CHAPTER 1

            Hanging at the end of a rope off the roof of a high-rise apartment building like a worm dangling at the end of a fishhook is not my idea of fun.  The belt that the rope looped through tightened against my waist as I made my descent, slowly and steadily down the side of the building.  As many times as I have done this professionally and in practice, I still get nervous.  Although when you want to break into a penthouse apartment fifty floors off the ground with security on every floor, this is the only way.  You see I had a client who had paid me in advance, but couldn’t give me a key to the door.

            “I’m not sure how you’ll get in,” she smiled.  “But I really need this done.  He’s got the penthouse apartment on the fiftieth floor.  Prick!”

            My eyebrows rose.

            “Oh I’m sorry, “ she apologized.  “So frustrating.  I don’t even have a key to it or clearance to get past the security gate.  Bastard! But you can bet your bottom dollar She does!”

Softer, she said, “How are you going to manage it?” 

            “Let me worry about that.”

            “Oh John, your so good.”

            I’ve been waiting twenty years to hear her say that.

            The night wind was cold, cutting like a knife through the heavy clothing I wore.  The city sparkled below, lights gleaming upward towards me.  At the window, I removed the long curvy wire from the inside of my jacket, slid it underneath the windowsill, unlocking it.  

            Residents who live in high-rise apartments with security personnel usually don’t bother with an extra security keypad at their front door and motion sensors on their windows.  This one I hoped, was no exception to the rule, making my job easier.

            “The bastard usually doesn’t take the tramp back to the penthouse until after they have a night on the town, “she told me.  “I’ve been following them, but I haven’t been able to get a good look at Her.  All I know is that she is some redheaded flame and I’m going to put out both of their fires.  I need hardcore proof when I go to court.  Pre-nuptials are a bitch!”

            “They certainly are.  But just out of curiosity, have you tried talking with him?”

            She laughed.  “You don’t know Phillip Turner.  With Phil, there is no talking.  He thinks he’s King of the world, and that tramp is his Queen.  And I’m going to burn both of them!”

            With night-vision glasses, I took a quick tour of the apartment.  I wanted to make sure I was alone.  I walked quiet and slowly, looking and listening.  The penthouse as far as penthouses go, I suppose was average size.  No bodies, no pets, no nothing.  I noted the time at 8:30.  I had plenty of time.  I switched the lights on.

            “Security in this world, “ said Mrs. Ann Grammerfield, “needs to be increased.  It’s getting so bad a person can’t walk down the road feeling safe.”  A sigh escaped her lips, the sort of sigh that contemplated the safety for the citizens of the world would never be like it use to be.  I looked upward at the skyscraper building I was to scale later that evening to invade one Phillip Turner’s  “little love shack”, as my client called it.  “If I didn’t live in such a secured building, I don’t know what I would do.”

            The “secured building” as Mrs. Grammerfield called it was a fifty-story apartment building in downtown Atlanta close to the Buckhead nightlife.  You had to be rich to live there, or have accumulated enough wealth to have the prestige and wallet that went with it.  Phillip Turner had both. His family owned most of the property in Atlanta and makes a fortune every month through it’s leasing office.  The apartment building had a guarded security gate all cars and residents have to go through to gain access to their homes.  A fence surrounded the property, a black wrought-iron fence seven or eight feet high.  Directly across the street from the apartments sat Peachtree Park also secured for residents of Atlanta Peachtree Suites.  All in all, it looked like a nice neighborhood to have bad habits in.

            Dear sweet Mrs. Ann Grammerfield, who looked and acted as if she had been born about the same time Lincoln was president sat next to me on the bench had obviously obtained the status either though being born with it, marriage, or by working.  She probably wouldn’t have talked with a stranger about such things, but from the dark-navy suit I wore, the blue-striped shirt, maroon tie, and the shine on my shoes I looked like one of Us and not one of Them.

            A sleek attaché case sat next to my feet that I brought with me just as a prop contained nothing important but it made me look as if I belonged.  She talked with me as though she had known me for years, which was good. 

            I had the look as if I had compacted a ten-hour day into eight hours inside of a stuffy office, then stopped off by a local afternoon bar and had a few martinis and laughs with some friends before stopping outside the apartment building to catch a breath of fresh air and a look at the sunset.  Afterwards which I would probably go in and have a little dinner and catch the evening news.

            Not exactly Mrs. Grammerfield.

            Earlier that day, I had gotten past the complex security gate in a pastry truck.  The building held meeting rooms for business and casual events that residents could rent for a shiny nickel.  The bakery that the apartment uses for such events is owned by an associate of mine who I got out of trouble more than once during my days with the Atlanta Police Department, and when I got my private investigator’s license, we stayed in touch. 

            He called me, and asked if I still had connections with the APD.  I told him that I did, but it wasn’t a good time for me because I was working on a way of how to get past the security gate at the Atlanta Peachtree Suites.

            “No problem,” he said.  “I’m suppose to deliver a few cakes there tomorrow for a birthday party someone is throwing for their teenager daughter.”  He laughed, “Sweet sixteen and never been kissed.  Yeah right.”

            I agreed.

            “Wife got a speeding ticket the other day.  I told her to slow the damn thing down.  But she doesn’t listen.  May lose her license due to all the friggin points she’s got.  John if you can get this taken care of for me, I’d be happy to give you a ride past the gate.”

            “I’ll see what I can do.  Call you right back.”

            I called a friend of mine and got the ticket changed to a warning, which meant she wouldn’t have to go to court and she wouldn’t get any points added to her driving record.  The whole thing took 15 minutes.

            “Beautiful,” the baker said.  “The cakes are supposed to be delivered by 2:00 on Friday.”

            “Thanks Charlie.  See you then.”

            Friday afternoon came and I arrived at the bakery with the equipment I would need for that evening. 

            “Um,” Charlie laughed.  “You better put an apron on, and we’ll dust you up with some flour so you look like a baker of Charlie’s Pastries and Things.  You know our store logo, ‘You’ll never taste it so good’”.

            Outfitted with an apron dusted with flour and a chef’s hat we made it past the security check.  Of course that was because Charlie had to deliver cakes for a party.  I had something else to deliver.

            Afterward when leaving Charlie said, “Get what you needed done?”

            “Part of it.  The rest will have to be done tonight.”

            “Tonight?” he questioned.  “How will you get back in?”

            “I haven’t figure that out yet, but I’m working on it.”

            Which is how I came to have a conversation with Mrs. Ann Grammerfield.

            “Young man,” she said.  “In my day, people always wanted to help each other.   You weren’t afraid to leave your house without locking it or picking up hitchhikers if they were thumbing for a ride.  We all felt safe back then.  But nowadays you never know who you can trust in this world.  That’s really too bad, isn’t it?”

            “It certainly is Mrs. Grammerfield.  You never can be too sure.”

            She rose to her feet using her cane. 

            “I’m going home myself,” I told her, holding one arm out for her to put hers through.  “May I.”

            “You certainly may,” she smiled.  “I wish all the young people were as nice as you. The world would be better for it.”

            I escorted Mrs. Grammerfield right past the security guard.  She smiled at him, acknowledging that he knew her.  Because she was on my arm, my identity he didn’t question which I didn’t think he would.  Even if the guard had known everyone in the complex, Mrs. Grammerfield had her access card in hand and I had helped her walk.  The first thing they teach in Boy Scouts is to help little old ladies cross the street.  I never knew that early training would come in handy much later in my life.  Anyway he probably thought I was a grandson or some other distant relative.  But it worked, and I was in.

            “What floor?” I asked Mrs. Grammerfield as we boarded the elevator.

            “Thirteen, my Dear, “ she laughed.  “I live in 1313.  Some people claim that thirteen is bad luck.  Fools I say!  Silly superstitions.  Why my sweet departed husband was born on Friday the thirteenth.  He was never sick a day in his life up until the day he died.  Why do they say thirteen is a bad number?  Poppy cot is what I say.”

            As the elevator moved closer to Mrs. Grammerfield’s floor I asked, “how did he die?”

            “Well it wasn’t bad liquor or bad women, “ she laughed.  “His heart gave out on him.  Poor soul. I told him not to try skydiving at his age.  I knew he was too old. 87, can you believe it?  He had the spirit of a twenty-one year old, and the body of an old man.  But would he listen to me?  No.  And look where it got him.”

            On her floor, she held onto my arm as we walked to 1313.  “Such a nice young man.  I hope we see each other again.”

            “We will,” I assured her.  “It was nice talking with you.”

            She smiled and closed the door.  I felt relieved now that I had successfully jumped my second hurdle of the day and got back in the building.  Not that I don’t like little old ladies.  I mean who doesn’t?  If I were a little old man, I’m sure I might have chased her with my own cane.  But as it was, I had more pressing matters to attend to.

            I passed a security guard on my way back to the elevator.  I notice the small transistor radio in his coat pocket.  Seeing me, he looked like he was going to ask me something official like, “Who are you and what are you doing here?”

            I knew the Atlanta Braves had a start time at 7:00, so I beat him to the question and changed the subject.  It was October and the home team was playing for the division title.

            “Got the game on?  What’s the score?”

            He nodded yes.  “Two to one, Philadelphia.  Game is only in the fourth inning.  Far from over.”

            I agreed that it was, and thanked him for the update.  Whew!  That was a close one.  Sooner I get done what I need to do and get out of here, the better.  But I still had to get to the roof.

            My confidence was boosted, so I decided to take the elevator.  Usually I’ll take the stairs in buildings with rooms I’m going to try and get into to avoid from being seen by too many people.  In my profession, the less I’m seen, the better.  But I wasn’t about to climb thirty-eight floors, and then have to scale down the side of the building. I decided to take the easy way.

            On the roof I recovered the box that I had put there.  In it I had a pack back, 500 feet of rope, belt for climbing, a change of clothes that were all black, and a pair of black hiking boots designed for mountain climbing.  In a smaller case I had placed in the larger one there was some surveillance equipment that included two video cameras that were equipped with motion detection sensors, and a few miniature tape recorders that were voice activated.  Getting the large crate up here in the afternoon was no obstacle as one might have thought.  When Charlie and I were delivery the cakes in the afternoon, and he settled the bill with the mother of the sixteen-year-old, I took the service elevator to the roof.

            After turning the lights on in the apartment, I removed the small case from the backpack and sat it down on the floor.  I did a quick walk through to see how the rich lived.  It all looked expensive and beyond the needs of a daily life.  But I guess that’s how things are when you have money.  I wouldn’t know.  My name is John Stockyard and I’m a private investigator.  I work for a living.

            “Set everything up in the bedroom”, Jessica said.  I want everything caught on tape so that he can’t deny anything. ”

            I sat the case down and begin to survey where the best location would be to have everything set for the action that would occur probably later that evening. In the master bedroom, there were two queen size beds.  Odd.  But who knows what rich people do.  There were also chains and handcuffs attached to each headboard.  A chained bar with a pair of handcuffs hung down from the ceiling.

            It looks as if rich boy Phillip Turner is into the kinky stuff.   To each his own I guess.  Well the hard part is over now, and soon I’ll be on my way. 

            I remember having that last thought when I closed myself in the closet, hoping I wouldn’t be caught.