The Runaway Wife

I hate matrimonial cases, especially runaway wives. They always remind me of Tara. Charlie was wearing red high heels, white capri pants, and a top that left nothing to the imagination. The smile on her face was of a woman that knew exactly what she wanted. The man next to her was mid-50s, tan, wearing a short sleeve linen button-down, jeans, and loafers. He put his arm around her as they walked down from Pier A and into the W Hotel in Hoboken. Keeping a safe distance, I managed to get a half dozen shots off with my Canon SX620.

I waited in my Ford Focus across from the W. After about twenty minutes, Charlie reappeared, alone. She pulled out a pack of Virginia Slims and lit one up. I approached her with the note that Harry gave me two years earlier. There was something in the way she carried herself and how she exhaled that seemed oddly familiar. I couldn’t place it, but she reminded me of someone.

“You Charlie?” I asked.

“Who’s asking?”

“I’m Mickey. Harry Dimov hired me to find you and give you this.” She held up a hand, indicating she didn’t want the note.

“Tell that creep to leave me alone.” She quickly finished a few puffs off her cigarette and stomped it out under the tip of her shoe.

“You sure you don’t want…”

“Tell that creep to stay away, or I’ll call the cops and get a restraining order. Got it?”

“Got it,” I said. “Professional courtesy, if you don’t want to see him, I won’t give away your whereabouts. It’s part of our code.”

“Good. Now get lost. I never want to see that sack of shit again.”

“You don’t want me to…”

“You think you’re the first one he sent to find me?”

“What do you mean?”

“The man is sick.”

“He just wants to know…”

“Forget you ever saw me, Mickey. You look like someone that’s got street smarts to me.”

“I’d like to think so.”

“I’m trouble. And you don’t want any part of it. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll stay far, far away.”

There was something seductive in how she said it, how she looked at me. She said one thing, but seemed to mean the opposite. For a moment, I understood what Harry was so hung up about. She turned and stormed back into the hotel. And we were off to the races.

Fractured relationships are the bread and butter for us private investigators. But runaways are not the kind of breaks that can be mended. They always ask, “Why did she leave?” Which is a lot like saying, “Why did you bury the corpse?” The men who hire me, in particular, are, you might say, ‘unobservant.’ Meaning, their relationship died a sad death. Some time ago. And instead of a real, live relationship, lies a dead, decaying corpse. Clues abound. The odor for one. The pallid blue hue of the skin. The settling of the fluids leaving the skin looking like a limp balloon. But they are none the wiser.

What some people settle for in marriage is a lot more like two glorified roommates tiptoeing around a dead corpse so as not to create a fuss. But who would want to live like that?

Only someone so self-involved as to be completely oblivious to the world around them.

A man a lot like Harry Dimov.

***

There’s nothing I hate more than runaway wives, except missed mortgage payments.

Later that day, I was waiting in Harry Dimov’s study with news. And after two years without anything you could sink your teeth into, the photos in the manila envelope on my lap were not going to sit well with Harry. This was not the answer he was hoping for.

You don’t see many happy endings in this line of work. Just closure. Or complications. The closure is usually devastating. The complications are a son-of-a-bitch. And even those happy endings aren’t as happy as they’re supposed to be. It doesn’t do much to inspire hope in the human condition. Let me tell you.

Being a private investigator isn’t the problem. There is always work. And I like the work. Getting to the bottom of things. The morbid curiosity of it. The justice in knowing the facts. But unlike my competitors, I have a conscience. That’s the problem. It is always getting me into trouble. Ever since I turned down a job offer from Paterson, New Jersey’s favorite son, Larry Slocum, my phone hadn’t been ringing.

I had child support payments due to two different women, my home mortgage with Shellpoint, and a small gambling debt I’d accrued with my bookie which were all chasing the same $3,251.15 bank account balance. It wasn’t pretty. M&T Bank had sent me an alert for “Low Bank Account Balance.” This was the revelation of the century. Thank you, M&T Bank, for kicking a man when he’s down. Sheesh.

You want to know why I turned down that gig? Larry was playing hide the salami with about two dozen women I’d been hired to tail. I couldn’t do the math, but he had a roster that could rival a pro sport’s team. So, you can understand my revulsion when he wanted me to see who his own wife was or wasn’t diddling on the side. I’ll pass. Thank you very much.

Harry’s study was the usual part trophy-case, part disordered drawer for errant paperwork that I had become accustomed to. Harry had a framed photo of his first building purchase. Then there was a display cabinet on one wall with his martial arts trophies, some ceremonial engraved katana blades, military decorations, ribbons, and badges from his stint in the marines, and other chachkies from his travels. His firearms had their own locked cabinet. Not a single photo of his poor estranged wife. Even so, I always had a soft spot for Harry. Before my two more recent blood-sucking ex-wives, there was Tara, my first wife. She died in a tragic accident while on assignment in Italy. I was so broke at the time, I couldn’t even afford to make the trip and bring the body back home. She had to be buried there, by strangers.

“How are you, Mickey?” Harry said, slapping my back as he navigated around his desk, sitting down in a leather-backed chair, looking like a version of the cowardly lion if the cowardly lion was on TRT Therapy.

“I could complain, but who’d listen?”

“If it’s about Charlie, talk.”

“I’ve got news. But I don’t think you’ll like it.”

Harry’s head dropped, eyes closing with effort. For all of his hard-charging business dealings and the aura of a warrior that Harry flaunted, he was a very emotional guy at heart. Then Harry looked up and said, “Hit me with it, Mickey. I can handle it.”

Even after two years looking, I wasn’t sure if he was. Charlie had left after twenty-two years of marriage. No note. No forwarding address. No explanation. Just gone. Harry and Charlie never had kids. Harry was 54 years old, and all of his family was in Macedonia. Charlie, maiden name, Rivera, at 38 years old, had no living parents or siblings. So, it had been easy for her to desert him. No pesky family members asking about what happened, no roots.

Charlie had grown up on the streets. Her father, Rick, was a truck driver who once did time for smuggling cocaine. Her mother, Lily, went from stripper, to addict, to dealer, to waitress — all before Charlie was ten. After they both overdosed, Charlie bounced through the system before Aunt Angie, a title agent with a white-picket-fence life in Paramus, took her in. Needless to say, the trauma of her youth found its way back in, over and over, and before long she was back hustling on the same streets she started out on. But she got out and started a career in real estate, which led her to Harry. And the rest was history.

“I found Charlie. She’s somewhere in Jersey.” I tossed the manila envelope onto Harry’s desk. “But, before you open it, you should know, she’s with another man. I don’t know if you really want to look at those.”

“Great work, Mickey,” Harry said, as he tore open the manila envelope.

“No good is going to come of that.”

“I’ve got to see it for myself,” Harry said. “But first, let me just take care of a little business.” Harry went over to the safe by his military case and counted $20,000 cash. Then he took out a rubber band and snapped it over the stack of bills, tossing the money at me.

“What’s this?”

“What I owe you,” Harry said. “And an advance for finding out who this cocksucker is. I want to know everything. You hear me?”

“Do you think paying me is going to bring her back?”

“I still don’t know why she left me. The way I see it, this is going to go one of two ways.”

“And what are those?”

“Either Charlie’s coming home, or Charlie’s going to explain why she left. Either way, I have to know everything first.”

“You think she’d be happy to see you if you found her?”

“Either way, she’ll know I care.”

“Would you really take her back now?”

“Just find my wife, Dr. Freud. That’s what I’m paying you for. And find out who this schlub is. Okay. And we’ll figure out the consequences after.”

***

The only thing worse than not knowing why she left… was finding out. For Harry and for me.

I took up residence at the bar in the W Hotel. It was called The Living Room. It had lights like hanging inverted skyscrapers above, and an assortment of intimate luxury leather couches and mini cabanas, with the bar itself made of clean black marble. The place smelled of leather, sweet liqueur, musk and Chanel N°5.

On my third night there with no luck, the bartender, Luis, made me a stiff Grey Goose martini with stuffed blue cheese olives and I waited and scoped things out.

“Are you staying at the hotel?”

“No, just visiting?”

“New in town?”

“I live nearby, but I heard good things, Luis, so I thought I’d come through. And I’m glad I did. I love the ambience.”

“Are you looking for anything special tonight?

“What do you mean?”

“You need any party favors? Girls? Whatever you need, I have the connect. I can hook you up. Comes with the territory.”

“Oh. Yeah, I’m not looking for that kind of party. But since you are being helpful, you ever see a girl that looks like this before?” I took out the picture of Charlie and Luis’s eyes widened. He scanned the room from side to side.

“You know her?”

“Old acquaintance. Trying to reconnect.”

“Oh, so you know her, know her. Good.”

“Yeah, of course,” I said, with a fake laugh, acting like I was in the know, when I actually had no earthly clue what he meant.

“Alexa works the bar here actually, but she has been away about a week now. You know, in her line of work, these high-class escorts have to keep a rotation to avoid any unwanted attention. You want me to see if I can get you a booking?”

“That’s alright. I was just having a slow night. Wanted to see if she was going to be here. This martini will do for now.”

“Really? You are taking a martini over Alexa? To each his own.”

“It’s a damn good martini,” I said with a playful wink.

“Alright buddy. Just holler if you need anything.” Then an idea struck me.

“Wait. Luis. You said you can get me a booking with Alexa? For tonight?

“I can see what I can do.”

“Here’s a credit card. Make the booking.”

“Give me twenty minutes. Enjoy your drink. I’ll be right back with you.”

I took my martini to front desk and booked room 405.

***

I hate runaway wife cases, especially when one turns out to be an escort. When I heard the knock on the door, I braced myself for a slap in the face.

As I opened the door, we stood face-to-face. Her features were smooth, her lip having a stubborn little curl to it. The eyes were a hypnotic green. The part of her raven black hair looked oddly naughty, against the innocence of her youthful cheeks.

Charlie grabbed me by the back of the head and started kissing me, as she pushed me into the room, the door shutting behind her. With my eyes closed I could swear I’d kissed these lips before.

“Mickey. I knew I’d be seeing you again,” she whispered as she pulled away, holding out her hand. “But I warned you.”

“I don’t follow directions well.”

“That’ll be $1,200, and I’ll be back after I get changed.”

I handed her the money, and sat in a reclining chair by the window, looking out over the East River.

She came out in black lingerie and black high heels, her figure taut and lean. Her eyes were the eyes of a devil.

“You know I didn’t come for that,” I said.

“Might as well get your money’s worth, detective,” she said.

“I’ve got lines I don’t cross.”

“Don’t be bad, Mickey. I want to have some fun. Professional courtesy.”

“When did you start doing this?”

“Oh, Mickey. Don’t believe everything you’re told. Isn’t that the first rule of investigating. Not everything is as it seems.”

“I don’t understand. You left your husband, who is loaded, to become an escort? To sleep with strange men?”

“My husband?”

“Harry. Your husband of twenty-two years.”

Charlie sat down on the bed, shaking her head in horror.

“Is that what he told you?”

“Yes.”

“Wow. You know, I got the name, Charlie, from Harry’s ex-wife. She died in childbirth. He wanted me to dress like her. To say things she said. To act like she did in bed.”

“Harry was your John?”

“I met him selling real estate, as a broker. Then he told me I looked like his ex-wife. So, I told him about my other line of business. He was my customer for years.”

“What happened?”

“Things got weird. He wanted me to stay in his house. First it was overnight. Then a weekend. Then a full week. And he always called me Charlie. He started to lose it, Mickey. Started losing touch with reality. I was scared. That’s why I changed it to Alexa. Every time I have something going good, I have to start all over.”

“Why’d you do it?

“I wanted to ease his pain.”

“But you knew he was sick?”

“At first, I think it helped. But then he became obsessed. And I started feeling like I was a living ghost, haunting a haunted man.”

I walked to the door. “I’m very sorry to inconvenience you, Alexa. I’ll make sure you don’t hear from him again.”

As I was walking out of the room, Charlie came up to me and put the cash I gave her back in my pants pocket.

“I don’t see any reason we can’t be friends,” Charlie said. She started kissing me again, this time caressing my leg and chest. I couldn’t help but kiss her back. Her lips were moist and warm against mine. Her breath like lavender. The sting of the perfume mixed with sweat and the taste of the vodka on our tongues. The heaving of her breath and the gentle touch of her hands. I pushed her away.

“I can’t do this.”

“Why not?”

“Lines.”

“You are as boring as Harry. Go on then.”

The second I shut the door behind me I immediately regretted it.

***

“She left the country?”

“Yes, Harry. She’s not coming back.”

“Well, I guess that’s that then.”

“Whatever happened to your first wife, Harry?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about – Charlie was my first wife. My one and only. Until death do us part.”

“Looks like you parted sooner than that, no?”

“You know what this means, Mickey?”

“What?”

“You’re officially off the payroll.”

“I know. Take care of yourself Harry.”

That’s how it goes. My conscience was always getting me into trouble. Every time. You think Shellpoint cares? My bookie? The ex-wives? Not a chance.

***

I hate runaway wife cases. But every once in a while, I take a shine to one. I sat at a table at the W Hotel with Charlie. I looked at her like she was food. She gave me the same look.

“You still going to be able to perform after those martinis?”

“I sure hope so.”

“Me too.”

“Hey, Charlie. It’s okay if I call you Charlie, right?”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“You aren’t going to try to make me settle down or anything are you? I’ve already got two ex-wives, technically three, and I’m really not looking for another one.”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“I don’t look like any of your ex-wives do I?”

“Now that you mention it… no, not a bit.” I lied. Because something strange had dawned on me after our first encounter.

Charlie punched my shoulder and excused herself.

While she was gone, I began fantasizing about what we were about to do. Then, I pulled out my wallet. I looked at an old picture of Tara. Tantalizing green eyes. Raven black hair. Olive skin. Devilish eyebrows.

Charlie was the spitting image of my first wife, Tara.

It was uncanny. But it couldn’t be.

Tara had been dead fifteen years.