A Silent Career: A Retrospective

Letter I

August 2010

To Briggs and Mac,

If these letters have found you, it means that I have been gone for five years. It also means that the time has come to clarify my life and career, which, as you are aware, I guarded passionately. I apologize for this secrecy. For reasons explained herein, however, I hope you can understand my reasoning. I hope you find some amount of interest in the life your grandmother and I pursued. Please keep these stories safe and within our family.

• Your grandfather, M.H.

In 1975, I began working as a private investigator. Growing up, see, I was enamored with the daring adventures of Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes and the relaxed, yet pinpoint astuteness of Stout’s Nero Wolfe. I recognized early on in my career that my work would be incomparable to the heroic and oftentimes otherworldly feats found in a Sir Arthur Conan Doyle novel, but I was able to provide real assistance to people at times, and that was all I ever aimed to do.

In the small city of Henton, where I lived, my early investigative work typically involved exposing small-scale insurance and tax fraud, discovering the whereabouts of missing persons on behalf of their families, and, on occasion, the menial task of uncovering the lies of unfaithful spouses.

By the mid-1980s, I had established myself as a competent and reliable private investigator in the underground scene. Unlike many investigators I knew or heard of, however, I had little hubris in my work. I often turned my findings over to local and state police, with which they would locate a perpetrator or a missing person and proudly take the credit.

This system worked well for me. The individuals and families who contracted me were aware of the facts I uncovered and would pay me accordingly, allowing me to stay relatively free from any limelight. Anonymity was not only a personal preference of mine, but my name and face remaining out of the newspapers gave me a considerable advantage in my reconnaissance. Media attention seemed, to me, antithetical to private investigating, and I never understood why so many of my colleagues were overtly focused on it, oftentimes more so than solving cases.

The anonymity I desperately worked to maintain, however, was tested for the first time in April 1987. I was sitting in a diner early one morning, drinking coffee and reviewing notes from a case I was working on when a man I had never met quietly slipped into the booth seat across from me.

“Mr. Leslie,” the man said gently.

I looked up and removed my reading glasses.

“Can I help you?” I asked.

“I hope so,” he said. “If anyone can, then it is you.”

I gathered my papers in a stack and sat my pencil down on top of them.

“Well,” I said pointedly, “I am quite busy at the moment. Perhaps you can leave a message with me or your phone number?”

“I know you are a busy man, Mr. Leslie,” he said, “but there is a situation, and I know of no one else who can help resolve it.”

I remained quiet, studying the man.

“I work hard to ensure that my activities remain out of street gossip,” I said. “I’m not sure who recommended me for your situation, but I am just a journalist, not a first responder.”

When outside eyes and ears began to pry into my work, I often simplified my job to the role of journalist; this helped keep unwanted inquiries away.

“Lee Ivers told me to find you,” he said.

The hair on my arms raised at hearing the name, but I remained calm.

“Lee Ivers,” I said flatly, concealing the fact that my interest had been piqued. “And how do you know Mr. Ivers?”

“My father used to work with him, and they were good friends,” he said. “Unfortunately, as you know, Lee passed a while ago, but before he died, I discussed with him my situation, and he referred me to you. I was hesitant to find you, but I don’t know what else to do.”

“I see,” I said.

I leaned back in my booth, crossed my legs, and sipped my coffee. I studied the man a moment longer, then moved my stack of papers to one side of the table and rested my arms on the open space before me.

“Empty your pockets,” I said to the man.

He hesitantly took out his wallet, keys, and pocket knife and sat them on the table.

“And your gun?” I asked.

“No gun,” he said.

I looked at the man blankly. “Very well,” I said. “I’m sorry I could not help you.”

“It’s in my pants,” he quickly said.

“No more lies,” I said intently.

He nodded.

“Now, tell me about your situation.”

He looked down at the table. “It’s my sister,” he said.

“Go on.”

“She married a man–a bad man.”

I waited, allowing my impatience to become visible.

“Mario,” he said. “He beats her up every day.”

“Go to the police,” I told him.

He looked at me in disbelief, as if I was the one personally abusing his sister.

“Look, I’m not law enforcement,” I said, “and I’m not a hitman. I’m an investigator. I use evidence and clues to answer questions. I’m not some servant of justice. You claim to know of me, and of Lee Ivers, so I presume you know this.”

He looked at me desperately. “He is the police,” he said.

I paused. “I don’t follow,” I said unamused.

“He is a police officer over in Rock Falls,” he said. “A powerful one.”

“Not always the most pacifistic bunch,” I said. I paused momentarily. “I haven’t caught your name, by the way, sir,” I said.

“Jordan–Jordan Caruso,” he said.

“Well, Mr. Caruso,” I said, “as I mentioned upon your arrival, I am working on a few important things at the moment, and I—” 

“I wouldn’t have come to you unless I was desperate,” he interjected. “It’s not the violence. He’s making her do all kinds of stuff–stuff she doesn’t want to do.”

I raised my eyebrows to him and waited, silently insisting that he get to his point.

“He’s running an entire drug and weapons operation from their home. He makes her package drugs–dangerous drugs–and store weapons in her closet. And when she doesn’t do what he says, he beats her.”

As the man spoke, I jotted notes on my yellow legal pad, but soon his emotions consumed him and forced him to stop. “I don’t know what to do,” he said. “She’s scared. And I’m scared for her.”

“Very good,” I said plainly, and I slid my notepad over to him. “Please write your phone number here,” and he did.

“I’ll be in touch,” I said.

“So you will help?” he asked hopefully.

“Perhaps,” I said as I began to re-organize my papers around the table. “I am quite busy, as you can imagine. There is no shortage of crime and no shortage of worried family members requesting my assistance.”

I continued to organize my papers and write notes while the man remained seated. Finally, I looked up at him and nodded politely, indicating that our meeting had concluded. He collected his things, stood up slowly, and left the cafe.

As the door closed behind him, I hurriedly gathered my papers, stuffed them inside my briefcase, and finished the remainder of my coffee. I slowly approached the door and watched as the man walked briskly down the sidewalk.

Lee Ivers dead? I thought to myself as I watched the man. I had spent the better part of the last decade hunting people, and I suddenly felt–for the first time but not the last–that forces were conspiring to hunt me.

I carefully followed the man as he paced down the sidewalk. When he reached a car parked on the street, he looked around cautiously and entered its passenger side before the car quickly sped away.

A week passed before I called the number that the man had left on my legal pad. A woman answered.

“Good morning,” I said. “I was hoping to speak with Mr. Caruso.”

“I’m not sure if anyone is home at the moment,” she said. “Do you mean Jordan or Mario Caruso?”

“Busy men, I assume,” I said. “I’m looking for Jordan. We spoke a few days ago and I was hoping to speak with him again about something important. Would you mind leaving a message for him?”

“Of course,” she said.

“Friday, April 17,” I said. “9 a.m. I will be at the cafe.”

She began to speak, but I hung up before she could get a question out.

I immediately phoned my wife, Logan. She ran a florist shop in town by day, but she spent considerable time and effort assisting me with my cases, and without her, very few of them would have ever been finished. Whatever Watson was to Holmes, or Goodwin to Wolfe, she was that and more. While I possessed a keen ability to read people and situations, Logan Leslie–who used her maiden name, Logan Moore, for the sake of precious anonymity–was as stealthy as a fox and as witty as a coyote.

“Moore Flowers,” she answered.

“Friday morning,” I said. “9 o’clock.”

“Where?” she asked.

“Cafe. Black car,” I said.

She remained quiet. We kept things intentionally short at all times, but she could sense there was something more.

“Our guy might be back,” I said finally.

“The guy?” she asked cautiously.

“The same,” I said. “Tread lightly,” and then I hung up.

On the morning of April 17, I sat in the booth at the cafe, drinking coffee and scribbling notes, as I waited for the man to arrive for our meeting. At 10 o'clock, he entered the cafe and slipped into my booth once again.

“Good morning, Mr. Leslie,” he said politely.

“I considered our conversation from last week,” I said.

He was shocked by the abruptness but looked delighted when he registered what I had said.

“Normally, I wouldn’t get involved with such a case,” I said. “I do not know of you, for starters, and I don’t do business with folks I do not know. Secondly, police department scandals are particularly delicate circumstances.”

He nodded.

“The juice is often not worth the squeeze, as you might imagine,” I said. “Moreover, I prefer to maintain good relations with the enforcers of the law, even when they do not thoroughly enforce it upon themselves.”

He nodded again.

“However, you tell me that Mr. Lee Ivers referred you to me,” I said.

“He did.”

“I guess you are aware, then, that Mr. Ivers and I worked together several years ago.”

“I do. He had many great things to say about you and your work.”

“You claim that Mr. Ivers has died, yet I do not recall hearing of his passing.”

Disappointment overcame the man’s face. “You didn’t know that he passed?” he said softly.

“I did not,” I said, “which surprises me, as it is my job to stay abreast of such news.”

“I’m so sorry you did not know, Mr. Leslie,” he said.

“Unfortunate,” I said. “He was an excellent businessman.”

“He was,” the man said. “He taught me a lot.”

As we silently reflected on Lee’s passing, the waitress stopped at our table. She was holding a coffee pot and carefully refilled my cup. “Would you like some coffee?” she asked the man.

“No, thank you,” he said.

“Thank you, ma’am,” I said as I admired her outfit.

“One sugar, correct?” she asked me as she laid down a single sugar packet on the table.

“Right,” I said. She smiled and nodded her head before continuing down the aisle.

“So, Mr. Caruso,” I said, “would you mind filling me in on what you have in mind concerning your brother-in-law’s enterprise? It seems that you have all the information you need to uncover his unlawful activity. Why do you need me?”

“Well,” he said, “Lee told me about your connections to law enforcement. I was hoping that you could compile some information on what he is doing and report it properly–somewhere higher than the local police–that way it can be handled legally.

“I see.”

“My sister told me about a warehouse where everything is stored–drugs, money, guns–everything.”

“There doesn’t seem to be much need for an investigation then,” I said dismissively, “which is, of course, my job. You know where everything is–go burn it down. Or, better yet, take your sister and leave town.”

He looked down at the table again. “I’m scared,” he said. “I’m scared my sister will get hurt if anything happens. I know he can find us.”

Again, I slid my yellow legal pad over to him. “Write down the address,” I said.

He did, and he slid the notepad back over to me.

“Mario is going out of town on Tuesday morning,” he said. “I can drive you there Tuesday night and you can see the operation.”

“I’ll meet you there,” I said. “10 p.m.”

“Thank you, Mr. Leslie,” he said, “thank you so much.”

I was already reading over my papers and making notes as he said this, and this time he understood that our meeting had concluded. He stood up and left the cafe. As he exited, I looked over at the waitress, who was removing her apron and letting her hair down.

When I arrived at the address the man gave me, I found an old warehouse, with a black car parked on the side of it. I entered cautiously and was greeted by Mr. Caruso, who was sitting in a chair next to a woman holding a large package.

“Mr. Leslie,” he said pleasantly, “thank you for coming.”

“Considering the circumstance you claim to find yourself in, you do not appear to be a man who is nervous,” I said.

“Why should I be nervous?” he asked.

“Occupying a dangerous man’s domain,” I said, “does not strike me as a calming task, especially when it risks your sister’s health.”

“This?” he asked as he put his hand on the woman’s thigh. “This is not my sister, Mr. Leslie. This is my partner, Marta.”

“Shocking turn of events,” I said lamely.

“And I assume,” he said dramatically, “that you know who this is?”

Lee Ivers stepped out from behind a metal beam. “Surprise,” he said.

“Not really,” I said. “A relatively lame attempt at one, rather.”

He laughed grossly.

“And what now,” I asked directly.

“Straight to business, huh?” Lee said, smiling. “You know, I’m surprised we got you here so easily.”

“I got myself here, Lee. Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Well,” he said, “in any case, a rather simple ultimatum is what we propose to you.”

“I never particularly fancied ultimatums,” I said.

“Well, Mick,” he said, “we can certainly make your decision for you if you prefer it that way.”

“Whatever options you think you have for me,” I said, “I can assure you that I have more.”

“Perhaps,” Lee said, “we just kill you then, and leave you none?”

I chuckled. “If it were that easy,” I said, “I suspect it would have been done a long time ago. We both know that people have tried before. I believe you were even one of those people at one time. Peculiar, isn’t it?”

Lee Ivers took a couple of slow steps toward me, and Jordan Caruso slowly stood up from his chair.

“I believe I was,” he said as he approached me. “And I have waited to see you again for a long, long time.”

“I’m sorry for your mistake,” I said.

Lee laughed quietly to himself and reached a hand behind his back. Before it retrieved its intended item, a loud shot rang out, and Lee collapsed to the ground. Jordan Caruso reached for his weapon, but I had my pistol trained on him before he could retrieve it.

“Relax,” I said calmly. “Throw the gun on the ground and put your hands in the air. Slowly.”

He dropped his gun and raised his hands as he looked down at Lee Ivers’ body in shock. “How’d you do that?” he said.

“Why should I not kill you,” I asked him.

“It wasn’t my idea,” he said shakily.

“Ah,” I said, “just following orders.”

He remained silent.

“I will leave you to clean this up, should you wish to,” I said. “And I assure you that I will find you again the instant I hear of any arms or drugs being distributed from your facility here. I suggest that you dissolve this operation or move it far away from here.”

I released the hammer of my pistol, tucked it back into my pants, and took a few steps backward. As I turned for the door, I saw from the corner of my eye that he was reaching for his weapon on the ground but before he could retrieve it, another shot rang out and the woman screamed.

As I got into my truck, Logan was already waiting inside for me.

“Thank you,” I said to her as we pulled away. She looked over at me. “If anyone gets to kill you, it will be me,” she said, smiling.

“Hopefully it doesn’t come that,” I said, “but I’d be honored.”

In a world where anonymity is paramount, see, there is little room for enemies–particularly for ones who desperately seek the unnecessary evil of revenge. My philosophy, however–and that of your grandmother, too–is not to locate enemies and eliminate them. There is certainly no shortage of men who would consider me an enemy, and most of them live peaceful lives remaining far away from me. It is those who rear their nasty heads at us, rather than remain in the shadows, that meet fates such as these.

As for the story of Lee Ivers and how I came to know him, that is for another time.

• M.H. Leslie