Harrison Lloyd Mystery Series LETTER PERFECT Derrick Sanzhiel LETTER PERFECT Copyright 1995, Derek Sanzhiel Published by Cedar Bay Press, L.L.C. All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction and is not intended to represent realities. No part of this current work may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, except as may be expressly permitted by the 1976 Copyright Act or in writing by the publisher. Requests for such permissions should be addressed to: CEDAR BAY PRESS, L.L.C. PO Box 751, Beaverton, OR 97075 FIRST EDITION (PAPERBACK) 1995 Prepared and manufactured by CEDAR BAY PRESS in the United Federation of the Takelman-Kalapuyan (Tualatin) Nation. To Dejha-Moon (AZA) where ever you are . . . LETTER PERFECT by Derrick Sanzhiel Her name is Marlene Madison, and she sits nervously perched on the edge of the leather-backed chair. She is a couple of years past thirty, with short dark hair and very white skin that held a brittle translucence like opaque finely blown glass. A pair of red glasses gives her oval face a studious, intense appearance. The flaps of her tailored woolen coat fall open across her delicately jointed knees. I can see the hem of a medium length blue skirt and nicely tapering legs in dark nylons. The matter before me concerns her relationship with David Livingston, a young and ruthless bank vice-president, who had vanished from Lake Oswego Federal Deposit three months ago to the day when a huge amount of the bank's money also left. All efforts to find him had failed but the bank still pays me a healthy retainer, so I agreed to talk to the person on the other side of the desk. She is small-breasted and narrow-shouldered, but attractive enough. She is the kind of girl who would cry miserably on her wedding night. Yet, there is also a strangely muted sensuality about her, a hidden-below-the- surface kind of thing. So that while you had the thought of her weeping after the consummation of marriage, you felt she would probably become an active sexual predator in no time at all. There are small, expensive black pearls in the lobes of her ears. On the third finger of her left hand is a diamond- encrusted ring that would have cost upward of a couple thousand dollars, if the diamonds were genuine that is. I offer her a cup of coffee, but she shook her head. Maybe she is Mormon I thought. I got up and refilled my own cup from the pot, added a shot of whiskey and sat again. I watch her chew sheepishly on the pale iridescent lipstick on her mouth. "I do not quite know how to begin," she has a touch of a Virginia accent in her articulation. Her eyelashes flick very rapidly like the wings of butterflies. "I understand, take your time," I said as I look up at the clock that hung on the wall behind her. She cleared her throat softly and looked down at the small black leather purse she is holding in her lap. I wait for her to make up her mind. Marlene Madison finished composing her thoughts and said, "I have come about my former fiancee, David Livingston." She gazes up at me then beyond me. "He's missing, you see." She makes a vague helpless gesture with her hands. "No one seems to know what happened to him." She lowers her eyes and tightens her fingers around her leather purse. "We . . . we were to be married six months ago," she sobbed. Why me, I thought, not one of these clients, not now. I want another drink. I said, "Miss Madison . . ." "I know what your thinking," she said before I could get the rest of it out. She continues to sweetly explain how she was the girl Livingston went with consistently at one time, until he jilted her for her best friend, Kate Beverly; it was reported in the local newspaper on the social-society page about the time the Livingston-Madison marriage was called off. She went on to say Livingston is back in town and between the sheets with Kate Beverly once more. Marlene Madison also said she could produce some vital evidence on the whereabouts of Livingston. She insists that I meet her at her apartment building out in Lake Oswego later this afternoon. The downtown office at 10th and Alder is as hot as any typical sunny afternoon in August. But the garage is cool. I climb into my Corvette and set out on the drive to Lake Oswego. The junglized lobby of Miss Madison's luxury apartment building is screaming the lavish waste at the expense of the poignant needs of the impoverished. While waiting near the centralized waterfall, I wonder what the `vital evidence' Miss Madison promised to give me about the missing embezzler. Then, I began to think of the many other things that I do not understand. Like, the number of job outplacement firms in the U.S. in 1980: 50. Number in 1993: 250. Latest endangered species: White males. Where is the bar in this joint? So who has all the money for such opulent surroundings? Less than 5 percent of the voting public; that's who. And that 5 percent doesn't really vote; they buy their politicians and laws on a wholesale level. As I sat here, I had a distinct feeling that I wasn't living in the America I was born in: One nation for the corporation, by the corporation, and of the corporation. Maybe nobody else is seeing this, I thought. The big banks get a no-risk loan policy to lend money to foreign corporations. And if the foreign corporation refuses to pay back the loan the bank writes it off on their taxes. The void is left to the rest of us schmoes to fill with our hard earned dollars. Finally, the woman I am supposed to meet sweeps into the lobby through the street door. "I am so sorry to have kept you waiting," she says. "I was just at Kate Beverly's apartment--one of her cocktail parties." "That's nice," I smiled. She had time to change too: She wears a wine colored double-breasted shaped jacket barely hiding a white satin-smooth appliqu‚ tank top with a scoop neckline revealing firm and perky bosoms. "Well, let's go to my apartment," she says. "I have one piece of the evidence up there and a brand new piece I discovered over at Kate's apartment." I follow the curvaceous hips dressed in a wine-colored slim-line skirt of worsted wool gabardine. Her long legs terminating into stylish dark burgundy kidskin leather with two-and-a-half-inch stacked heels. She made a tasty dish of a woman. Her apartment is two floors up and the balcony has a magnificent view of the waterfall located in the center of the lobby. Inside more stuff that looks very expensive. "Ok," I said. "What did you want to show me regarding David Livingston?" "First, I found this old statement from my credit card company behind that desk," she points to an expensive Louis- the-something imported from France. ". . . when I moved the desk away from the wall to run an electric cord to that book shelf." She points to the book shelf with the grace of a game-show hostess. I look over the bill to notice airplane tickets and a short vacation south of the boarder. Then I look back at Madison in hopes of an explanation. "Don't you see?" She looks at me then the bill. "It wasn't I who went to Mexico after the bank lost its money." "Interesting," said I. "Do you mind if I turn this document over to the DA?" "No, but there is more," she sinisterly smirked. "Kate Beverly . . . "she pauses to light up an expensive cigarette. "I'm certain, can tell you where David is." She said that in one breath before expelling the smoke from her tar coated lungs. "During the party, I went into her bedroom to fix my make-up, and I found the first page of a letter written to her by David." She pauses again to take a long drag into her body and all of the sudden I am feeling better about my own health. Sure, maybe I don't have as much money as Madison but at least I have a cleaner bill of health. "I am ashamed to admit I read it," she fawns an emotion of guilt that gets her nowhere. ". . . a lot of silly sentiment and not much information." Suddenly she smiles and looks as if she notices me. "Can I offer you a drink?" I thought of ordering something expensive at first but drew a momentary blank list of names. "Nola Madi Gras?" "Think in terms of well-drinks," she scorns without blinking. "I'm not a damn bartender." I tell the bitch to fetch a gin and tonic. Marlene continues during her brief stop at the well: "That first page, however, ended in the middle of a sentence, and it seemed interesting. I'm sure if you find the second page." She hands me an eight-ounce glass; three- quarters full. I hand Miss Madison a sheet of paper that I found in Livingston's apartment. "Is this Livingston's handwriting?" Marlene stares fixedly at the paper. She shakes her head and begins fumbling in her purse and knocks out a very long letter opener. Then she searches through the drawers of that Louis-the-something desk, coming up with a pair of glasses. She puts them on, studies the paper again. I took a sip of what I figure was a lot of tonic and a touch of gin. I was wrong. The gin is straight. Maybe the tonic is locked in the ice cubes. "Yes, this is Dave's writing. No doubt about it." She hands the paper back my way while guzzling a drink the color of fine whiskey. "Ok, I'll go have a talk with Kate Beverly," I declare. "I want you to sit tight here in your apartment. I may need to ask you a few more questions," I demand. I would have wasted time to finish my drink but Marlene seems rather chilled in my presence. I check my notebook to check Kate's address. Once that small matter was taken care of I was out of there. Kate Beverly lives in another luxurious apartment complex two blocks down on the same street as Marlene's place. The Corvette looks comfortable between the BMW and the Jag so I decide to walk the distance. Lake Oswego is right on the banks of the mighty Willamette river and in the late afternoon the temperature is comfortable. As I draw closer to Kate's place, I began to notice a plethora of metro cop cars and an ambulance in front of the main entrance of the complex. As I reach the gold handled doors my old friend Peter Gloss, detective, homicide, and his entourage file out of the building. "Harrison!" Peter drew down his sunglasses to the end of his nose. "Why is it when I find a dead body you are somehow connected?" "Who is it?" "David Livingston: unidentified sharp object inserted in back of the skull." His glasses slid back up the nose. "The name mean anything to you?" "So you're solving my cases now?" "Turnabouts are a play I'll relish," Peter chuckles over the gurney carrying a black bag to the ambulance. "You want to go up and check the place out?" "No . . . how's Kate Beverly handling it?" Peter shrugs as if he hadn't a clue. "Was there a party going on when the body was discovered?" "As you might expect, the party blew out when someone found the body in one of the smaller bedrooms." Peter flips through a few notes then continued: "Ms. Beverly is surprisingly cool and swears she's innocent." "She's telling the truth," I revealed. "Something you'd like to tell me, Harry?" "Sure, grab one of the boys and let's talk a short walk," I suggest. Peter signals with his left hand toward one of the nearby men in blue who quickly steps into my conga line. We stroll two blocks up and the minutes are filled with casual chatter. We weave our way through the lobby of Kelly's apartment and up to the second floor and then knock on 3-C. "Miss Madison," I begin, "I suspect that the story you've been telling me about the credit card statement is partially true as is the second half of the story about the letter. I think you met David, while he was writing that letter, at the party this afternoon and killed him out of jealousy." "Why, how could you say something like that?" She bats her eyelashes in annoyance. "When you returned from Kate Beverly's party, you were neither wearing your glasses nor carrying them in your purse. It would have been impossible, therefore, for you to read the letter you claim to have read in Kate's bedroom. Aside from that, you may be carrying the murder weapon in your purse, like a long oriental letter opener." "But you strike me as a smart private investigator," she coolly coos, "certainly you could look into the matter further." "Lady, what you need is the assistance of the Metro police and it just so happens that my pal here is a very interesting and compassionate man who would be just right to look over your case." With that said I take three steps right and then enters Detective Peter Gloss with cuffs at the ready. # # # THE ACCIDENTAL ARTIST Derek Sanzhiel Private eye Harrison Lloyd is back in an all new mystery adventure looking into the death of a well-known pop artist. Was it an accident or does the picture paint a murder? Clues abound in The Accidental Artist and readers of all ages can easily take part in this investigation. Who will discover the clues first? You or Harrison Lloyd? CBPBN: 1-57555-003-DS $2 (US) The Executive Jungle Derek Sanzhiel The first Harrison Lloyd Novella, The Executive Jungle and here's what the critics say: Wonderful work! Well-written, well-laid out and full of suspense and "satisfaction". What a "cop" story. What a "Crime" adventure. Great title once the reader hits floor 13! Excellent suspense-you have painted an exotic picture that is very much alive to the reader. Funny sexual play with words. The story absolutely speaks for itself and entices the reader to stay with it untill the (un)certain end. Derek writes with an easy flow crucial to work in this genre. CBPBN: 1-57555-001-DS $5 (US) LETTER PERFECT Derrick Sanzhiel She is small-breasted and narrow-shouldered, but attractive enough. She is the kind of girl who would cry miserably on her wedding night. Yet, there is also a strangely muted sensuality about her, a hidden-below-the- surface kind of thing. So that while you had the thought of her weeping after the consummation of marriage, you felt she would probably become an active sexual predator in no time at all. Several vital clue seperates a high-society woman from life in the fast lane or a life behind prison bars for murder. Can you spot it before P.I. Harrison Lloyd puts one and two together? CBPBN: 1-57555-005-DS $2 (US)