He was a good-looking man, a little over six feet tall, with the kind of prep-school hair that easily slipped down over his forehead, giving him a boyish, pixie kind of look women used to adore. He dressed a little too conservatively for my taste, all tailored grays, power ties, and always correct, if a bit retro, wingtip shoes. But then again, I wasn’t pulling down the same bucks he was.
I picked him up several blocks from his house and followed, two cars behind. Traffic was fairly light on the four-lane suburban artery we were traveling on. I knew the address of the executive complex where he had his office, so I wasn’t really concerned about losing him. My eye was briefly caught by a gaggle of geese flying in bomber pattern, heading off for winter vacation. I looked back down and Bradley was gone. Damn.
I eased over into the right lane, then into a doughnut shop’s parking lot. I got out, scratched my head, and looked in the four cardinal directions. South did the trick. There was Bradley’s dark green Ford Expedition parked in a lot two buildings down. Frank Taylor, ace detective, strikes again. I locked my car and walked.
It was a long, two-story building, with stores on the first floor, offices on the second. Kartuchian’s Oriental Rugs; above it the Delaware Casualty Company. Scandinavian Accents; above it, PharmPhresh Foods, Inc. (I bet). Shoes 4-U; above it, TMG International Trading. I chose door number three.
I went into Shoes 4-U and immediately became interested in a line of lady’s black heels arranged near the window. I’ve always loved the way heels shape women’s calves. I spent five minutes on my inspection and was starting to get worried that the store manager might have me ejected for having a too-obvious shoe fetish when Bradley came out the door that led upstairs to TMG International Trading. He walked to his Expedition and opened the driver’s door. Then he placed his hands on the jamb above the door and rested his head on them. He either had a very bad hangover, or very big troubles.
He stayed that way for several seconds, then pushed himself upright and got into his car. He pulled out into traffic and drove off, leaving me holding a stylish, open-toed, sling-back model with a three-inch heel. Lovely. I reluctantly put it down, went outside, and copied down what TMG International Trading particulars there were, then walked back to my car and headed off to Bradley’s office complex.
It was time to make my first report, something that could probably have been done over the phone, but that’s not why I had taken the case. Phones are so impersonal.
I met Nora Davison at one of my watering holes, The Rusty Bucket. Local, good steaks and burgers, waitresses who knew what I ate and drank and also knew when I was working and left me alone. I took a booth in the back and waited. I was early.
She was on time. I had described her to Frank, the day manager, so as soon as she came in he greeted her and escorted her back to my booth. She slid in opposite me and gave me a tentative smile.
“Drink?” I asked.
“Too early for a martini?”
“It’s never too early for a martini,” I replied. I ordered, and then considered my client. Short brown hair in a cute cut; large brown eyes in an oval face that seemed made to support a smile; slightly bowed lips and a chin some might consider a bit small but I thought was just fine. She had on a simple white dress with matching white jacket, its sleeves rolled up several times to reveal thin porcelain forearms.
Our drinks arrived. “Cheers,” we both said and clinked. She took a decent pull, then set her glass down and looked up at me.
“Gory details?”
“Not yet, just some slightly smudged information.”
I quickly told her what I had found out — the withdrawals, the phone calls — and what I was preparing to do. She listened quietly while I spoke, her eyes never once looking down or away. When I finished she sat back and sighed.
“Oh, Bradley, you dumb cluck,” she said, sadness rather than anger in her voice. I remained quiet, fingers on the stem of my glass.
“About a year ago,” she began, sitting forward and taking possession of her glass, “he started to change. It was like he got on an emotional roller coaster. He’d come back from a trip and he’d be way up there. He was signing deals and making a lot of money. Then, a few days later, he’d start to slide, and by the end of the week he’d be down in the dumps, sitting in his chair in the den, drinking double scotches and staring into the fireplace. Sometimes, he didn’t even have a fire on. I tried to talk with him, but he kept on saying he was okay. Working too much, maybe, but he was okay.”
She took another sip, then sighed again.
“What about in the last few months?” I asked.
“Worse. There weren’t any more highs, just lows. He used to be really involved with the girls, go to their soccer games, go out bike riding with them. He’d even take them out to movies sometimes, said it was going on a date with two of his best girls. That all stopped. Now, he hardly even speaks to them.”
I nodded. I was beginning to dislike Mr. Bradley Davison a great deal. Nora brought her hands to her forehead and kneaded the skin, then she dropped her hands and looked at me.
“Mr. Taylor, you’ll help him, won’t you? He may be a little weak sometimes, but he doesn’t deserve what he’s going through. He doesn’t.”
“Mrs. Davison,” I said, “I don’t know what your husband is involved in yet. Some things I can do, others are out of my control.”
She nodded. She understood. There might not be any salvation for her husband. Her eyes got very bright. I had to look away. Some guys just don’t know how lucky they are.
When I got back there was a message from Frère Jacques on my machine. I checked the time. Late evening in Paris. I dialed his number and he answered on the third ring.
“Bonjour, mon frère. How are things in the city of light?”
“Bonsoir, mon ami. They are delightful, as they should be. I assume you received my message.” I told him I had. “Well, it seems that your Monsieur Davison is not a very nice man.”
“Do tell,” I said, not too surprised that I was glad to hear this. “What’s he been up to?”
Women. Women down on their luck because the countries they lived in were down on their luck. Women with few talents or skills who needed to eat, or who had families, elderly parents, young children who needed to eat. Women who had only one thing to sell, themselves.
It seemed that, on the side, Bradley Davison was a glorified international assistant pimp, an arranger, the man with the money, the guy who paid the bills and made the arrangements so the girls could fly out of their countries and travel thousands of miles to end up posing for nude pictures to feed the Internet’s voracious appetite, or working as crib girls, or even worse, just disappearing. Big business, a lot of money, and a whole hell of a lot of suffering.
I mentioned TMG International Trading to Jacques. He said he hadn’t come across the name yet but would check it out. It probably didn’t matter. I had a feeling I knew what TMG traded in. I asked him if the police over there were interested in Davison and Jacques replied that as far as he knew, not yet. Jacques had gotten his information from other sources — the competition, in fact. To them, Davison was a small fish in a sea where only sharks mattered.
I thanked Jacques and we wished each other a good evening, but I wasn’t sure if I would be able to oblige; I was thinking about Davison: a nice home, a wonderful wife, apparently two great children. and still, he becomes a misery peddler. Go figure.
It was the fifteenth of the month. I followed Bradley when he left his house. He drove straight to his office. I sat in my car, keeping an eye on his Expedition but not really expecting him to go anywhere. The bank he did business with had a branch right in the office complex and that’s where he had his private stash. Mr. Davison was a man who liked things convenient.