The Porn Identity

Chapter 2

       You want to know the worst thing about being a private detective? Well, besides the relatively low pay and the obscene amount of murderers I run into for some reason? It's the sitting in your car when it's over a hundred degrees out just to catch someone doing wrong. This is mostly a problem in summer—and my bad for bringing it up again, but my God this global warming shit is no joke when you live in one of the hottest states in the Union. Don't believe those propagandist Florida ads that frame the sunshine like its enjoyable either. On my life, half the year is hotter than Satan's panties.

       But anyway, I was pretty much done. The job had required I stay parked on Newton Avenue across from the house my latest target lived in for an hour or so. I wasn't looking for evidence of a cheating spouse this time—no. My client, a lawyer for a local construction company, wanted proof that the employee who got injured on the job was really injured and not fraudulently claiming worker's comp.

       It wasn't glamourous, but one fraud case from Sanz paid more than four times the rate of a filthy cheating husband. I'd been following the guy for three weeks watching as he went about his day-to-day business. That mostly consisted of sitting in his house or going to the occasional physical therapy appointment. Unfortunately, that necessitated me sitting in my hotbox of a car because I'm not burning my gas while I idle for an hour for AC... shit's expensive.

       Its just too bad Newton Avenue didn't have any shade.

       Either way, today was my last day of surveillance for Randy M. Cairns. From the stilted way Mr. Cairns hobbled along to the passenger side of his wife's car, to his consistent appointments with a legitimate orthopedist I'd say he was really hurt and deserved whatever little money they were cutting for him. Sanz was going to be so disappointed.

       I wiped the sweat from my brow then cranked the car. I lightly tossed my camera into the passenger seat with my right hand while my left rolled up the windows. As soon as I reached out to turn the air as high as it would go the phone started ringing. I sighed. How typical for a call to come in just as I was about to get busy.

       I grabbed at it with sweaty fingers. The number was unknown. I don't care to answer unknown calls but in my line of work it could be a potential client. "Hello. Evelyn Harper, speaking."

       "Ms. Harper. Hi," said a woman with a pronounced north Florida accent. "Kelli Olson. I'm calling about a message you left me on Facebook."

       Kelli Olson. A bit of googling this morning told me that Ms. Olson was the councilwoman for District 8. Her website preached that she was a paragon of conservative values and old-fashioned Christian morals. There was also a laundry list of memberships on exclusive auxiliary boards, coalitions, and committees. The most prominent being chair of the board of the Burenville Small Businesses Committee as well as making a splash by endorsing the Free Air act.

       Apparently, she was well known for her efforts to take down big tobacco for the future of the children or something.

       "Yes!" I yelped with excitement. This could be the break I needed. "Thank you so much for calling."

       "Of course."

       I cleared my throat and dropped down into my business voice. "I'd like to ask some questions about it if you don't mind."

       "You've got five minutes, hon."

       Straight to the point. I like it. "How long has the blackmailer been contacting you?"

       "A few years."

       "Years?" That's a high level of commitment to this extortion thing. Is he a professional?