…

The visitors at the Bergman Residence

…

Bryson stood, just out of sight, and heard the door open and heard two voices, one of which was familiar.

Stacy Bergman.  The other voice, male, was unfamiliar.

“Like I said,” she was saying, “the bastard had those photographs somewhere, and leaving this address lying around was his second mistake.”

“The first,” her companion asked?

“Cheating on me.  But I should have realized he’s never given up that floozie from school, the one he said had got away.  The one, he also said, he was not having an affair with.”

“What about the other six I found?”

“Well, what can I say.  The man was a fool.  You go upstairs, I’ll look around her, then we’ll both tackle the basement.  What is that smell?”

“Treachery?”

That was greeted with silence, followed by steps trudging upstairs.

Bryson stepped out from behind the wall, gun pointed at Stacy Bergman, and said, “Conducting a little breaking and entering, are we?”

Predictably, she screamed.

Her companion came pounding back down the stairs and stopped when he saw Bryson with the gun.  “You really don’t want to use that.  We are not doing anything wrong here.”

“And you are?”

“Jim Davidson, Private Detective.  I’m assisting Ms Hollingworth in an investigation into her husband’s activities.”

Stacy found her voice, “This is the detective I was telling you about.  Be careful what you say.”

“Why would he have to be careful Mrs. Bergman?  Is there something you haven’t told me?”

“No.”

“You mentioned some photographs when you came in.  What photographs were they?”

He watched her look change from surprise to puzzlement to wary as she realized what she had said, not knowing he had been there.  Now, it was a race to come up with an excuse that didn’t match the reality.  Bergman had something on her too.

A few seconds of silence, and then she said, “He was supposed to be importing some crockery from England and was supposed to show me the supplier photographs.  It’s a present for a friend for her wedding, and like always, he doesn’t follow through.”

“How do you know about this place?”

“I know everything about him.”

“Via the private detective?  How long have you had him investigating Bergman?”  He glared at Davison, who in turn looked at Mrs Bergman.

Bryson looked at Mrs Bergman, and said, “If you are considering telling me a lie, mars Bergman, I will have my assistant get a warrant from a judge to view all of the PI’s documents relating to your case.  As it is,” he looked at Davidson, “I’m going to add you to the list of suspects, and my assistant will be interviewing you, sooner rather than later.”

“I had nothing to do with his demise.”

“That remains to be seen.”  Back to Mrs Bergman, “Now, a truthful answer.”

“About a year.”

“That’s a long and expensive activity for someone who doesn’t have the funds.  You do realize we are aware of your husband’s finances?”

“Any further questions will be answered with a lawyer’s presence, Detective.”

“Fine.  Don’t leave the city.  Unless you can prove that you have legal access to this residence, other than the key you’re holding in your hand, you will be charged with breaking and entering, and if not, for violating a crime scene.”

Bryson saw two uniformed officers arrive and park their car behind Davison’s.  When they reached the doorway he said, “Take these two and escort them from the building.  After that, make sure no one else comes in until the CSI team arrives.  Good day, Mrs. Bergman.  I will let you know when you are to report for another interview.

…

© Charles Heath 2019-2023

…

Detective Bryson goes to Bergman’s residence

…

The address in 84^th Avenue Jamaica, was between Jamaica Hills and Briarwood, and a little confusing because there was an 84^th Avenue, 84^th Drive, 84^th Road.  It led Bryson to a single two-story house with a driveway up the side to a garage.  It was not wide, but long, and painted a rather odd colour, and in need of updating.  It

He parked the car in the side alley and pulled out the key ring that was found on the body, and went up to the front door.  He stepped to the side and looked through the window, where there were several cracks in the Venetian blinds.  It was too dark inside to see anything.

The seventh key he tried opened the outer glass door and the last the front door.  There was no alarm, at least not one that was set.  It was clear, once inside, that no one else was in the building.  He switched on the light and was confronted with a rather untidy room with old furniture, and few modern comforts.

He put on the gloves he had brought, and picked his way carefully through the mess, trying not to disturb anything.  After a cursory inspection, he would call in the CSI team.

It was a room that wasn’t used often, with no television, a setoff shelves with a few books tossed in, and items of clothing tossed on a settee.  The room had a musty odour, as though it was not used, nor cleaned often.  Moving towards the back there was a dining room, with a large table covered in documents, newspapers, connections for a computer, a printer, a USB hub, and leads leading to missing devices, one of which was possibly a phone.  Other than the printer, there was no other hardware.

The kitchen showed signs of recent use, with dirty dishes and cutlery tossed hastily in the sink.  A look in the refrigerator showed a few items, some looking very stale, and a block of cheese that had turned green.  He didn’t check the milk, it looked off.

The papers on the table were haphazardly tossed, perhaps as a result of Bergman looking for something and not finding it.  It didn’t have the feel of someone else looking for something.

Further on was a passage leading to the back of the house and another entrance.  Back in the middle of the house were stairs going up and down.  Visible from the outside was a basement, and Bryson shuddered, a bad experience in his childhood to do with basements came back to haunt him.  It was going to take some effort to go down there.

Upstairs there were two very large bedrooms and a bathroom, the first bedroom showing signs of use, with clothes tossed on the bed, others tossed on the floor.  The closet doors were open, and clothes were hanging, half hanging, or fallen on the floor.  It looked like Bergman was in a hurry to find something that he believed was in the closet.

There was nothing in the other bedroom, nor anything of interest in the bathroom.  Overall, Bergman was very untidy.  The upstairs rooms had faded wallpaper, and in places, it was peeling off.  The roof was stained, and the bathroom had mould.

The whole ground floor and upstairs needed repainting, and the bathrooms modernized. And the wallpaper replaced or removed.  The carpet in the upstairs rooms was both stained and very dirty.

He went back downstairs and pulled out his torch, headed down the stairs to the basement.  At the bottom, there was a door, locked, and the first time through all the keys, not one unlocked the door.  He tried again and found that a little more elbow grease was required to turn the key in the lock.

Just to be on the safe side, not knowing what to expect, Bryson pulled out his gun and was ready, just in case there was a surprise.  He opened the door and pushed it open slowly.

Darkness,  And a very bad smell, like something had died down there.

He reached inside the wall and found the light switch, then turned on the lights.

The area he could see was surprisingly clean, and sparsely furnished, with a long table with boxed neatly set out.  Along one of the walls was a set of filing cabinets.  The floor was uncovered concrete, and the odour was most likely rising damp.

When he crossed the room to the table, he could see, in the other direction, a doorway that looked like an exit, and a free-standing safe, quite large, with the door open.  He went over to look inside, but it was empty.

There was no clue as to what might have been in there, but Bryson suspected whatever there had been, Bergman had taken with him, the day he died, or before that, but recent.

The boxes on the table had power tools in them and were probably part of the stock in trade.

On one box was a folder which Bryson carefully opened and looked at the first page.

Shipping dockets.  Some in the name of Phillip McGarry, and the rest in the name of Avondale Traders, Bergman’s company.

He tried the keys on the filing cabinets but none of them opened any of the cabinets.  Each appeared to be full because Bryson tried moving them and it was very difficult.  CSI would be able to get into them, and he would have to wait.

There was the noise of a car pulling into the alley beside the house and then stopping.  A few seconds later, two doors slammed shut.

He raced up the stairs, closing the door behind him, and reached the top just as the visitors opened the front door.

…

© Charles Heath 2019-2023

…

Detective Bryson goes to Bergman’s residence

…

The address in 84^th Avenue Jamaica, was between Jamaica Hills and Briarwood, and a little confusing because there was an 84^th Avenue, 84^th Drive, 84^th Road.  It led Bryson to a single two-story house with a driveway up the side to a garage.  It was not wide, but long, and painted a rather odd colour, and in need of updating.  It

He parked the car in the side alley and pulled out the key ring that was found on the body, and went up to the front door.  He stepped to the side and looked through the window, where there were several cracks in the Venetian blinds.  It was too dark inside to see anything.

The seventh key he tried opened the outer glass door and the last the front door.  There was no alarm, at least not one that was set.  It was clear, once inside, that no one else was in the building.  He switched on the light and was confronted with a rather untidy room with old furniture, and few modern comforts.

He put on the gloves he had brought, and picked his way carefully through the mess, trying not to disturb anything.  After a cursory inspection, he would call in the CSI team.

It was a room that wasn’t used often, with no television, a setoff shelves with a few books tossed in, and items of clothing tossed on a settee.  The room had a musty odour, as though it was not used, nor cleaned often.  Moving towards the back there was a dining room, with a large table covered in documents, newspapers, connections for a computer, a printer, a USB hub, and leads leading to missing devices, one of which was possibly a phone.  Other than the printer, there was no other hardware.

The kitchen showed signs of recent use, with dirty dishes and cutlery tossed hastily in the sink.  A look in the refrigerator showed a few items, some looking very stale, and a block of cheese that had turned green.  He didn’t check the milk, it looked off.

The papers on the table were haphazardly tossed, perhaps as a result of Bergman looking for something and not finding it.  It didn’t have the feel of someone else looking for something.

Further on was a passage leading to the back of the house and another entrance.  Back in the middle of the house were stairs going up and down.  Visible from the outside was a basement, and Bryson shuddered, a bad experience in his childhood to do with basements came back to haunt him.  It was going to take some effort to go down there.

Upstairs there were two very large bedrooms and a bathroom, the first bedroom showing signs of use, with clothes tossed on the bed, others tossed on the floor.  The closet doors were open, and clothes were hanging, half hanging, or fallen on the floor.  It looked like Bergman was in a hurry to find something that he believed was in the closet.

There was nothing in the other bedroom, nor anything of interest in the bathroom.  Overall, Bergman was very untidy.  The upstairs rooms had faded wallpaper, and in places, it was peeling off.  The roof was stained, and the bathroom had mould.

The whole ground floor and upstairs needed repainting, and the bathrooms modernized. And the wallpaper replaced or removed.  The carpet in the upstairs rooms was both stained and very dirty.

He went back downstairs and pulled out his torch, headed down the stairs to the basement.  At the bottom, there was a door, locked, and the first time through all the keys, not one unlocked the door.  He tried again and found that a little more elbow grease was required to turn the key in the lock.

Just to be on the safe side, not knowing what to expect, Bryson pulled out his gun and was ready, just in case there was a surprise.  He opened the door and pushed it open slowly.

Darkness,  And a very bad smell, like something had died down there.

He reached inside the wall and found the light switch, then turned on the lights.

The area he could see was surprisingly clean, and sparsely furnished, with a long table with boxed neatly set out.  Along one of the walls was a set of filing cabinets.  The floor was uncovered concrete, and the odour was most likely rising damp.

When he crossed the room to the table, he could see, in the other direction, a doorway that looked like an exit, and a free-standing safe, quite large, with the door open.  He went over to look inside, but it was empty.

There was no clue as to what might have been in there, but Bryson suspected whatever there had been, Bergman had taken with him, the day he died, or before that, but recent.

The boxes on the table had power tools in them and were probably part of the stock in trade.

On one box was a folder which Bryson carefully opened and looked at the first page.

Shipping dockets.  Some in the name of Phillip McGarry, and the rest in the name of Avondale Traders, Bergman’s company.

He tried the keys on the filing cabinets but none of them opened any of the cabinets.  Each appeared to be full because Bryson tried moving them and it was very difficult.  CSI would be able to get into them, and he would have to wait.

There was the noise of a car pulling into the alley beside the house and then stopping.  A few seconds later, two doors slammed shut.

He raced up the stairs, closing the door behind him, and reached the top just as the visitors opened the front door.

…

© Charles Heath 2019-2023

…

Detectives Bryson and Worthy visit Bergman’s Lawyer

…

Stuart, Stewart, and Barnes, Attorneys-At-Law, had upmarket offices in Queen’s brownstone, the sort of place that upstairs was a residence, and downstairs, offices, for what might be a family business.

There was a girl at a desk inside the front door, which was backed by a glass wall that showed several offices with doors open and a central breakout space that also doubled as a waiting area.

Worthy and Bryson had to push a button beside the front door and announce themselves before the door was opened.  Bryson assumed there was a CCTV camera above the door which showed who they were.

In the time they took to get in and front up to the desk, the girl had called Ray Stuart, Bergman’s legal representative, and he was coming down the stairs to greet them.

“I’ve been expecting you,” he said, approaching the two, then, “Follow me.”

They went inside and into the office on the left.  Once inside, Stuart closed the door, directed the two to seats opposite a large table, and then sat himself.

“I assume you are aware Alex Bergman is dead?”

“Yes.  Otherwise, why would you be here?”

“Are you surprised?  It seems others we have seen are not,” Bryson said.

“He was just a client, one of many.  Not particularly important, but problematic.”

“How so?”

“His financial affairs, and a difficult divorce.”

“Why difficult?”

“His business was bankrupt, he was personally bankrupt, and had he not died, you would be here for entirely different reasons.  The last time I saw him, two days ago, my only advice to him was to disappear.  I jokingly said, in parting, that the best thing that could happen was his death.  I read he died from a gunshot wound to the head.  Was it self-inflicted?”

“We don’t believe so.  No,” Bryson said.  “Rather brutal advice on your part though?”

“He was facing three civil lawsuits over business dealings, each of which had compelling evidence against him.  His wife had ample evidence of his infidelity and her claims would have bene taken seriously, and three other women had sworn complaints of blackmail.  Like I said, if he hadn’t died, you’d be here to arrest him for any one of a dozen other reasons.”

“You have documentation of these complaints?”

“Yes.  I’ll have copies of the relevant documents sent to you”.

Worthey handed him his card.  “Send them to that address, to me, thanks.”

“Did he have a will?” Bryson asked.

“Yes.”

“Can you tell me what was in it?”

“The company goes to Richard Hollingsworth, not that it has any value, or assets, other than working funds and current stock.  What there is will just cover the expenses and current debt.  All that will be left is the company name.  His personal assets go to his daughter, Sandra, from an earlier marriage, but that will not amount to very much.  His current wife, Stacey, gets nothing.  He had transferred all of the assets she currently possesses to her a while back, so they are not her responsibility.  His current residence was not owned but rented, and I’ll be arranging the end of the lease, after, I assume, you do an inspection.”

Stuart scribbled the address down on a piece of note paper and handed it to Worthey.

“Did he have anyone who would want to kill him?”

“I’m sure his PA back at the office could tell you that better than I could.”

“Stacy?”

“No.  She hated him because of his infidelity, but not enough to kill him.  Her idea of punishment was humiliation.”

Bryson stood.  He’d heard enough.  “If there’s anything else you can think of, please call Worthey.  Thank you for your time.”

…

© Charles Heath 2019-2023