…

Detective Bryson interviews Wendy Anderson

…

Worthey called Bryson, in the middle of a hamburger, with the owner of the cell phone number in Bergman’s wallet.  A woman, no surprise there, perhaps his latest conquest.  They settled on a time and Worthey texted the address, and said he would meet Bryson at the apartment, after lunch.

Bryson never really felt comfortable when talking to mistresses, perhaps more because of his beliefs than anything else, and it would be good to have Worthey there just in case he made some inappropriate comment.  It wouldn’t be the first time.

In his mind, being married was monogamous and you didn’t play around, certainly not like the overprivileged people he had to deal with.  The trouble was, they were not the only perpetrators, it just seemed more common.

And it was at the top of the list of motives for crime, especially murder.

Between the time between Worthey’s call and arriving at the apartment, the tech team had the phone company supply the text messages off the phone number his PA had supplied, and, it seemed, after a cursory glance at the swath of text messages on Bergman’s phone, there were several women he was involved with in various parts of the country, and overseas, but only one in New York.

Her name:  Wendy Anderson.  And the text messages were salacious, bordering on pornographic.  Except the last few where it seemed the relationship had turned nasty, and several compromising photographs were in play.  It wasn’t blackmail yet, but it was reason enough to get his bank records.  Bergman was not a scrupulous man.

As for phone calls the last between Bergman and Wendy Anderson was at 7:03 pm.  But that was not the last communication, that was a text message at 9:05 pm, after leaving Anderson’s telling her that he was not signing the papers yet until she clarified her situation with Bergman.  Anderson had asked him, and he had said nothing like they agreed.

There was a reply, that she was available if he wanted to see her to discuss the ‘other’ matter but he said he had another appointment at 10pm.  The other matter was, no doubt, the photos.

A quick search on Wendy’s social media by Worthey turned up the fact she also in the middle of a messy divorce, and that her relationship with Bergman had been since school.  It appeared that all three, Wendy’s husband, James, Bergman, and Wendy had all known each other forever, so the question had be bel when did things go south and why?

More digging through the blog entries discovered that Anderson’s only child had died in a car accident, and Wendy had blamed her husband, who had a blazing row with his son just before it happened.

Worthey looked up the details of the accident and found the son had been high on drugs, and no doubt the husband’s argument was about preventing him from driving.  The blog, he noted, not once mentioned the son’s addiction.  The blog also only mentioned Bergman in passing as a family friend, and supportive in her time of grieving.

Another layer to a complex interrogation, Worthey thought, and texted a brief analysis to Bryson so he had a heads up before meeting her.

Worthey met Bryson in the building foyer.

“Nothing is ever straightforward, is it?”

“Not with the rich and infamous, no.  So, we have a couple who suffer the loss of a son, the wife blames the husband, Bergman’s on the scene sensing an opportunity, and she has an affair, you say the texts turned salacious about a month after the accident.  Who initiated it?”

“Bergman.”

“They start an affair, and soon after divorce proceedings begin.  We need to see who started it, so a lawyer’s name.  Make a note.  Ten gets you a dozen this Wendy Anderson tries to implicate her husband in the murder.  Simple enough, they were a happy trio until the son’s death.”

“This Bergman character, we’re not finished digging up shit on him, are we?”

“No.”  Bryson gave him the list he received from the PA.  “Disgruntled businessmen and husbands.  The suspect list gets longer.  Ready?”

She, like the ex-Mrs Bergman, looked to have done well out of an upcoming divorce, living in a very expensive mid-town apartment.

It elicited a shake of the head from Bryson as he and Worthey waited outside the door, standing next to one of the building’s concierges.  He’d never be able to afford such luxury and only served to cement his low opinion of the so-called rich and infamous.

The door opened, not by a maid, but the occupant herself.  There was an element of grief about her that no amount of makeup could hide.  A look, he thought, that could be genuine, but having dealt with a lot of so-called grieving widows, he’d reserve judgement.  He knew most women thought tears were their best friend in situations like this.

A bit cynical, but from his point of view, it was true.

“Mrs Anderson, I presume.”

She nodded.

“Detectives Bryson and Worthey, NYPD.  You spoke to Worthey earlier.”

“Yes.  He said you would be calling to ask some questions about Alex?”

“May we come in?”

She stood to one side and let them pass then after closing the door followed him into a sitting room the walls adorned with not as many expensive paintings as Bergman’s current wife.

She directed him to a chair opposite where she sat.  Worthey hovered.

“We believe given the circumstances and evidence so far that this will most likely become a murder case, so I need to ask you some routine questions.  I will apologise in advance because some of these may be personal given your relationship with the deceased.  You may not be aware that we discovered your phone number on the deceased.”

She had hardly moved or appeared to have registered what he had said, but that might be part of an act.   Bryson’s experience in matters like these interviews, sometimes he got a reaction, and not necessarily what the interviewer wanted to convey.  She seemed grief-stricken, but it seemed odd that a woman having an affair might be unless it was something more serious.

As far as he was concerned, she was high on the list of suspects.

“At this point, we are just ticking the boxes in the process of interviewing those who were acquainted with the deceased, and to ascertain their movements and relationships with the victim.  So, firstly, what is the nature of your relationship with Alex Bergman.”

“We are very good friends and have been since grade school.  That was the extent of it.  He tried to make more of it, but I was a married woman and didn’t think is was appropriate.”

OK, he thought, that’s the first lie.  She blinked first, a slight hesitation before answering, which meant she was picking options as answers.

That was when he noticed her demeanour had changed, from a grieving friend to a steely-eyed, very wary woman.  If he had to guess, she was hoping the phone details would not be discovered.

“OK.  Now, in the last few days up until yesterday, how would you categorise the nature of your relationship with James Bergman?”

“He was strangely distant.  We had me earlier in the day, yesterday, over his impending divorce, and the fact my husband was stalling signing the papers.

“So, you two were considering taking your relationship to the next level?”

“I was a consideration, but I’d been burned badly with my current marriage and wasn’t about to jump into another.”

“You had reservations about Bergman’s character?”

Suddenly her whole manner changed, and she went defensive.  “What are you getting at, Detective?”

“It’s a simple question.  Did you have reservations about Bergman’s character?”

She was quick to notice his expression.  “Not particularly.”

Bryson decided on a change of tack, to keep her off balance.  “When was the last time you saw Bergman?”

“Yesterday.  We had lunch with another friend, Edward Davies, who is a lawyer.  We were talking about my pending divorce.  Alex had said he thought if he went to see my husband, he might be able to persuade him to sign the papers.  They used to be friends.”

“Alex Bergman went to see your husband last night.  Would you have any idea what time that might have been?”

“I last spoke to him about seven, just before he said he was leaving home.  I saw on the news before that he was found dead near Queens Park.  That’s not very far from where my husband is currently staying.”

True to form, Bryson thought.  An attempt to lay the blame for Alex Bergman’s death at her ex-husband’s feet.  If he was convicted of a crime, and especially murder, would benefit her greatly.

Mistaking his thoughtful expression for one that craved answers, she continued, “He has a gun, you know, and I wouldn’t be surprised if they had a fight, James followed him and shot him dead.  He never really liked James, not even in grade school.”

“Are you saying that your husband believed there was something going on between you and Bergman?”

A second’s delay as she reworked the answer in her head, perhaps not quite expressing it the way she should have.

“I cannot speak as to what he was thinking, but his attitude towards me had changed recently, so maybe he thought there was, and his temper got the better of him.”

The hole she was digging for herself was getting deeper.  Now he had a bad temper.  What it did was add to Bryson’s mental notes to ask James Anderson.  The gun, the temper, the wife, and did he know Bergman and Wendy were more seriously involved.  Bergman had indicated it was not serious.

Perhaps it was time to introduce new evidence.

“What was your last communication with Bergman?”  He deliberately didn’t use the word phone.

“About 7pm as I told you earlier.”

“Are you sure?”

Was that panic he saw in her eyes. 

“I think it’s time I called my lawyer.  This interview is over Detective.  Let me know where and when you want to continue this.  Unless you’re going to charge me?”

“This is just a preliminary enquiry.  However, I suggest you seriously consider what you say because if you are not telling us the truth, or of matters that may help in your defence, you might find yourself in a very serios situation.”  He stood.  “I thank you for your cooperation so far.  I’ll send a message with the place and time I will expect to see you to continue this interview.”

Outside Worthey said, “She doesn’t know we have Bergman’s phone records.”

“She’s hoping we haven’t, but I think she does now.  It’s going to be very interesting to see what she comes up with before tomorrow when we get her in.”

At the very least, Bryson thought, she would have to tell them the true extent of her and Bergman’s relationship, the text messages with the veiled threats, and the photographs, which she referred to as the ‘other’; matter.

“Questions still to ask, where was she at the time of the murder, what’s the extent of her knowledge about the gun her husband has, I’m assuming she had access to it as well, and whether it’s legal, something else for you to look at.  I’m going to see the husband, James, just in case she calls him.”

“They’re divorcing, why would she?”

“Desperate people do desperate things, Worthey.  And she was beginning to look desperate.”

“You think she did it?”

“Motive, means and opportunity, circumstantial, but it’s possible.  But in my experience, up close and personal with a gun is not a woman’s style, but she might be the exception.”

…

© Charles Heath 2019-2023

I’m back home and this story has been sitting on a back burner for a few months, waiting for some more to be written.

The trouble is, there are also other stories to write, and I’m not very good at prioritizing.

But, here we are, a few minutes opened up and it didn’t take long to get back into the groove.

An unlikely ally?

 

The bar in the hotel was tucked away in a small area behind the dining room, or perhaps it was part of the dining room, I wasn’t quite sure.  There were indoor shrubs blocking the view from the front entrance, so we could feel safe enough, and less strenuous in watching the continuous comings and goings of the hotel’s guests and their friends.

For a small hotel, it was quite busy.

We were lucky it was not yet dinner time, so the restaurant was still being set up for the evening dinner service.  I had a look at one of the menus, and the Shepherd’s Pie looked good.  It was mostly hearty British staples like Bangers and Mask and Toad in the Hole.  I guess by calling sausages by their real name sausages, no one really wanted them.

Three drinks down, and looking for the restroom, it ended up an exploration of the passage that led to a rear door, one that could be used by guests, but was mostly used by smoking staff.  When I went outside, there were two housekeepers and a concierge boy talking about the couple in 506.  I hope Jan and I were not labeled an ‘interesting couple’.

“Let’s go outside and make some calls.”  She finished her drink and slid off the barstool.  

I joined her and we went out the back entrance, along an alley to the next main street, then along the busy road to an underground station.  There were two other hotels I noticed along the way, so we would not be making it easy for them if they could track us.

I called Nobbin first using the card he left under the name Wilson, leaving the phone on speaker.

“Yes.”  There was no ring on the other end of the line.

“Wilson?”

“Yes.  Who is this?”

“Sam Jackson.  You said to call you if anything happened.  I have managed to track down an address for O’Connell.  I went there and found two women, one named Josephine, who was definitely not a resident or his friend as she claimed.  Then I met another, whose name I can’t remember, but I suspect she’s not who she said she was, nor a friend.”

“Were they looking for the USB?”

“I don’t know.  One was on the floor when I arrived, and I assumed she had been rendered unconscious by someone else.  I roused her, but she had nothing conclusive to say.  I think she was one of your operatives.”

Silence, then, “Why would you say that?”

“I followed her out onto the street.”

More silence, then, “She was asked to search the flat.”

“For what?”

“Anything that would be useful in telling us what he was doing.”

“I’m sure I told you that Severin was after a USB, so I thoroughly searched O’Connell’s flat and didn’t find it, or anything else.”

“Neither did she, which is unfortunate, but not unexpected.  O’Connell must have been worried about the information he’d uncovered, enough to not be carrying it with him.”

“Well, I don’t think it was his primary residence.  Still too many price tags on the furniture.  He had somewhere else to go, and that might be where the USB is.  I’m surprised you don’t seem to know very much about him or what he was doing given he was one of your operatives.  Unless, of course, he went off-book.”

“I assure you that isn’t the case, and O’Connell’s activities were on a need to know basis.  All I can say is that he was using a Journalist cover, investigating cyber currency being used to purchase weapons.  We were scheduled to meet for a report on his progress late afternoon on the day he was killed.  Are you sure there was no one else near the alley where he was killed?”

“It was empty except for Severin and Maury.

“And you.”

“Are you implying that I took it?”

“No, but there’s a compelling case that might fit you in the frame.  Do you know who the other woman was in O’Connell’s flat?”

“No.  Like I said, she gave me a name, but I don’t think it was real.  She claimed to be his neighbor, but so did Josephine, so it’s likely she wasn’t.  Other than that, she could be anyone.  If he had another place, you might want to try and find out where it was.  I’m going to take up the search tomorrow morning.”

“Are you sure there was nothing to point you in that direction lying around in the flat?”

“The man was a neatness freak.  I doubt it.  And now he’s dead.  The only possibility I can see is that he found out what Severin and Maury are about to do, and by now they will be far more desperate to find it.  We need to get to it first, so perhaps if you have some analysts looking for something to do, see if they can find that second residence.  I’m sure you can get a hold of any CCTV there is.  You might be able to find him that way.  If you do and you get an address, let me know and I’ll go straight there.”

“Yes, of course.  Keep in touch.”

The line went dead.

“Interesting man,” Jan said, “but not a trustworthy one.  You listen to the modulation of his voice.  That’s a man who wouldn’t know the truth even if he fell over it.  And if he does find that address, you will not be the first person he calls.”

I shrugged.  “Probably not.  As for Nobbin, isn’t that the very nature of our business, to tell endless lies in order to get to the truth?”

“Remind me, one day, to tell you about pathological liars.”

© Charles Heath 2019-2020

There’s something to be said for a story that starts like a James Bond movie, throwing you straight in the deep end, a perfect way of getting to know the main character, David, or is that Alistair?

A retired spy, well not so much a spy as a retired errand boy, David’s rather wry description of his talents, and a woman that most men would give their left arm for, not exactly the ideal couple, but there is a spark in a meeting that may or may not have been a setup.

But as the story progressed, the question I kept asking myself was why he’d bother.

And, page after unrelenting page, you find out.

Susan is exactly the sort of woman to pique his interest.  Then, inexplicably, she disappears.  That might have been the end to it, but Prendergast, that shadowy enigma, David’s ex-boss who loves playing games with real people, gives him an ultimatum, find her or come back to work.

Nothing like an offer that’s a double-edged sword!

A dragon for a mother, a sister he didn’t know about, Susan’s BFF who is not what she seems or a friend indeed, and Susan’s father who, up till David meets her, couldn’t be less interested, his nemesis proves to be the impossible dream, and he’s always just that one step behind.

When the rollercoaster finally came to a halt, and I could start breathing again, it was an ending that was completely unexpected.

I’ve been told there’s a sequel in the works.

Bring it on!

…

The book can be purchased here:  http://amzn.to/2Eryfth

…

To write a private detective serial has always been one of the items at the top of my to-do list, though trying to write novels and a serial, as well as a blog, and maintain a social media presence, well, you get the idea.

But I made it happen, from a bunch of episodes I wrote a long, long time ago, used these to start it, and then continue on, then as now, never having much of an idea where it was going to end up, or how long it would take to tell the story.

That, I think is the joy of ad hoc writing, even you, as the author, have as much idea of where it’s going as the reader does.

It’s basically been in the mill since 1990, and although I finished it last year, it looks like the beginning to end will have taken exactly 30 years.  Had you asked me 30 years ago if I’d ever get it finished, the answer would be maybe?

My private detective, Harry Walthenson

I’d like to say he’s from that great literary mold of Sam Spade, or Mickey Spillane, or Phillip Marlow, but he’s not.

But, I’ve watched Humphrey Bogart play Sam Spade with much interest, and modelled Harry and his office on it.  Similarly, I’ve watched Robert Micham play Phillip Marlow with great panache, if not detachment, and added a bit of him to the mix.

Other characters come into play, and all of them, no matter what period they’re from, always seem larger than life.  I’m not above stealing a little of Mary Astor, Peter Lorre or Sidney Greenstreet, to breathe life into beguiling women and dangerous men alike.

Then there’s the title, like

The Case of the Unintentional Mummy – this has so many meanings in so many contexts, though I imagine that back in Hollywood in the ’30s and ’40s, this would be excellent fodder for Abbott and Costello

The Case of the Three-Legged Dog – Yes, I suspect there may be a few real-life dogs with three legs, but this plot would involve something more sinister.  And if made out of plaster, yes, they’re always something else inside.

But for mine, to begin with, it was “The Case of the …”, because I had no idea what the case was going to be about, well, I did, but not specifically.

Then I liked the idea of calling it “The Case of the Brother’s Revenge” because I began to have a notion there was a brother no one knew about, but that’s stuff for other stories, not mine, so then went the way of the others.

Now it’s called ‘A Case of Working With the Jones Brothers’, finished the first three drafts, and at the editor for the last.

I have high hopes of publishing it in early 2021.  It even has a cover.