Body Copy - Michael Craven [24]
Tremaine, at his desk, Lyle at his feet, thought about the fact that this guy Tyler Wilkes, this guy who lots of people were pointing the finger at, hadn’t called him back. In his time as a P.I., Tremaine had learned a number of things to be true. One of them was that when people are contacted by a cop or a private investigator, they call back. And damn quickly, nine times out of ten. That one time out of ten that they don’t call? It’s usually because they’ve got something to hide. Occasionally, occasionally, someone is extremely busy or for whatever reason doesn’t get the message. Or, in the rarest of cases, the person is so confident that they have nothing to hide, they’re content to just wait until the investigator contacts them again. That’s very rare, though.
Like, bloody.
People when they’re contacted by a P.I. immediately think something is wrong. They think they have done something wrong. They’ve forgotten to pay some bill or that some obscure, wholly unintentional misdoing from their past is coming back to haunt them. The initial reaction to a call from a P.I., whether innocent or guilty, is a defensive one.
This must be some mistake. I’ll call that P.I. back right now.
Another frequent scenario is, a person will think he or she is being contacted to provide information on a case. As a result, a sense of self-importance is created. The person will think, of course this P.I. wants to talk to me, I’m the 75
Michael Craven
kind of sensitive, intuitive thinker who will help them crack this case.
It’s very similar to the reason reporters often don’t have trouble getting people to talk to them. People want to talk to them, they want the attention, they want to obtain that feeling of importance and know that when the case is done or the article is written, they contributed.
But seldom do they not call back. Unless something is up.
So, Tremaine put in a call to John Lopez. He had a question for him, a question about Tyler Wilkes. He knew this question was going to cost him a steak dinner, they always did, so that night they decided to have just that, a steak dinner, at Taylor’s, just west of downtown. Tremaine’s treat.
When Tremaine entered Taylor’s, John Lopez was already sitting down.
“Insane Tremaine,” Lopez said as he stood up, Tremaine now within earshot.
“You know I don’t like that nickname,” Tremaine said.
“Yeah,” Lopez said. “That’s why I use it.”
“Lopez,” Tremaine said. “It’s good to see you. Wait, no, actually it’s not.”
The two sat down, in the dark back booth that Lopez had selected. The AC was on full blast, it was damn near freezing in the place. Perfect. It had been a hot day, it felt good. There was a cold Budweiser on the table for Tremaine, another plus. Lopez had one too, his half drunk.
Tremaine and Lopez caught up, got a couple beers down, ordered.
About halfway into their steaks, they began to discuss the 76
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matter at hand, Tyler Wilkes. “I looked into Wilkes for you.
Looks like he may not be such a great guy,” Lopez said.
“Surprise, surprise,” Tremaine said. “Like I said, I got no call back from him after two messages.”
“As you know,” Lopez said, “he was never officially named a suspect in the Roger Gale case. And he was questioned pretty extensively by some of the detectives.”
“Yeah, I read that. Larry DeSouza and Bill Peterson.”
“Right. You can call them if you want. I told them about you.”
“Cool.”
“Peterson’s actually in Atlanta now,” Lopez said.
“What, he transferred?” Tremaine said.
“Yeah, I know, it’s rare for detectives to transfer.”
“Won’t he have to start at the bottom? What does he know about Atlanta?”
“Usually that’s the case. But Peterson knows the captain down there. He was able to keep his position and make more dough. I probably would have made the move, too.
Cops don’t make P.I. money.”
“That’s why I’m getting dinner,” Tremaine said.
“No, you’re getting dinner because I’m giving you priv-ileged information on Tyler Wilkes.”
“Oh, yeah,” Tremaine