Don't Cry Over Killed Milk (8 page)

Damon’s duplex neighbor, David Einstaff, was smoking a cigarette on their shared front porch when he arrived home. It was just before five o’clock in the afternoon.

“Early day today?” Damon asked. David was an engineer in his fifties who had been fighting a bout of depression. Damon also suspected that the man had been drinking liberal quantities of whiskey since his divorce was finalized earlier in the year.

“Yes,” he said. “I told my partners I had a personal matter to attend to, but I just needed to get out of there.”

“Are you having problems at work?” Damon asked.

“There’s nothing in particular. But I think I’ve had enough. I’ve been a wastewater engineer for thirty years. It might be time for a change.”

Damon put a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Have you considered talking to a professional about this depression you’re having, David? Maybe a psychiatrist who could prescribe something? Don’t make a drastic decision that you might regret later.”

“I’ll think about it, Damon. Thanks for looking out for me. Are you up for a drink?”

Damon wanted to eat a quiet dinner by himself and mull over the information on Jeremiah Milk he had learned during the day. But his neighbor was struggling, and Damon didn’t think he had a support system. “I’m not in the mood for anything alcoholic,” Damon said. “But I make a mean fruit smoothie. How about I whip up a couple?”

David agreed, and the two men spent the evening on the porch drinking strawberry-banana smoothies, eating Lebanese take out, and debating the prospects for the Redskins’ football season.

Chapter 8

After lying awake during the overnight hours and thinking about Jeremiah Milk, Damon resolved to spend his Tuesday making two stops. First, he decided to join the Arlington County Crime Solvers. Second, he was determined to gather any information he could from the private investigator, Marcus Pontfried. He justified the latter stop to himself. Technically, Margaret Hobbes had only forbidden Gerry and Damon from discussing the murder with each other.

Before driving to the Crime Solvers’ office near the southern border of Arlington, Damon dialed their anonymous tip line. He reported that a man wearing black had been seen fiddling with the Rothsteins’ crepe myrtles in Hollydale the previous morning. Damon had promised Cynthia that he would alert Gerry Sloman. Providing an anonymous tip wasn’t ideal, but the police would still receive the information.

The Arlington County Crime Solvers operated out of a single room on the first floor of a derelict two-story office building. Damon knocked gently on the door.

It was opened by a young man wearing a wrinkled T-shirt, cargo shorts, and flip flops. He introduced himself as Jessie and invited Damon inside. A box fan clicked steadily and blew hot air in the direction of a small metal desk.

“What can I do for you, sir?” Jessie asked and sat behind the desk.

There was no guest chair, so Damon remained standing. “Call me Damon. I’d like to volunteer with Crime Solvers.”

“Great.” Jessie’s eyes passed around the windowless office. A CRT television stood atop a square of four inverted crates, and a stark white refrigerator rested in one corner. “This is it,” he said. “Actually, the office is a new addition. Until three months ago, we operated remotely and calls were transferred to an on-duty volunteer. Arthur Jenkins is in charge of Crime Solvers in Arlington and owns this building. When the prior lease on this office expired and the tenant moved out, Arthur decided to start using it for the Crime Solvers team.”

“Do all of the volunteers work from here?” Damon asked.

“No. We can still take calls remotely, but I like coming to the office. I’m taking criminal justice classes at Marymount, and I share an apartment with three other guys, so I come here to study. You’re the first visitor I’ve ever had. Crime Solvers mans an anonymous line, so people call in their tips.”

“So why have the office?”

“Arthur says it’s so we can put a sign on the outside of the building for neighborhood publicity and to keep files, but that’s not the real reason. Arthur wanted an excuse to get away from his wife a couple of nights a week. He comes here to watch television in peace.”

“How often do calls come in?” Damon asked.

“Usually two or three times a day. I just took one fifteen minutes ago.”

Damon looked away and hoped Jessie didn’t recognize his voice.

The younger man didn’t appear fazed. He said, “We take down the tip and pass it along to the police. Then we give the caller an identification number so he can call back a few weeks later to see if his tip led to an arrest. If it did, we issue a reward. A lot of the calls are bogus but some really work. I took a tip two months ago that led to the arrest of an armed robber who hit three restaurants in Shirlington.”

“That’s really cool,” Damon said. He definitely wanted to give it a try. “How do I sign up?”

Jessie gave Damon Arthur Jenkins’ e-mail address to schedule a training session. Arthur also coordinated shifts for the volunteers, most of whom worked two four-hour stints each week.

Damon walked away from the Crime Solvers office with a sense of excitement. The confines of the room might be dreary, but the prospect of taking his first anonymous tip thrilled him.

* * *

Before leaving that morning, Damon had looked up directions to the office of Marcus Pontfried, Private Investigator. He was based in York, Pennsylvania—one hundred miles north of Arlington. Damon made the trip in less than two hours.

York was blue collar to the bone. Old buildings shared worn down streets with dilapidated houses. A Harley-Davidson assembly plant supplied much needed lifeblood to the town that was the original home of the peppermint pattie.

Damon parked his Saab in a strip mall parking lot. Pontfried’s address corresponded to an end unit adjacent to a nail salon. Its glass door was etched with the words, “Private Investigator. No Appointment Needed.”

Damon stepped into a tidy lobby. It was empty. Neatly framed prints of Impressionist flora hung on the walls. Magazines rested on a low table surrounded by fabric-covered chairs. Coat and umbrella stands occupied one corner.

A young brunette poked her head through an interior window between an inside hallway and the lobby. Small frameless glasses balanced on a pinch of a nose. “Are you here to see Mr. Pontfried?” she asked Damon.

“I am,” Damon replied. “I didn’t call ahead, but I just drove up from outside of Washington, D.C. Is there any chance he’s free?”

“He’s eating lunch in his office right now, but let me see if he can spare a few minutes. What’s your name?”

Damon supplied it, and the woman disappeared from view.

She came back less than a minute later and waved him inside. “Come this way.” She wore a form-fitting pink blouse and flared black pants. Damon followed her down an empty hallway into a spacious office with deep pile carpet. A man in his late-forties with creases crossing his forehead looked up but didn’t rise or extend a hand. His eyes were jet black slits and his mouth had an air of truculence. Dark hair was pulled back into a neat ponytail.

The brunette exited and shut the office door. Damon sat across from the man, who slowly wrapped foil around a half-eaten sandwich.

“Are you here to hire me?” he asked Damon without preface.

“No,” Damon said with caution. “I’m trying to gather some information. A neighbor of mine was murdered. I believe you knew him.”

“Are you a police officer, sir?” Marcus Pontfried asked with skepticism.

“No,” Damon admitted. He took a breath. “I understand you were investigating a man named Jeremiah Milk less than a year ago. He’s been killed.”

Marcus Pontfried winced. “I know. I have an interview with a lieutenant from Arlington, Virginia, at noon tomorrow.”

Damon gulped and recalled that Veronica Maldive had shown Gerry the private investigator’s card.

Pontfried continued. “I can’t help you and I won’t be able to help the police, either. As a matter of procedure, I shred all paper files and permanently destroy all electronic records six months after I close a case.” He narrowed his eyes to razor-thin lines. “And I have an absolutely terrible memory.”

“But surely you can remember who hired you and why,” Damon protested.

Pontfried emitted a biting laugh. “I wish I could,” he said with derision and tapped his forehead. “But I can’t recall a thing about it.” The private investigator stood and pointed toward the door. Damon followed the cue and walked out, unsatisfied.

He headed straight to his Saab, resigned to making the long drive back to Hollydale. But as Damon approached the car, Pontfried’s receptionist bolted out of the office’s front door. With an outstretched hand, she motioned for him to stop, then walked briskly in his direction holding a finger to her lips.

She pointed wordlessly at the Saab’s interior. Damon unlocked his vehicle and climbed into the driver’s side. The receptionist scurried into the passenger’s seat. She quickly introduced herself as Sheila Ranch and asked Damon to drive to the far side of the strip mall.

Damon followed her direction, parking in front of a 7-Eleven.

Sheila pushed her glasses up to the bridge of her nose. “I overheard you and Mr. Pontfried talking,” she said.

She must have had her ear to the door
, Damon thought. He waited for her to continue.

“It’s true that we destroy all of the files, but of course he doesn’t forget his clients or the work he performs for them.” She gave Damon a captivating smile. “He charges three times the regular price in exchange for a convenient lack of memory,” Sheila said. She lowered long-lashed eyelids and nibbled delicately on the nail of a forefinger.

Damon felt heat spreading to his ears. Sheila’s perfume, redolent of jasmine, infused the air between them. He fought to recover his composure. “Have the police ever arrested him?” he asked.

“Mr. Pontfried?” Sheila laughed. “No. He’s much too savvy for that. He went to law school and knows how to dance around legalities.”

So why are you here?
Damon wondered. As if reading his mind, Sheila said, “I have more scruples than my boss does. I heard you say that Jeremiah Milk was murdered. That’s just awful. I don’t know what Mr. Pontfried did for his client, but I remember the man who hired him to investigate Mr. Milk.”

Damon almost jumped out of his seat. He leaned in close with eagerness. “Who was it?”

Sheila closed her eyes and tipped her head toward him, her lips only inches from Damon’s neck. His arousal was conspicuous. Damon quickly placed a ball cap he kept on the dashboard in his lap before Sheila opened her eyes.

“I can tell you,” Sheila purred, her eyes remaining shut. “But I need something from you.”

“Anything,” Damon heard himself replying.

“I remember the man’s name and hometown. I’ll let you have them for three hundred dollars.” She opened her eyes and gave Damon a look of self-reproach. “This job pays next to nothing,” she said quietly.

Damon was momentarily stunned into silence. He considered the proposition, then said, “Okay. I just need to find an ATM.”

Sheila pointed to a bank across the street. Damon exited the Saab, still holding the cap. He dodged oncoming traffic on foot, and minutes later was back in the car with a pocketful of bills.

Damon handed the wad of cash to Shelia. She pushed up her glasses and pecked Damon on the cheek. “His name is Shin Ho-Pyong.” She spelled it out. “He lives in Hanover. That’s about twenty miles southwest of here.”

Sheila folded the money into a pants pocket and held a finger to her lips. After a moment, she touched the same finger to Damon’s lips and then rushed out of the car.

Damon digested the information. A man named Shin Ho-Pyong had hired a private investigator to find out if the Jeremiah Milk who worked at Tripping Falls as a ranger was the person by the same name who grew up in Hollydale.

Damon savored the lingering wafts of jasmine before they dissipated, then went into the 7-Eleven and asked a clerk for directions to Hanover.

* * *

It was close to two in the afternoon when Damon arrived in the small town. Hanover was dominated by a pair of massive snack food factories: Snyder’s pretzels and Utz brand potato chips.

 
Damon stopped for lunch at a deli counter. The air smelled of salt. He ordered roast beef with mustard on rye and sat in a corner of the timeworn restaurant. Damon debated calling Gerry Sloman—he had vital information that the police might not otherwise obtain. On the other hand, Margaret Hobbes would blast Damon for interfering if she found out he had approached Marcus Pontfried. He decided to take a couple more steps on his own. But before proceeding, he called Rebecca and let her know he was in Hanover. If Shin Ho-Pyong was a murderer, Damon wanted someone to know his whereabouts.

“What exactly are you doing there, Damon?” Rebecca asked.

“I’ll tell you later. If you don’t hear from me by tonight, tell Gerry Sloman where I am and to find Shin Ho-Pyong.” He spelled the name.

“Damon, you’re freaking me out. I’m calling Gerry now.”

“No, Rebecca. You’ll get me and Gerry in a heap of trouble. I’ll be fine.”

A frustrated Rebecca hemmed and hawed, then finally gave in.

Damon dialed directory assistance from his cell phone and obtained Shin Ho-Pyong’s number. The deli was bustling, and the clamor of voices facilitated privacy. He sipped ice water then called the number.

“Hello.” The voice on the other end of the line had a heavy Korean accent.

“Is this Shin Ho-Pyong?” Damon asked.

“No. This is his roommate. He’s at work.”

Damon thought quickly. “I owe him some money. Where does he work?”

“Who is this?” the roommate asked with suspicion.

Damon was caught off guard. “Just a friend of a friend.”

“Hmm…” the man said. “He’s at the barber shop.” Click.