Operation Bob Dylan’s Belt. Linn Wyllie
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and class. She and I would spend hours comparing the merits and shortfalls of my psi functioning to her psychological analysis. Especially as it pertained to criminal motivation and mental makeup. Very heady stuff. Her eyes would twinkle in a certain way whenever she thought she had me in a philosophical debate. And I definitely noticed her eyes. She was intellectually stimulating, and I admired and respected her a great deal. We would debate issues, all in fun, and I guess she felt the same about me. Her husband, Ted, was a retired real estate investor who was chronically ill. Cancer or something. I had done some things for him in the past, and I introduced him to Mark-boy as a real estate connection. I always got the impression that there wasn’t much between Ted and Marie, but I never pursued it. You know—don’t ask, don’t tell. I could relate. Rebecca Lynn and I were in the same boat. Actually, Marie and I never delved into our relationships with our spouses. Not in any depth anyway. Not for any particular reason, really, other than personal discretion.
But Marie and I enjoyed challenging each other intellectually. We always seemed to be on the same page on most issues. But there was a noticeable current—a vibe, maybe—that ran through some of those discussions, and I know she was aware of it too. If Rebecca Lynn wasn’t in my life, well, let’s just say Marie would be.
I stepped out into the hall. I wanted to tell her about the dame with the Dylan bad dream. Just to see what she could make of it. But she had her Do Not Disturb sign on her closed office door. That meant she was in session. She was busy. Damn. I went back into my office. Picking Marie’s brains would have to wait.
Another office suite I rented out was to a couple of college dropout types who were into all things computer. Twenty-somethings aspiring to be the next digital tech gods. Not focused on it though. Smart guys, I guess, but intellectually all over the map. Spent most of their time searching the web and its deeper underbelly for conspiracies. The deep web, the dark web, whatever that is. They’d uncover some arcane bit of lore and then charge into my office breathlessly enlightening me about the Bilderberg Group, George Soros’ Nazi past, Area 51 sightings, alien moon bases, UFO encounters, or the bugs on Mars. Whatever. It was fun to watch that youthful exuberance. God knows mine was on the wane. They were partners in their company, an LLC I helped them create, and they did research for me sometimes. They were pretty good at finding stuff online. And sometimes they couldn’t quite make the rent. So it kinda worked out in a barter-based sort of way.
David Willis was a tall, lanky guy, and oh so serious. Wound pretty tight. Wore his hair early Johnny Depp. Everything had to have meaning, a purpose, and one had to be aware of this to get ahead and find enlightenment in life. He was opinionated and cocksure of everything. All the time. It was amusing for a while, then it got old. But you couldn’t ignore him all the time. Sometimes he was right.
John Cavanaugh, his partner, was a polar opposite. He was stocky, but not fat, and had a gentle humor and intellect about him. He had those sensitive eyes that chicks dig, was soft spoken and wore his hair business cropped. He was an artist type, in perfect contrast to David’s hyper and analytical persona. He had his art displayed in local coffee houses and in an occasional professional office. It was very good; he was a realist. His landscapes looked like photographs, they were so real. And he could do dinosaurs so well that some textbooks commissioned his artwork. But he didn’t draw or paint. He created them pixel by pixel on the computer. Digital art, I think it’s called. He’d sell a landscape occasionally for good money. It would piss David off no end. He hated to be upstaged. Together they were pretty adept at what they did. It’s just they really didn’t do it much. Intellectually spastic nerds. Living at home. Or in the office.
I was in my office reviewing an insurance case. I was figuring my time. Had to see how much money I lost. Six hours on surveillance should have paid me a per diem plus expenses. The insurance company only would pay an hourly. Take it or leave it. They didn’t care. For that reason—and others—this would be my last job for them. Watching some guy mow his lawn or hump his wife when he’s claiming to be disabled from a minor auto crash was not only mind numbing, it was beneath me. I had pride. But I did it anyway.
The phone rang. I checked the caller ID. It was Russell Davidson, the liaison from one of my insurance company clients. His job was to interact with us private eyes. Keep us interested in accepting his claims cases. My primary contact. Picked up the phone.
“Jake Randall.”
That’s how I answer the landline.
“Jake. Russell Davidson here.”
Davidson was no charmer. All collegiate arrogance and thinly veiled disdain for guys like me who actually work for a living.
“Hey, Davidson. To what do I owe this honor?”
No mister. No first name. Last name familiarity for him. I know he hates it when I call him that. That’s why I do it.
“Hey, I saw your write-up in the paper last week, Wyatt. Very impressive. You’re now a famous guy. But tell me: have you shot anybody lately?”
Did he just call me Wyatt? This shootout shtick was starting to chafe. He snickered into the line. I chortled along. That’s okay. Tit for tat, I guess.
“Ah. That’s a good one. No, I’ve already killed everybody around here who needs killin’.”
“I see. Well, Jake, all this cowboy shootin’ aside, I called because I wanted you be aware of how insurance fraud is such a significantly huge hit to the economy. According to FBI stats, the insurance industry—collectively consisting of some seven thousand companies like ours, as you probably already know—will lose some forty billion dollars or more a year through payment of fraudulent claims. Forty billion, Jake. Think about that. That’s a huge hit to America’s economy”
Oh, God. It was one of those oh-so-personalized, pump-up-the-energy calls. I’d get one every couple of months or so. Just to remind us lowly PIs that we’re doing God’s work in investigating and exposing insurance fraud. Saving the American economy. Worse, I knew he was reading it off his computer screen. I gave him a noncommittal response. I knew I’d have to endure yet more.
“Uh huh.”
He continued.
“While it’s true that the insurance industry as a whole takes in more than seven trillion dollars in premiums each year, you’re aware that some of that money goes back to our policyholders in order to make whole those who have suffered a regrettable and tragic loss. It’s how we protect our customers from life’s inherent risks. It’s what they’ve asked us to do. And what’s left over after we pay those claims, Jake, is invested back into the American economy in such rock-solid ventures as annuities, residential housing, and commercial real estate.”
More infomercial. I hated these calls. I hated insurance companies. But they paid the bills. Some of the bills anyway.
I pondered the dust and dirt on my alligator boots. Buffed them on my pants leg. Davidson wasn’t done yet. He had to get to the flag waving rah-rah close.
“So our hats are off to guys like you, Jake, who enable us to keep our policy premiums as low as possible by weeding out those illegal and fraudulent claims. And for that, we thank you!”
A comment from me was expected at this point in the spiel. His computer screen probably displayed “wait for comment.” I obliged.
“Well, that’s awfully nice of you to say, Russ.”
Davidson also hated it when I called him Russ. Like during these intimate moments we share over on the phone listening to these mandatory infomercials. So that’s why I did it.
But I wasn’t quite done yet, either.
“And, Russ, I can’t tell you how much that means to a small private investigator like me. But in all fairness, you know, if insurance companies weren’t so interested in making obscene profit on top of obscene profit, like funding annuities and housing and commercial real estate projects at confiscatory interest rates, perhaps those poor aggrieved policyholders of yours would not have such high premiums. Or those huge fucking deductibles.”
There was a pause