1 Twisted Perception Read online

  Elliot studied Zimmerman’s face, but discerned nothing from it. If he was lying, he was doing a good job of it. “Who would have threatened him?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know. Someone from her world, I would assume.”

  Elliot leaned back in his chair. He knew a little about PIs and it wasn’t like them to turn down money. “What did your investigator find?”

  “What’s that?”

  “You said that before he quit the case, he told you what he knew.”

  “So I did. Yes, I wanted to know what Lagayle was up to. After following her, he was able to tell me.”

  “And?”

  Zimmerman closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. “He said she’d been frequenting clubs. You know, the type that would cater to people like her.”

  “You mentioned pictures. Could I see them?”

  Zimmerman stood and walked to the west wall, where he grasped the corner of an oil painting and pulled it away from the wall, exposing a wall safe. Opening it, he pulled out several items. “You might as well keep them,” he said, after coming back and handing Elliot several five-by-seven shots. “I have no use for them now.”

  The first few photos were not the best quality—typical work from a nervous PI—and they featured only Lagayle either going into, or coming out of different places. However, the last photo was different. Examining it, Elliot could again make out the likeness of Lagayle Zimmerman, with a man, his face obscured by shadows. “Do you have any idea who this other person is?” Elliot asked.

  “No. I don’t.”

  “Do you know why he, or any one else, would have wanted to harm your wife?”

  Zimmerman sat down, wiping his eyes. “I haven’t a clue.”

  “I’ll need the name of the investigator.”

  “He specifically asked me not to tell anyone about his involvement.”

  “That’s not an option. Murder is serious business, Mr. Zimmerman. I need the name.”

  Zimmerman hesitated then pulled open a small drawer from the table between the chairs. He took a business card from the drawer and handed it to Elliot. “The man’s name is Sykes,” he said. “Bernard Sykes. I believe he goes by Bernie.”

  Elliot read the card then tucked it inside his pocket and gathered up the photos. “How did you happen to run across Mr. Sykes?”

  Zimmerman shrugged. “He specializes in divorce cases and came highly recommended.”

  Elliot rose from his chair. “Thanks for your cooperation, Mr. Zimmerman. Don’t bother getting up. I can find my way out. I’ll be in touch.”

  7

  Bernie Sykes, Private Investigator, kept a small office in a run-down area not far from downtown. He wasn’t happy to see Elliot.

  Sykes looked too big for his clothes and he was perspiring, although it wasn’t that warm. He could have been tough once, but now he was soft and overweight. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “What can I do for you, Detective?”

  Elliot sat in a wooden swivel chair that took up the space between the desk and the door. “I need some information on Lagayle Zimmerman.”

  A look came over Sykes’s face, like that of someone who’d just walked into a dentist’s office. “I doubt I could tell you anything you don’t already know.”

  “Why did you quit the case?”

  “Hey, I gave the old man what he wanted, found out what his wife was up to. The case was over. I didn’t quit.”

  “That’s not how Zimmerman made it sound. He said you were scared. You know what? I tend to agree with him.”

  “I guess that’s your prerogative.”

  “You don’t look like someone who would frighten easily. Did someone lean on you?”

  “It’s like I told you. I did what I was supposed to do. The job’s over.”

  “About that information,” Elliot said. “Care to share your findings with me?”

  “I don’t have to show you anything. I know my rights.”

  Elliot showed the photographs he’d gotten from Zimmerman. “Recognize these?”

  “Sure I do. It’s my work. So what?”

  “Where were they taken?”

  “Downtown, a place called Gemini.”

  “Who’s the clown with Lagayle?”

  Bernie shook his head. “I don’t know, honest. I couldn’t find anything on him.”

  Elliot considered Sykes’s answer. The story of the murder hadn’t hit the newswires. They’d asked the media to hold off. “Would it make any difference if I told you Lagayle Zimmerman was dead?”

  Sykes pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his forehead. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Sorry, but not surprised, right?”

  “Hey. What’re you trying to say? I didn’t do nothing.”

  “I can get a court order, if that’s how you want it. Haul your whole office downtown.”

  “Hey, I’m running a respectable business here. I got bills to pay. Why are you rousting me? I haven’t done anything.”

  “All right,” Elliot said. “Have it your way.” He started to stand.

  “Hold on a minute. You don’t have to do that. Come on, you look like a decent guy.” He leaned forward, motioning for Elliot to do the same. “What if I was to tell you I didn’t quit the case for the same reasons you think I did? I’m not saying that’s how it was, I’m saying, what if.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “What if I was to tell you it was the old man, that maybe he said some things I didn’t like?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like maybe he asked if I knew of anyone who could help him with a special problem.”

  Silence dropped over the room. Elliot knew perfectly well what Sykes was saying, but he wanted to be sure. As if to confirm his statement, Sykes nodded slowly.

  “Are you saying Zimmerman had his wife killed?”

  “Hey. I’m not saying anything. And if you try to bring me in on it, I’ll deny it. You can tear through my files if that makes you feel better, but you won’t find anything. I ain’t been in business this long ’cause I’m stupid.”

  “Anything else you care not to tell me?”

  Sykes wiped his forehead again. “That Zimmerman broad ain’t what she seems.”

  “Yeah. I know about that. Question is, how did you find out?”

  “I got my ways.”

  “I’ll bet you do,” Elliot said. “Now how about a name?”

  “Name? What do you mean, name?”

  “I have a feeling you dug up quite a bit on the victim. Zimmerman doesn’t seem like the type to off his wife simply because she was having an affair. But to find out he was married to a man, that might do it. And something tells me his wife wasn’t using the name Lagayle before.”

  Bernie Sykes shook his head then scribbled something onto a notepad. When he finished, he tore it off the page and slid it across the desk.

  Elliot picked up the paper. It read: Larry J. Segal.

  “You didn’t get that from me.”

  “Yeah. Now how did you find out about Lagayle’s gender?”

  “Someone at the club told me.” He paused. “I shouldn’t have to tell you this, but when you been on the streets for as long as I have you get a feeling about these things. I could tell this was a bad deal. Sure I need money, but not that bad. So I dropped the case.”

  “What can you tell me about Segal?”

  “Nothing. Nobody would talk about it. Every time I’d bring up that name, they’d clam up, back away.” He shook his head. “I’m telling you it’s a bad deal.”

  “Do you think Zimmerman had his wife killed, found someone to do it?”

  “I don’t know. I wouldn’t put it past him.”

  Elliot nodded. “Thanks, I owe you one.”

  “Yeah, I’ll believe that when I see it,” Sykes said. And as Elliot was leaving, he added, “I’d be careful if I was you. This case has got crazy written all over it.”

  After leaving the PI’s office, Elliot placed a call to the depa
rtment to run a check on Larry Segal. Sure enough, Segal had been picked up nine years ago on a drug charge. It wasn’t entirely luck; Elliot had a feeling something might show up. As it turned out, Larry Segal was the only child of William and Mallory Segal.

  Segal’s last known address was in an apartment complex on South Harvard Avenue. Elliot read the name of the apartments embossed on a brass plate bolted to a wall of brick, then confirmed it against his notes. On the right, he saw a row of mailboxes with names above and addresses below. When he found one labeled Mallory Segal, he wrote down the number and followed a sidewalk to the apartment.

  Mallory Segal, a short lady with gray hair chopped into a pageboy, led Elliot into the living area and asked him to have a seat. The furniture was antique, and if Elliot hadn’t known better he’d have thought he’d entered an 1890s home where Victorian clutter was the style. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he was able to identify the clutter; the shelves, the tables, and every other surface was crammed with dolls and doll furniture. There was even a tiny dining table with doll chairs and place settings.

  “Could I get you something?” she asked, “perhaps a cup of tea?”

  Elliot shook his head. “No thank you. I have something to tell you. It might be better if you were sitting down.” When she complied, Elliot continued. “I have some bad news. It’s about your son, Larry.” He paused. It was never easy. “He was found in his car this morning. Your son is dead, Mrs. Segal.”

  Her face lost its expression, but she said nothing.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Segal, but I need to ask you some questions. Does the name Lagayle Zimmerman mean anything to you?”

  She smiled, her eyes becoming distant. “Do you like my little friends?” She gestured toward her dolls.

  “Yes,” Elliot said. “They’re very nice. Do you know of anyone who might have wanted to harm Lagayle?”

  She picked up one of the dolls, a fragile ceramic bride. This is one of my favorites, Mr.…?”

  “Elliot.”

  “Yes. That’s a nice name. My husband’s no longer with us, Mr. Elliot. My little friends are all I have.” She stood and began twirling around, as if dancing with the doll. “I don’t know anyone named Lagayle.”

  “How about your son, Larry?” Elliot asked, “Could you tell me about him?”

  She spun around, eyes gleaming, and snatched up a couple of photos from the table and sat on the sofa beside Elliot. “This is when he got his first bicycle. It scared me so to see him ride it. And this is Larry with his father. He did love his father.” A tear ran down her cheek. “My boy’s been gone a long time, Mr. Elliot.”

  “Did he ever call or come to visit?”

  Mallory Segal looked at the floor, the doll and the pictures she’d been holding sliding from her hands.

  Elliot caught the ceramic doll before it hit the floor. He placed the doll on the sofa then picked up the pictures, placing them beside the doll.

  “Someone called,” she said, “someone I didn’t know.”

  Elliot paused, thinking about Lagayle and Harrison Zimmerman and their relationship. “Did Larry ever tell you what he was doing, or who his friends were?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “This is important, Mrs. Segal. Did Larry mention anything about being in trouble?”

  She nodded.

  “Tell me what he said, Mrs. Segal. I’m sorry to put you through this, but I have to know.”

  “His friend found out,” she said.

  “What friend?”

  “He found out that Larry was…different.”

  “Was the friend Harrison Zimmerman?”

  Mallory Segal began to cry.

  Elliot put his arm around her. “It’s all right. You’ve told me enough.”

  Elliot didn’t have the heart to torture Mrs. Segal any further. He stood, thanked her for her help and commented on how nice her collection was, then let himself out.

  Elliot paused for a moment in front of the apartment complex where Mallory Segal lived, watching the traffic squeeze up and down the narrow, crowded lanes of Harvard Avenue. The case appeared to be heading in a different direction than he’d previously anticipated. He didn’t want to think he was happy about that, but he couldn’t deny being somewhat relieved. However, when he closed his eyes he could still see the necklace dangling from the rearview mirror of the victim’s car. He recalled the matchbook he’d found in the Mercedes, and the name that was printed on it: Club Gemini. The photograph Bernie Sykes had snapped of Lagayle Zimmerman had been taken there. And someone from the club had known Lagayle’s secret. Sykes had told Elliot that much, but he hadn’t known the man in the photo with Lagayle. For lack of a better idea, Elliot figured Club Gemini would be his next stop.

  The building in front of Elliot, an aging two-story structure of red brick, held a look of abandonment. Elliot began to wonder if he’d been led astray. Rust, combined with inactivity and a padlock, secured the first door he came to. It looked as if it hadn’t been used in twenty years. He found no other entrances along the south wall facing the street and nothing on the west side, but on the east end a couple of metal overhead doors were positioned about five feet above the driveway. It was a dock designed to accommodate the loading of trucks. The building had been used as a warehouse at one time.

  After examining the overhead doors, which were locked, Elliot jumped down from the dock and walked to the back of the warehouse. A concrete retaining wall ran behind the structure, leaving a walkway about four feet wide between the building and the wall. Elliot recalled the snapshot of Lagayle standing beside a shadowy figure, and he recognized the area as the place where the photo had been taken. He started down the path, and as he neared the halfway point, he noticed a greenish glow reflecting off the concrete wall. A few steps more led him to the source of the strange light, a neon sign hanging above the entrance. The sign blinked out the name: Club Gemini.

  Elliot pushed the buzzer. A few moments later the door creaked open slightly. Elliot showed his badge and pushed the door open as he stepped inside.

  A man with a black moustache and a stocky build stood in the darkness. “Is there something I can do for you?”

  “I’m looking for the manager,” Elliot said.

  The man examined Elliot’s badge then pointed to the rear of the room. The place reminded Elliot of a cave and the expansive darkness, with cool, damp air pumping out of gray conduits suspended from the ceiling, intensified the sensation. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, Elliot began to see details. In the middle of the chasm-like room was a dining area with tables covered with white tablecloths. The tables were gathered around three circular stages decorated with running lights ready for the night’s entertainment. Near the back of the room, a large and well-stocked mahogany bar skirted the wall. To the right of the bar Elliot saw a small hallway leading to a door labeled Manager. As he neared the office, he noticed the outside wall had been outfitted with a one-way glass, and before he got to the door it opened and a tall, emaciated man stepped out. “May I help you?” he asked.

  Elliot identified himself.

  The man stepped forward, extending his hand. “Charles Metcalf,” he said. “How may I be of service?”

  His somber demeanor and all-black clothing reminded Elliot of an undertaker in an Old West movie. His skin was wet to the touch as they shook hands. “I’d like to ask you a few questions,” Elliot said, wiping his hand on the back of his pant leg so Metcalf wouldn’t notice. “Do you know Lagayle Zimmerman?”

  The look on Metcalf’s face implied that he wanted to lie, but it also said he was worried about trying it with a cop. He stroked his chin. “The name rings a bell, but I can’t place it. Then again, people come and go around here. It’s hard to keep up with everyone.”

  “She was also known as Larry Segal,” Elliot added.

  Metcalf gave Elliot a curious look, as if he’d said something offensive. He shook his head.

  Elliot opened the brown envelope he carried a
nd pulled out the photos Harrison Zimmerman had given him. He showed them to Metcalf. “Do any of these people ring your bell?”

  He leaned forward to examine the photos, a look of worry invading his face. He shook his head. “I don’t think so. But I can’t be sure.”

  “Come on, the pictures were taken outside your club.”

  “Yes,” he said, “it appears they were.”

  Elliot stuck a business card into the front pocket of Metcalf’s dinner jacket. “Let me know when your memory improves. It would be in your best interest.” Elliot turned away and walked back into the interior of the club. As he walked past the tables, strobe lights began to flash, followed by an array of rapidly moving lights of varying colors that were thrown about the room by large black spheres rotating overhead. The impression of countermovement caused by the lightshow made Elliot dizzy, and as he reached for the support of a chair someone touched his arm. He spoke with an English accent. “The pictures, mate. Could I have a look at them?”

  Several other people came over and gathered around. Some of them were dressed as women, but they were all male. Apparently, the performers and crew were preparing for the night’s performance. Elliot placed the photos atop one of the tables and spread them across it. “I know her all right,” the Englishman said. “I’ve seen the bloke, too.”

  “Do you know who he is?” Elliot asked.

  “Can’t say I do. I saw him though, right here in this club not more than two days ago. What do you want with him?”

  “I need to talk to him, that’s all. What can you tell me about Lagayle Zimmerman?”

  The Englishman shrugged. “She used to hang out here. Then she had a go at being straight. Didn’t work out though, husband found out her little secret.”

  “Speaking of her husband,” Elliot said. “Did he ever come in here?”

  “Not bloody likely.”

  Laughter rippled across the small crowd. “What was Lagayle doing here with Mr. Anonymous?” Elliot asked.

  “Don’t know, mate. He was hitting on her though. That’s for sure.” He glanced around. “We all saw him, but we kept our distance.”

  “Why’s that?”