All the Pretty Pieces

By Dave Hart

McKenzie ‘Mac’ Cole lost his job when Axiom Mutual, got bought out by a foreign, high-tech conglomerate. At age fifty, divorced and embittered retirement is not an option. So Mac goes into business for himself taking on a case involving the missing roommate of an enigmatic twenty-nine year old woman. Lucy Russell and Emily Rogers are inseparable- like sisters, and Mac gets twice the trouble he bargained for when ‘all the pretty pieces’ take him on a wild ride down a rabbit hole that eventually leads back to his former employer and the hidden agenda of the SOB who fired him.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Apr 13, 2020
• ISBN: 9781532098628

Dave Hart

A former insurance executive, award-winning songwriter, author, historian and filmmaker Dave Hart is a family descendent of a Signer of the Declaration of Independence. He is a Trustee for the Trenton Historical Society and a life member of the Ewing Township Historic Preservation Society. Author of ALL THE PRETTY PIECES and TIPPING POINT, other publications written with John Calu include TRENTON, a historical novel and ADVENTURES ALONG THE JERSEY SHORE featuring myths, legends and everyday mysteries of Garden State. Dave is also the writer-director and producer of the two feature length documentaries, John Hart: Portrait Patriot and Ballad of the Blue Heron & Red-Tailed Hawk.

Book preview

1

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Her name was Lucy Russell. She got my number from a friend of a friend she met at a blues joint called Jake’s, down on the corner of Warren and Broad, a bar I was known to frequent in weaker moments. I wasn’t there.

At the moment, I was giving my peptic system a few days off. Whomever she talked to told her I made a living finding things. It was probably Nick, the loquacious bartender. We sometimes swapped war stories over shots and beers. He got an earful while I got the occasional snootful on the house.

Nick knew I was an insurance investigator in a former life — and a pretty damn good one, he would have added. In my job, I found lots of missing things. Saved my tightwad company a ton of money in claim payments. That was, until Axiom Mutual got bought out by a foreign high-tech conglomerate. The new owners decided to downsize. Farmed out everything, including McKenzie Cole. That’s me.

Looking back, it was their loss. I found a new calling, maybe not as lucrative, but I liked the hours better.

Emily Rogers. That was the name of the lost item Lucy Russell wanted me to find. A coworker, or so she claimed. They worked together at Macy’s in the nearby suburban mall. Emily disappeared about a week ago; just up and vanished one day without a trace on her way home from work. No one’s heard from her since.

What about the police? I asked Lucy over the phone. She said she made a missing person report but had no confidence in Trenton’s finest finding her. She knew a few of them personally.

So did I. She was right. They were overworked and underpaid, logging in overtime on a regular basis. Double and triple shifts resulting in caseloads backed up the wazoo. After three days of dead ends, she decided to get serious. That’s where I fit in.

What about family? was my next question. Mother, father, husband, boyfriend?

None, she answered before the words left my lips. She and Emily were roommates. They shared an efficiency apartment at the Victoria Arms as a matter of convenience. Both ladies were single, each having survived failed relationships. Now she had my full attention.

I suggested Lucy come to my office. I wanted to go over the details with her in person, including a complete description of her missing roommate, although Emily’s appearance was not the only one I was interested in. I liked the sound of Lucy’s voice, husky and smooth. It was the kind of voice that made a man want to listen with all his senses. Reminded me of that seventies actress, Brenda Vaccaro. I was curious what kind of packaging those sexy pipes came wrapped in.

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She didn’t disappoint. My secretary buzzed Lucy in without fanfare. She didn’t need any. She glided across the room like a fashion model down a runway — elevation courtesy of three-inch heels. Light radiated from her liquid caramel eyes. They glowed like a distant wildfire and drew me to her face like a moth to a flame. I felt my own shit-brown peepers melting at the mere site of her.

Dressed in a short black cocktail dress, her basic accessories included a wide -brimmed black hat that crowned her golden shoulder-length tresses, creating a subdued halo effect. But if she was an angel, she wasn’t a poor one. Resting on her pale, lithe neck was a stunning mother-of-pearl pendant on a thin gold chain with matching earrings that swayed in time with her graceful strides. The set must have cost a fortune.

Which meant the dame had money.

Or somebody did.

I let my eyes linger there a little too long. She placed a self-conscious hand on her chest. Mother-of-pearl, she said. A gift. I don’t go anywhere without it.

And earrings to match, I managed, regaining my composure. Not too shabby.

You know your jewelry, Mr. Cole. Right, but then, you were an insurance investigator at one time. A ‘damn good one,’ I’ve been told.

That’s my boy, Nick! He’s the man.

Gentleman that I was, I stood and motioned for her to sit in the padded captain’s chair near the window. I was hoping the fading rays of the late afternoon sun would bathe her in its glory for my benefit. I wanted to be sure to savor every moment of our interview.

Come right from work? I asked, trying to mask the pleasure I was taking in watching her.

I’m meeting someone, she replied, ignoring my extended arm and instead taking the seat directly across from me, which telegraphed to me to be quick. So much for golden halos.

Her casual response prompted me to ask. Could your roommate have met someone? It was a leading question but I wanted to get it out of the way early.

Not without my knowing about it, she answered without missing a beat. We share everything.

Her comment gave me pause to ponder. If I were her boyfriend, would their ‘sharing’ be a good thing or a bad thing for me? The thought lingered as I took out a legal pad and reached for a sharpened pencil. I had plenty.

Lucy removed her hat and placed it on her lap, patiently waiting for my next question.

What does your roommate look like? I inquired without looking up.

Like me, Lucy deadpanned. Except she has short reddish hair and is much thinner, probably ten pounds or more. I’ve always been envious of how much she could eat and not gain an ounce. Lucy cocked her head sideways. A fast metabolism, I guess.

She took out a slick new iPhone from her purse and passed it over to me. On the display screen, shot from a distance of six to eight feet and wearing a pair of oval sunglasses that partially obscured her face was the young woman she just described to me standing in front of the sign for the Victoria Arms Apartments. I guessed her age to be, like Lucy’s, between twenty-eight and thirty-five.

She’s what, about 5 foot 6, 110 pounds? I had the rest of her measurements pegged but figured I should keep those to myself.

Lucy smiled obliquely. 105. Emily was a size 4. I have a tough time squeezing into a 6 these days.

"Was?" I asked, noticing she had referred to her missing roommate in the past tense — rather prematurely, I thought, given the circumstances. I played with my mustache. A nervous habit. My secretary says I do it unconsciously whenever I think somebody is jerking my chain, or I’m yanking theirs.

"Excuse me, I meant is," she corrected.

I jotted down the numbers, more as a distraction from the distraction in the chair, and focused my thoughts on the work at hand. And what color are her eyes?

Lucy hesitated. Light green with a hint of blue, she replied in her sensual raspy voice. Sea green, she would say. Someone once referred to them as ‘beryl’ because they reminded him of beryllium crystals, a translucent mineral that takes its coloring from the impurities in its surroundings. Emily thought it an odd compliment, to suggest her eyes were somehow impure, like they belonged to a harlot or something.

She gave me the opening I was looking for, and I took it. Is Emily promiscuous?

Lucy laughed haughtily. Would that make a difference to you, Mr. Cole?

It might, I replied. It could provide some insight into her personality, help establish what kind of person she is and thus where she might go and who she might associate with.

Lucy paused before speaking, weighing her words carefully. The eye color remark came from a geologist she once dated. He was an austere Methodist. She was brought up Roman Catholic in a strict, old-fashioned family. The relationship was doomed from the start, and — she gazed up at me with a wan smile, — it wasn’t because they didn’t see eye to eye.

I chuckled in spite of myself. That was the moment I knew Lucy Russell was a woman to be reckoned with. Her beauty and confidence were obvious in the way she dressed and conducted herself. That she was smart, witty and had a wry sense of humor was a pleasant surprise. It gave her a depth and maturity I did not expect from a woman her age. And yet I had my misgivings. I could not help but feel she knew more than she was telling — that she was holding something back, leaving it up to me to flesh out.

Over the phone you mentioned Emily had no immediate family.

That’s right. Her mother and father are deceased. She has no siblings.

I suppose that made the bond between you two all the more … special.

Lucy cooed. How insightful you are, Mr. Cole.

Was she patronizing me? She sounded sincere, but her manner suggested otherwise. And what of this geologist, does he have a name? Where can I contact him?

Ancient history, she sighed. It’s been over for awhile and wasn’t much to begin with.

For Emily maybe, but how about for him? It wouldn’t be the first time an old flame came back sniffing around, hoping to rekindle a long-doused fire.

You’re barking up the wrong tree, Mr. Cole. Besides, I don’t think she ever told me his real name. When she talked about him, which wasn’t all that frequently, she always referred to him rather derisively as ‘Rocky,’ because of his chosen field of study, not for his physique. From her description, I pictured him as more nerd than prizefighter. I got the feeling his fire was out long before the match was even struck.

Was he from around here?

No, she replied. I don’t believe he was. I think she said she knew him from Casper.

Casper?

Wyoming. That’s where Emily said she met him. In Casper, Wyoming.

And how did you two meet, you and Ms. Rogers?

At Macy’s. The perfume counter. I was looking for a new scent. You know, to change my luck with men. She was working behind the counter and convinced me to try Reveal by Calvin Klein. I wear it still.

When was that?

About six months ago.

Did it work?

She cracked a wry smile. You mean with men? No. But I found a new friend, a coworker, and a caring roommate.

Did you start working together before you became roommates?

Actually, it all happened around the same time.

Uh, huh. And when was that?

About six months ago.

You two certainly hooked up fast.

Yes, we did. What is it people say? ‘Timing is everything.’ We hit it off immediately. It was perfect. We were both coming off long-term relationships that had ended badly as I mentioned to you over the phone.

So you comforted one another.

You could say that. We helped each other to move on, to get on with our lives. And we both swore off men. At least for the time being.

And you don’t think she found someone new?

She would have told me.

Like she did about Rocky.

Like Rocky and all the others we talked about.

Others?

We’re women. We talk. She wouldn’t have been able to keep it from me even if she tried. I would have known.

You mean you would have found out eventually, I suggested, like when she didn’t come home from work one night?

I would have known if there was someone new in her life. That’s why I’ve come to you. She would have done the same for me, if the shoe were on the other foot.

You seem so certain of that.

I am, she insisted, folding her arms in front of her. It’s not like her to just walk off. Something’s happened to her. Something terrible. You have to find her.

What about her boyfriend? The one she had broken up with when you two first met.

You mean Philip? Philip Baker.

I jotted down the name. Yes, what happened to Philip? Where is he now?

Antarctica. In the military. He was at McMurdo Station in Antarctica, last I heard. Has been for months. It was a contributing factor in their breakup. Emily didn’t want to go. She detests the cold.

A girl from Casper, Wyoming, detests the cold?

She’s originally from California. Modesto. Philip knew that but chose to accept the transfer anyway. He may have even put in for it as a way of ending their relationship. Who knows?

Did you ever meet Philip?

She gave that a firm no.

Lucy glanced at her watch. Oops, I’m afraid I must be off, she said, standing to leave.

I didn’t say I would take the job, Ms. Russell.

She put her hat back on her head and, in that breathy Brenda Vaccaro voice, queried, Then why am I here, Mr. Cole? Surely not because you like the sound of my voice.

That hit home. Was she psychic, too, or was I that transparent?

Lucy dropped the iPhone back in her purse and gave a demure smile. I’ve been told you can’t resist a good challenge.

You haven’t even asked my fee.

Lucy drew from her bag two crisp C notes and laid them across my desk. Will this be enough to get you started?

Not one to turn down a beautiful woman in need, I scooped up the fresh Franklins and placed them gingerly into my top drawer, where I keep my rent money. It was currently empty. You make it difficult to say no.

With that, Lucy Russell got up and walked out of my office the same way she’d strolled in: sure of herself, certain about what she wanted, and confident I would find her roommate. I wasn’t so sure. She hadn’t given me much to go on.

Essence of Reveal lingered in her wake as I picked up the phone and dialed the number for Macy’s.

2

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After two attempts to reach a live person on the telephone, I gave up. On the third try, I left a churlish recorded request for someone in the vast electronic abyss of the retailer’s network to return my call.

About an hour later I got a call back from a polite gentleman identifying himself as Mr. Peterson from Macy’s corporate headquarters in New York. I asked him if Macy’s had an employee named Emily Rogers. He wanted to know the nature of my inquiry. I told him I was a special investigator calling on behalf of Ms. Rogers’ family, who had lost contact with their daughter and had concerns about her welfare.

After an interminable delay, Mr. Peterson informed me Macy’s did not have an employee by that name.

Are you sure? I understand she works at your Quakerbridge Mall here in New Jersey. Maybe that information is somewhere else in your records?

Another long pause followed. Over the line I could hear the furious clacking of computer keys and the rustling of paper.

I believe she works in the cosmetics department, I offered.

Suddenly the line went silent. The unmistakable sounds of the intensive searching stopped. All pretense of any work effort on the other end seemed to cease.

I grew anxious, gripping the phone tighter in my hand.

"Could the person you are inquiring about be one Emily K. Rogers?" Peterson finally asked.

Probably, I said, exhaling. Are you telling me you have more than one Emily Rogers working for you?

No, Peterson said in a huff. We don’t have any.

But I didn’t give you a middle initial.

That is correct, Mr. Cole, you did not. An Emily K. Rogers worked for us at one time, but she is not employed with us any longer.

When did her employment end?

Six months ago.

Are you sure?

Quite.

Why did she leave?

That’s confidential.

Can you tell me if she quit or was terminated?

I can’t tell you that either, Mr. Cole.

"Okay. What can you tell me about Ms. Rogers, Mr. Peterson?"

"I can tell you that an Emily K. Rogers worked for Macy’s