By all accounts, that’s exactly what he did. He left his distressed fake date alone in her room, and returned to his hotel on the other side of the city. Somewhere along the line, however, the Plymouth plumber decided he had to see this wonderful gal one last time.
Now you may be asking yourself, Where was the P.I. during all this activity? Well, after secretly videotaping the couple at a local grill, Mr. Cassidy followed them back to the motel, still recording their every move from the comfort of his heavily tinted van.
When the night’s scheduled fun and games were over, the real show began—this time unscripted. You see, Samantha Jennings was not only good at playing a man’s mistress during work hours but also long after her intended mark left her side.
Maybe that’s why Steve Cassidy hired her in the first place. What better way to cheat on your fiancée then to say, “Of course nothing is happening between Samantha and me. Our relationship is strictly professional. Trust me.”
Regardless of how Mr. Cassidy’s and Ms. Jennings’ relationship began, it ended abruptly with several swings of a hammer and a hail of police bullets.
A few years ago, while employed as a patrol officer, Cassidy turned on several of his fellow officers, in an attempt to save his own hide during a scandalous corruption case, from which that force is still smarting.
Earlier this year Cassidy returned to his old hometown to locate a missing person. Not only did he determine family man Barry Jones had been dead for seven years, he also got the killer to confess to the murder on tape. The killer is now spending the next twenty–five years as a guest of the Sandwedge Penitentiary.
Did I mention that during the same investigation Mr. Cassidy had been arrested for Mr. Jones’ murder? Or that the local police chief was shot and killed by one of his own during a verbal confrontation with Cassidy? For more on that, buy the recently released true crime book Late For Dinner, as newsprint costs don’t allow me to give up the juicier details just now.
Should we feel bad for Steve Cassidy? I don’t think so. Should we feel sad for the homicidal cheating plumber? Nah. The ones for whom we should really feel sorrow for—pity even—are the women involved in this tragedy, who trusted Cassidy: the plumber’s wife, the mistress, and finally his poor fiancée, who was probably the last to know.
At present, Steve Cassidy’s P.I. licence has been suspended by the proper authorities, and the local police continue to probe his involvement in this sordid affair.
THREE
Personal privacy is one aspect of a private investigator’s life taken very seriously. My driver’s licence lists the address of a private postal depot where I rent a mailbox. Even the telephone number for Cassidy Investigations does not list an actual street location in the phone book. If someone requests a meeting, I have it at a neutral location like a donut shop. All of these measures are to protect me from disgruntled clients or subjects knowing where I eat and sleep. Unfortunately, there are no safeguards against a neighbour calling the local television station about a SWAT-like situation next door. I glanced out the front window of my house and wondered when the media would arrive to stake claim to my yard. So far, they had either ignored the tip altogether or figured it wasn’t worth getting involved in dangerous police business. At least something was going my way.
Before calling Maria, I tried to get hold of my former best friend, Wayne “Doogie” Dugan, hoping he might know about her strange phone message.
After two rings Wayne picked up and stated quite forcibly, “I don’t know how you got this number but I’m not giving any interviews about that loser Steve Cassidy. So stop calling!”
“Mr. Dugan, please don’t hang up. We’re willing to pay $50,000 for your story.” My offer was met with a long, thoughtful moment of silence.
“You know, Steve,” Wayne began to laugh, “for fifty grand I’d give up details of my grandparents’ sex life.”
“Call display takes all the fun out of life, Doogie.”
“Tell me about it. It sure comes in handy though when Trudy is trying to track me down.”
We both let out a quick, awkward laugh, each knowing what was coming next.
“So, has anyone called you?” I began.
“Not yet.”
“I’m sorry about any inconvenience this will cause.”
“Hey, no biggie. I will only give ‘em my rank and serial number. Trudy on the other hand . . .”
“Does your lovely wife know yet?”
“She went to work at the flower shop early, so I doubt it.”
“But when she finds out, Maria will find out, right?”
“That’s the way it goes when you work side by side.” Another deadly pause. “What about Linda? How’s she taking this?”
“Not well,” I sighed. “She’s gone. Took everything belonging to her and left me a note.” I wanted to tell Wayne about the police visit but couldn’t find the strength. There was no use bringing up Linda’s apparent disappearance if she was just cooling her heels out of town for a while.
“You haven’t talked to her?”
“I didn’t have the chance,” I offered. “I’m hoping to though.”
“I don’t know what to say, Steve. I’m kinda in a rough spot—you’re my friend but I also like Linda a lot. My kids still talk about her since she left the library.”
“I screwed up, Wayne. That’s what I do,” I admitted. “Regrettably my moral breakdowns end up hurting a pile of innocent people, like Linda and Samantha.”
“Who’s Samantha?” Wayne asked, before it dawned on him. “You can’t blame yourself for what happened,” he added quickly. “From what I read, you were doing your job. Who knew that guy was going to go psycho?”
“That’s easy for you to say. If I hadn’t been fooling around, we would have left the motel as soon as buddy got in the taxi. That’s the way it worked in the past and no one got killed. Anyway, what’s done is done. I’ll have to live with the consequences. As for those reporters, tell them whatever they want to know,” I said. “And if they want to contribute to your kids’ college fund, go for it. There will be no hard feelings.”
“I wouldn’t rat you out.”
“Not even for fifty thousand big ones?” I kidded him.
“Trudy’d kill me if I turned down that kind of dough,” he admitted.
“Make sure you tell the Global Scoop reporter some of my good points, okay?”
“As soon as I think of one, I’ll pass it right along.”
“That’s all I can ask of you. Now . . . the real reason for my call is—”
“Maria.”
“Yes, Maria. Do you know anything about a phone call she received? She left a message on our—I mean, my machine.”
“You must be talking about the call from the penitentiary,” Doogie said.
“What penitentiary? Sandwedge?” I began to fear that somehow the killer from my celebrated missing person case was trying to threaten Maria from the big house.
“Too small. Think B-I-G. Think of sandy beaches and palm trees.”
“The Farmington Penitentiary?”
“Boy, you’re good,” Wayne replied. “You’ve been watching Jeopardy, haven’t