordinated. All of the spines were either maroon or green. This was a room where nobody ever touched the books. They were there for show.

She returned with a five-by-eight photo that looked like it had come from Sears. Templeton Kessenger appeared very distinguished, hair dark except for some grey at the temples, a face that would be called handsome if it weren’t for the fact that his eyes were kind of beady. Or maybe he was just so unhappy in the photo that it showed.

How old is this?

A couple of years.

I turned it over and looked at the back. It was blank. I was tempted to fold it in half in front of her and put it in my pocket, but I thought I’d save that for later.

Is there anything else you can think to tell me? I asked. Does he have male friends? Buddies? Was he ever in the armed forces?

No to all of that, she said. He is a quiet, conservative man who keeps to himself, even from me.

So this disappearance comes as a complete surprise.

Oh, yes, she said. Templeton leaves home every day, returns home every day. Like clockwork. This is…well, a shock.

From where I stood, I could see out the window. There was a man working in the garden.

You said you only had a maid and a cook as staff? I asked.

That’s right.

What about that guy? I pointed out the window.

She looked, then said, Oh, that’s the gardener. I’m sorry, I didn’t think of him. He’s not here every day.

Does he deal with you or your husband when he gets paid, or takes instructions?

Usually me.

I walked to the window and looked out. He was bare-chested, young and in good shape. It made me wonder.

What about a pool boy? Do you have one?

What? No, we don’t have a pool.

Chauffer?

No, I drive myself.

So no other staff that you forgot to tell me about?

No.

All right, then, I said. I’ve got enough to get started. Uh, we did talk about a retainer.

She was ready with a check, which she held out to me. It had enough zeroes on it to make me happy.

Thank you. I put it in my pocket.

I’ll see you out.

She walked me to the front door and opened it for me.

Can I call you a cab? she offered.

That’s okay, I said. I have my cell. I’ll call Lyft.

Then I hope to hear from you soon.

One more thing, I said, before she closed the door.

Yes?

Would you call his office and tell someone I’m coming?

Yes, I’ll do that.

Thank you.

She closed the door and I went back down the walk. Before taking out my cell I decided to walk around to the side of the house and have a talk with the young gardener.

He was right where I had seen him, hacking away at some bushes with a pair of shears. As he worked both hands the muscles in his arms bunched and jumped. He looked all of twenty-three or twenty-four, and I was sure he spent plenty of time in the gym.

Excuse me? I said.

He stopped what he was doing and stared at me.

I’d like to ask you some questions—

He took me totally by surprise when he dropped the shears, turned and ran.

CHAPTER FOUR

Mr. Headstone, she said, surprised to see me when she opened the door this time.

Mrs. Kessenger, I said, can you tell me why your gardener would run from me rather than answer any questions?

Oh my, he ran?

Yes, he did, I said. I didn’t even get a chance to tell him who I was or what I wanted. Why would he do that?

Well…Joe’s an ex-con. That may have something to do with it.

I guess. Joe who?

His name is Joseph Valeria, she said. "I