Next

I looked at the dashboard clock. It read 7 P.M. and I felt the tiredness of a long day. Stiff and painful when I moved my body, I was seriously considering quitting my job as a taxi driver. I was tired not only physically, but mentally as well. No excitement. Just demanding, dull rides. Except for the nice lady I pick up every Wednesday evening. Loves to talk. Talks about many things. A nice woman. If I could only remember what is her name?

As I was cleaning out the back of the car, I found a black and white photograph of five men. They were smiling at the camera. One man was circled in red. On the back was written ‘Next’ and an address. A chill ran down his back.

           “I’m paranoid. That doesn’t mean what I’m thinking.”

           But I couldn’t shake the thought that had wrapped around my mind like a bandage.

           I looked at the photo again and then the address. Time to put on my private investigator cap and do some research.

           Though I was in my own car, a KIA Forte, the feeling of tiredness didn’t fully disappear. I couldn’t shake the feeling I was getting every time I looked at the photograph. I had to make sure everything was all right. I decided to visit the address on the back of the photograph.

           After getting off the freeway, I made a left onto Sunset Blvd. I drove for a few miles and made a right onto Corinth Street. The house I was looking for was on the left. It was big, yet unassuming. I decided to leave the area before someone calls the police on me.

           Once I got home, though all I wanted was to take a shower and go to bed, my mind knew better. I had to find out who lived at that address. Possibly warn them of danger.

           I made a mental note to purchase a new computer and phone. My current ones were just a little too slow. Finally, when the computer booted up, I went onto the internet to the Nexis site to find what I needed. I loved being a part-time private detective. What a big fish I found. Mr. and Mrs. Cornell Anderson. The same Cornell Anderson who owns a significant part of Los Angeles. I definitely needed to speak with him tomorrow.

           But how? I knew I couldn’t just walk up to him and say ‘hi, Cornell. My name is Robert Jackson. Someone wants to murder you and I know who.’ Of course, that last part was a lie. I had no idea who wanted the man dead or if that was what the cryptic message meant. For all, I knew it pertained to payback at a game of golf or tennis. But that gnawing at the back of my neck told me otherwise. Two ideas came to mind. One, go to the police about this or two, contact Mr. Anderson’s security detail about the matter. I decided to contact the security detail first. Their actions would determine whether I go to the police about this. I can’t go to them with just a hunch and no hard evidence.

           I did some more research to find out who was in charge of the Andersons having a peaceful day on a daily basis. The firm, The Connors Agency, came up. I would give them a call in the morning.

           After my morning ritual of a hot shower and coffee, I called the Connors Agency.

           “Good morning. The Connors Agency,” the woman said.

           “Good morning. May I speak with Adam Connors?” I asked.

           “May I tell him who's calling?”

           “My name is Robert Jackson. I have some information about your client, Cornell Anderson. I’m a private investigator.” I lied. I wouldn’t have my license until I finished the P.I. course which won’t be for another year.

           “One moment, please.”

           I didn’t have to wait long.

           “He has an opening at 1:30 pm? Can you make it?” she asked.

           “Let me check my schedule. Yes, 1:30 is ok. I’ll see him then.” I said.

           After I hung up and did a little happy dance, I thought about the whole situation. I wondered if I was wrong? Maybe someone is playing a bad joke on me? I picked up the photograph and looked at it. The gnawing on my neck came back. I put the photograph in a small zip lock bag to protect it as much as possible. As I kept looking at the image of the five men, different possibilities came to mind as to why the picture was in my taxi and what all of this means? The gnawing didn’t stop. When I thought about the word murder, it stopped.

           Why would anyone want to murder Cornell Anderson? From what I’ve read he’s a good family man and generous with his money. Yet, strange things occur behind closed doors. Maybe he’s not what he appears to be? And who are these other men in the photograph? Is it possible one of them wants him dead? Adam Connors might know who they are. I really need to talk to Cornell Anderson. Getting second-hand information is not right.

           I looked at the time on my phone. 10:30. I wanted to take a nap, but I knew better. I would oversleep and miss my appointment. I went for a run instead. I would stay awake, and it would clear my head so I could think. Plus, I needed the exercise.  

           When I finished my run and went home, I answered my messages on my phone. It amazes me that when I’m at home no one calls me. As soon as I step out the door, everyone calls me.

           I had ten messages to answer. Half were telemarketers and were deleted. Three were friends and the last two were from my mother. Today was Monday. She wanted to hear how my weekend was and did I meet any pretty young ladies. Mother is a bit nosey when it comes to my love life, but I figure all mothers are like this. I wonder. Especially since she is not my birth mother. She left me with her sister when I was six months old. She couldn’t handle being a single parent, so I ended up with her sister and my uncle. I turned out all right. Yet I would like to know where my mother is? I have asked mom and uncle, but they don’t know either.

           I took a shower, got dressed for my appointment, and called mom.

           “I can’t talk long, mom. I have to be somewhere by 1:30,” I said.

           “Too busy to talk to your mother. What a sad day this is,” she said.

           “What is it, mom?”

           “Did you meet any nice ladies this weekend?”

           “No, only Ms. Katherine Brown.” I was glad I remembered her name.

           “That old woman! Why does she need so many taxi services? You be careful around her. She’s not right.”

           “I have to go, mom. I’ll talk to you later.”

           I hung up the phone.

           I should have never told mom about Ms. Brown. She doesn’t believe anyone is that nice. She never has anything nice to say about her. She thinks the woman is up to something. I can’t think of what that could be. She is just a nice old woman. Grandmother type.

           I hurried to my appointment at The Connors Agency. I was a bit nervous, but I made it.

           “May I help you?” The woman asked. She was in her early thirties, with brown eyes, and hair. Athletic build. Appears to be a nice woman that mom would approve of.

           “I have an appointment with Adam Connors. I’m Robert Jackson.” I wanted to give her my phone number, but I need to have patience.

           “Yes, he’s expecting you. I’ll let him know you are here.”

           “Thank you.”

           It seemed as soon as she hung up the phone, he came out to greet me. Adam was about six feet tall, with black hair, hazel eyes. Muscular build. Forty years old, give or take.

           “Mr. Jackson. I’m Adam Connors. Nice to meet you. Let’s go to my office.”

           I followed him down a hall to his office on the right. It was a brightly lit office. Various African American artworks decorated the walls.  A large L-shape cherry wood desk sat in the middle of the room. The kitchenette was to the left. There was a large oval table near the kitchenette. We sat there.

           “I hope you don’t mind us sitting here while we talk. I want to finish my lunch,” he said.

           “No problem. I’m a guest,” I said.

           “Let’s get to the reason you’re here.”

           “Mr. Connors—”

           “Adam, please.”

           “Adam, I want to be honest with you. I’m not a private investigator, yet. I drive a taxi for a living. I’ll have my license in about a year.”

           “I see.”

           “I do think your client is in danger.”

           “Why is that?”

           I took out my ‘evidence’ and showed it to him. He looked at it and gave it back to me. He gave me a strange look.

           “I’m listening,” he said.

           “I think your client, Cornell Anderson, is on someone’s hit list,” I said.

           “And you determined this by a photograph?”

           “Yes. It’s just a hunch.”

           “Why didn’t you go to the police about this?”

           “They would have given me the same look you’re giving me right now.”

           “Mr. Jackson, I don’t believe you.  The reason why I don’t is you know how many strange individuals I meet weekly who want to ‘talk to’ my client? All of them want something from him? I’m asking you what do you want from my client?”

              “I don’t want anything from your client! I just want to make sure he doesn’t end up dead,” I said.

           “I see,” he said.

           At that moment there was a knock at his door. He went to open it and two men entered the room. They identified themselves as police detectives. I felt sick in my gut.

           “Mr. Jackson, these two detectives would like to talk to you at the police station. My client doesn’t like to be conned. Don’t forget your ‘evidence,’ he said.

           I picked up the photograph and went with the detectives.

           The station was overflowing with the usual people. Criminals, suspected criminals, and innocent victims. I was afraid that I was going to be thrown into a holding cell with the hardened of society, but I was put in an interrogation room. I looked at the mirrored window and wondered if I was being watched. The two detectives who brought me in entered the room. They introduced themselves as Walker and Johnson. By the looks on their faces, I knew this was not going to be fun.

           “Robert Jackson. Or should I call you Robert Jackson, Private Investigator?” Detective Walker said. The other detective laughed out loud.

           “Just Robert Jackson,” I said.

           “So, you lied about being a P.I.?”

           “I exaggerated. I’ll have my license in a year.”

           “We don’t like liars, Robert. What else have you lied about?”

           “I don’t understand what you’re asking me?”

           “Where did you get this photograph?”

           “It was in the back of my taxi that I drive.”

           “Do you know who all these men are in the photograph?”

           “No.”

           “They were entrepreneurs.”

           “Were?” I asked.

           “They’re all deceased. Actually murdered,” Detective Walker said.

           “How did they die?”

           “They were poisoned.”

           I felt sick in my gut, again.

           “Did you kill them?” Detective Walker asked.

           “No, I did not,” I said.

           “We don’t like liars,” Detective Johnson said.

           “I’m not lying!”

           “All right, Robert. Did you pick up anyone near these addresses in the last month?” Detective Walker asked.

           He handed me a sheet of paper with the five-address listed. All upscale neighborhoods. Only one of my passengers stood out. I just couldn’t believe it was—

           “Robert?”

           “I don’t remember being in these areas. I would have to check my logs for the month.”

           “You’re still lying to us, Robert,” Detective Johnson said.

           “I’m not lying, you jackass!”

           “You can go, Robert,” Detective Walker said.

           I didn’t hesitate on getting out of there. Another minute and I would have lost my senses. Besides, I had a job to go to and a special person to pick up.

           Like the chimes of a clock, Katherine was waiting for me to pick her up. She was grinning like a Cheshire cat. She was eager to talk and so was I.

            “How was your day, Robert?” She asked.

           “It was interesting. I was at the police station. They think I killed five men.” I said.

           “Oh, my.” The grin didn’t fade.

           “All because of a photograph I found in my car.”

           “Did you tell them the truth? Always tell the truth.”

           “I’m not sure what the truth is.”

           “Yes, you do. Did you tell them I killed those men?”

           “No. Did you kill them?”

           “Yes, I did. They swindled money from me when I was younger. A great deal of money. That money was for my son. They were an evil group. Not all rich people are like that, but they were.”

           “Why are you confessing this to me?” Robert asked.

“You’re better than a priest. Besides if you try to turn me in, no one is going to believe you. How could a 77-years old woman commit such crimes? The police think you’re crazy. This would confirm it. “

I drove while contemplating my next move. I knew she was right. The detectives on the case would throw a straight jacket on me and put me in a cell. I just couldn’t believe that she is getting away with murder.

“You can stop here please,” Katherine said.

Absentmindedly I did as she requested. She gathered her belongings, got out, and turned to face me. She had a slight smirk on her face.

“Robert, it’s all right. Justice has been served. I can now die quietly and in peace.”

“Katherine, what are you trying to say?”

“I’m not killing myself. I don’t know when I’ll go. I do know I’m okay with my life.”

“Katherine—”

“Robert, I won’t be riding with you anymore and you know why. I’ve enjoyed our time together. Now for a little life advice. Go and enjoy your life. Stop the negativity and live in the positive. You’ll be all right.”

She walked up the street and disappeared into the darkness.

About a year later I saw her obituary in the paper. I made a mental note to go to her service and to tell her she was right about me, and my life has been good.

“Thank you, mama.”