Inside Job

Inside Job

Freddy Nunez

The city was scorching hot under the summer sun, the streets were filled with people like

always, nothing stops New York City. I was in my office in the Bronx when Ms. Jenny Strand

came in looking every bit the bombshell.

“My husband has been killed,” she said solemnly. “He was a real estate...”, “I know,” I

cut her off before she could finish. Langdon Strand owned half the city and played hard and dirty

in the real estate game. Plenty of people would want to see him bumped off, “but why come to

me?”

“You're good.”

I took the case. I made my way to Manhattan on the subway; the car is in the shop beside,

I think, better on the 6. Langdon was killed in his bedroom. He was found the next morning by the housekeeper.

I look through the room and notice nothing is out of place, nothing is missing, which disproves a

robbery attempt. No forced entry, no wife as a witness. It’s a simple matter to find where she

was; she was stepping out on him, everyone knew it, so she must have known I would too and

put matters together. Perhaps a jealous lover? That was easy to find.

I interviewed Martin Lawrence, the lawyer for the couple. He tells me he broke it off

months ago, said he couldn’t keep hurting his friend and client. He mentions the fact that they

have a kid, and he shuffles in his seat. He is nervous but not guilty.

Next, I went further uptown to the office of William Marsters' rival, Strand, and a guy

with a lot of motive. He made headlines a few weeks ago when he went public with an affair

with the lovely Ms. Strand. A bold move, I must say. The guy said he was not only the top real

estate developer in town but also had a secret that would destroy Mr. Strand. If anyone stood out

as the primary suspect, it was him. He was calm, collected, not a worry in the world.

He shifted forward in his seat. “I didn’t kill anyone, Mr. Hand.” His confidence is

palpable.

I ask a simple question, “Where were you?” he gives a complicated answer, “I was with

the mother of my child.”

The secret isn’t hard to figure out from here. Mrs. Strand has one child, who is not Mr.

Strand’s. The smell on 125th Street makes me regret my mode of travel. The sights make me

wonder if perhaps being 5’9 is stopping me from making a decent man of myself. I arrive at the

Strand residence with a few questions I need answers to. Mrs. Strand was on the front porch as I

hit the first step.

“Mr. Hand,” She says coldly. “Mrs. Strand, may I come inside?”

I make my way through the house, the lavish surroundings distract from the crippling

flaws inherent in everyone living and now not living here. I walk into the bedroom, and the

crime scene is still taped off, and evidence markers are still up. I walk around with Mrs. Strand,

dutifully walking behind me. I turn to her.

“Why did you hire me?” I say quizzically.

“As I said, Mr. Hand, you are good,” She replies matter-of-factly.

I sit in the chair facing where Mr. Strand was shot. I look at the angle and notice a bullet

hole in the wall. A low-angle shot.

“That's the thing, if you knew I was good, you would imagine I would find out who did

it.”

“I did not kill my husband,” She shoots me a look.

“I know, you were not here when it happened.”

“But you know who did it, and you want me to catch them.”

She moves stiffly across the room away from the door when I notice the boy hiding

behind her. He can’t be more than 9 years old, but he looks strong for his age.

“You know who did this. You know, and you can’t bring yourself to take them in.” I stand

and move towards the door.

“Come here, young man,” I motion to the boy.

He steps into the room shyly, and I lean down to meet him at his level. A low angle.

“Why did you do it? Did someone put you up to it? It's okay, I just want to know.”

“He wasn’t my dad, I don’t know why I was just so angry that he wasn’t my real dad.” That night, the police took the kid in; hopefully, he will get the help he needs. I told Mrs.

Strand that I didn’t need to get paid for this, but she insisted; she was just thankful she wasn’t the

one to turn in her son. Flaws all over the place in that house.

End.