Room 533

Room 533

So here I am sitting on the floor leaning up against the wall in this nice hotel room.

I’m having a hard time trying to figure this one out. Where did it go wrong? Where did I go wrong?

Was it really just five short weeks ago that I had dinner with uncle Tim at Smitty’s Bar and Grill? He had asked me how my Private Investigator’s business was going after my first 18 months.

I knew Uncle Tim had been disappointed when I quit the force at NYPD after just three years, but I just couldn’t take all the political and bureaucratic crap you have to deal with as a police officer. He told me I had practically all the instincts required to move up the ranks and join him as a detective. I just needed a couple more years of experience.

But I had other plans.

I have to admit, I was pretty proud of myself when I obtained my official license to operate as a ‘PI’. I was reinvigorated and excited to launch this next phase. But most of the cases I have been taking on are small insurance frauds, or petty company thefts. They are boring for the most part, but they help put food on my table and booze in the cabinet.

“If only I could land a nice, expensive case,” I had told Uncle Tim. “You know like a rich, messy divorce where the wife suspects her husband of cheating on her. Then maybe I could finally afford to get an office and a secretary, instead of working alone out of my home.”

“Be careful what you wish for Jake,” Uncle Tim had warned me. “Rich, expensive divorces are not always so cut and dried. Scandal has its dangers. There’s a reason they’re called ‘messy’.”

“I know,” I replied, “But I just want, no I just need, to make more money to take that next step.”

 He shook his head, and tried, once again to convince me to return to the force. He had laughed at what he called my “stubbornness” and I had laughed at his “persistence”.

It was just two weeks later in fact that I got that big break when Donald Williamson, founder and CEO of Williamson International Ltd., a huge software manufacturer, called me. Said he suspected his wife of 19 years, Denise, was having an affair but wanted proof. He said he blamed himself, spent too much time building up his company at the expense of his marriage. It was probably an often-heard lament.

He told me he didn’t want any publicity as that could hurt his stock value, that’s why he called me from my ad in the phone book. He wanted a low key, no name PI, not some big agency where a story could leak out. He offered me three times my going rate, but secrecy was paramount.

I had handled a few similar cheating spouse cases in the past, so I knew the routine. And who could refuse triple the going rate?

We met in a bar where he provided me with a recent photo of his wife, his home address, and $2,000 cash for starters. Said he wanted ‘positive proof’ of the affair.

I started my surveillance within a week and it didn’t take long to confirm her unfaithfulness. They were smart though - they never used the same motel or hotel twice.

I took the usual photos – the polite hug in the parking lot, or the quick kiss goodbye when they thought no one was watching. I also lucked out when the room blinds were not entirely closed once. It is amazing what a quality zoom lens can pick up. I was sure those were the photos my client wanted to see.

So, three weeks later, I had called him and we set up the meeting here in room 533 at Hotel Morgan on the east side of the city. I knew of the place. It was an old-style lodging, built in the 1940’s. The lobby looked like something straight out of a Humphrey Bogart movie. Heck, they even still use the old lock and key for the rooms – no modern, computerized chip room cards for this elegant establishment.

The meeting was set for 6 p.m. ‘sharp’ and he told me to just come straight up and not to bother with the front desk. I followed his instructions and he ushered me into the room.

I handed him a manilla envelope that contained about 25 photos.

He flipped through them quickly and told me they were ‘excellent.’ Then he tossed a few on the coffee table where a couple slipped onto the floor. I bent to retrieve them, but when I stood back up, Williamson had a gun in his hand, pointing at me.

 “It’s nothing personal,” he said and shot me once, then twice. I stumbled back and slid down the wall.

I tried to get back up but couldn’t. As such, I was forced to watch him move around the room cleaning up and wiping things down.

He talked to me as he worked quickly. He said that even with proof of the affair, his wife would still get half of his millions – they didn’t have a pre-nup agreement. He said she wasn’t worth that.

He told me the only way to keep everything would be if she was in prison for murder. He told me he had her book this room for “a special night away” and that she would be arriving in a couple of hours – too late for me.

He had her book the same room last month for their anniversary and he had made a wax imprint of the room key, and had a duplicate made so he could meet me here without being seen.

He told me the gun he used was her gun, which she had purchased just last month. He removed the silencer and put it in his pocket, then placed the firearm on a side table and removed the clear, tight glove from his hand that had held the gun.

"This is a special glove, the gun will only show her fingerprints," he explained.

My strength was oozing away as Williamson told me that his wife, in an attempt to save her marriage and rich lifestyle, would be charged with murdering a private investigator who was blackmailing her. “And thanks to you, I have the proof,” he said, waving the envelope. He left a couple of the photos on the table.

I knew Uncle Tim would search my office and find the file on this case, but all it will show is that Donald Williamson hired me to check up on his wife as well as duplicates of the photos I had taken. My daybook would only show an appointment with “D. M.” at this hotel.

Williamson said he will play the shocked and saddened husband. He picked up his briefcase and bent over to check on me. “Sorry for your loss,” he said and left me alone in room 533.

“Be careful what you wish for,” Uncle Tim had warned me. Oh how I wished I had heeded that advice.