The wall outside my office held an imitation mahogany plaque inscribed with gold-colored letters: "Raphael LaFontaine – Special Inquiries – Licensed Private Detective." When I reached the top of the stairs I discovered a pink-cheeked little man wearing a thirty-year old brown wool suit standing outside my door.
"Mr. LaFontaine?"
"Who are you?"
"Stuart Willoughby, attorney at law." The little man held out a fleshy palm.
"What's this about, Mr. Willougby?"
In my almost five years on the Baltimore PD I had learned to distrust lawyers to the same degree I was wary of strange dogs and wandering snakes.
"Could we go inside?" Willoughby turned toward the door but I didn't move. "My client needs your services," he said. "I have a case for you."
I gave Willoughby a long, careful look, then unlocked the door. My office is a single fifteen by twenty foot room. The desk, fronted by two Office Depot chairs, faces the door. There's a couch along the right-hand wall, file cabinets, a fax-printer-copier-scanner combo and shelves of office supplies along the left. A cheap PC crouched on the floor. Willoughby gave the room a quick once-over and settled into one of the client chairs.
"Very compact, very efficient," he said with a polite smile as he handed me his card. I glanced at it and tried to suppress a frown. The address was in Carroll County, about thirty miles north-west of the city.
"You're a little way from home."
"A referral from an old client. The foundation of my practice is the personal touch."
I took a close look at Willougby but he remained something of an enigma. Somewhere north of sixty and south of eighty, he dressed like a manikin out of a post-war Sears catalog. Defeated, I gave a little shrug and grabbed a memo pad.
"So, to business," Willoughby agreed. "My client is a lady who lives here in Baltimore. She dated a gentleman who wanted more from the relationship than she did. When she tried to break it off, he refused to take 'no' for an answer."
"Has she contacted the police?"
"That would present something of a problem. She considered it, briefly, then called me… You see," Willoughby continued after a brief pause, "the gentleman in question is a Baltimore police officer. Frankly, I'm concerned that a formal complaint to the BPD might cause more problems than it would solve."
"What do you want me to do?"
"I've heard that you have an excellent rapport with BPD and I hoped that a friendly word from you in the gentleman's ear, without any official intervention, might prove a more, uhhhm, tactful solution." Willoughby gave me a plastic smile.
"What, exactly, has the guy done?"
"Oh, more or less the usual in this sort of a case – watches her house, follows her around, leaves little things on her doorstep. At first it was gifts, a box of candy, a cheap bracelet, an unsigned card. Then the… deposits became more problematic. The last one was a dead rat."
"Is there any proof that the culprit is the boyfriend?"
"Ex-boyfriend. And no, nothing that would hold up in court. We tried a surveillance camera but he was skilled enough to avoid leaving an identifiable image. Just an adult male in a bulky jacket, a turned-up collar and a baseball cap."
"Have you gotten a restraining order?"
Willoughby frowned.
"Without evidence I'm loath to file an action against a serving member of the police. Again, I was hoping that a friendly talk with one of his own might convince him that the lady is sincerely uninterested in resuming the relationship."
I stared blankly at the wall behind Willoughby's shoulder, then picked up my pen.
"Okay, what's his name?"
"Officer Victor Manchuko. I believe he serves in the Northeast Division."
"Description?"
"Caucasian, almost six feet tall, mustache, no glasses. Brown hair, brown eyes. About thirty-five. He told her he was divorced but, well…" Willoughby let the sentence hang.
"What's the client's name?"
"Carolyn Simpson, 5691 Fortis Avenue. You can call her on her cell, 410-555-6739. She doesn't want anyone at work to know about her personal problems."
"When can I meet her?"
"Is that really necessary? I'm fully authorized to act on her behalf."
"I never take a case without meeting the client."
Willoughby gave me a long stare then a little shrug.
"Of course. I told her to be available in case you might call."
I punched in the number. The phone was answered on the second ring.
"Ms. Simpson? This is Raphael LaFontaine. I'm here with your attorney, Mr. Willoughby."
"Yes, Mr. LaFontaine. Thank you for taking my case."
"I haven't taken it yet. I'll need to talk with you directly before I can start any real work on your problem."
"I was hoping that you could handle all this with my lawyer."
"No, I can't. Where are you right now? If you could come to my office, the three of us--"
"No, that's impossible. I'm working a split shift. I won't be free until after ten."
"What about sometime tomorrow?"
"Uhh, that's not good either. Could we meet later tonight, someplace public? A restaurant or something? Maybe around ten-thirty?"
I paused and studied Willoughby's pudgy face.
"I usually collect a retainer before I start a new case."
Willoughby pulled a pile of bills from his inside pocket and counted out ten one-hundred dollar notes on the edge of the desk.
"All right, ten-thirty tonight at La Boehme Cafe on Franklin. We can have coffee on the terrace. Ask for me at the hostess station. Do you want directions?"
"No, I'll find it."
The line went dead.
"I'll give you a receipt," I told Willoughby and picked up the bills, counting them a second time.
I left my apartment a little after ten and headed for the gravel parking lot behind the building. There was barely a sliver of a moon and I negotiated the stepping stones by memory. As I emerged from the path I sensed an onrushing presence and jumped to my left. A blinding pain seared across my ribs. Already falling I flailed at my attacker and a second man grabbed me from behind and then the world vanished in a thick, black fog.