Chapter 3 - Always Be Prepared

513 High Water St.  "Now what?" Tannehill muttered.  In his haste to part company with Snell, Tannehill left without a few key details.  Like the name of his subject of observation.  Or any plan to observe said subject.

He decided to start with the most straightforward approach and headed toward the lobby.  The doorman looked up from his desk as Tannehill entered.

"Hello, I'm here to see the couple in Suite 802."

"The couple?" the doorman replied.

"The woman," chimed in without missing a beat.  He couldn't let the doorman know he was spitballing, but, inside he cursed himself for his lack of preparation.  An annoying day was beginning to sour even more.

"And, what's your relation?"  The doorman's flat tone let Tannehill know this wasn't going to be an easy task.

"I'm her uncle." Was she in her 20s, 30s, 40s?  Tannehill could only hope he was wandering in the right direction.

"Gee," the doorman feigned mock surprise, "she must be having a party for all of her uncles."

"Damnit!" Tannehill cursed himself inwardly but outwardly shrugged. "Sometimes you can't fight coincidence," he smiled back. 

"No, I guess somedays you can't," though the doorman's tone continued to indicate you could, "OK, Uncle...?"  

"Jack." It was certainly common enough to be plausible.

The doorman snorted and muttered "not likely," but kept up with his line of questioning.  "Ok, Uncle Jack, and you're here to see your niece....?"

"Yes." Tannehill knew where the line of questioning was headed but tried to stall it in the hopes that the doorman may suffer a stroke or rush out gawking at a spontaneously erupting citywide fire.

"No, wise guy, what's your niece's name?"

"Doris?"  There was no getting out of this one with vagueries.  If the stars aligned here, Tannehill would think seriously about a career in horse betting.

"Scram!" No horse betting career for Tannehill this time out.  He tipped his fedora in gracious defeat and walked out of the building.

Tannehill crossed the street and surveyed the building.  At 12 stories, it was one of the taller buildings in this part of downtown.  Across a narrow alley, another luxury art deco building resided, at a shorter height of seven stories.

"Seven stories," Tannehill murmured. "Lucky break."

Tannehill re-crossed the street, entered the lobby of the second building and approached the doorman there.  He flashed his PI badge hastily and exclaimed "I need access to the roof.  We're setting up a stakeout and need to ensure the area is secure."

The doorman chortled.  "If you're a cop, then I'm Dick Tracy."  So much for trying to bluff his way to the roof.  Since when had the doormen of the city become so cynical?

"What if the security fee for the stakeout included a $10 bill payable directly to you?"

"Well, then, I must be Dick Tracy."  Cynical Doorman #2 pawed the outstretched bill.  "Service elevator's on the left past my desk.  Access to the roof is immediately accessible on the left once you reach the top floor. Lock's broken, so you shouldn't have problems." Tannehill briefly reconsidered his horse betting career before realizing he was down $10 with nothing yet to show for his efforts.

Tannehill bounded into the cooling evening air and faced the first building. There was a gap of about 15 feet between this building's parapet and the windows to the units across the way.  He moved over to the corner of the building assuming that an address of 802 was more likely to be at the end of the building then buried in the center.  

"Just hope it's at one of the ends I can reach and not facing the bay."  He glanced at his watch.  6:45 PM. He still had about 30 minutes worth of daylight left before his job turned more exasperating.

He pulled out his binoculars, kneeled behind the roof's parapet to keep him sufficiently concealed from all but the most direct gazes and searched through the first open window. It revealed a spacious living room with a modest breakfast bar and kitchen directly behind it and door out into the common hallway.  To the left, another room obscured by curtains led to what he assumed was the bedroom.  

In the living room, a man in a gray suit wriggled his crossed foot up and down while seated on the sofa and faced toward the curtained room.  A minute later, a woman in modest evening dress walked from the curtained room into the living room while fumbling with a stubborn earring.  

"So, yeah, bedroom." Tannehill continued watching as the man stood up.  He walked toward the door.  As he opened it, the woman pointed a subtle finger skyward in the universal signal for "one minute" and the man's lips turned down, his foot tapping the floor.  She darted back into the bedroom, the entrance door still wide open.

801 read the plate across the way.

"Huh, maybe no horse betting today, but I've had worse luck." 

He must be staring directly through apartment 800, meaning the target of his observation was the next unit over and wouldn't require an incredibly long, conspicuous latter or the ability to hover 80 feet in the air over the bay.

Tannehill slid further along the roof to 802. As with the previous unit, the curtains to the first room he encountered revealed a similar living room and kitchen setup.  The furniture in this unit was a bit shabbier than in 800, but still out of reach of his salary.  He moved further along to the bedroom of 802 and encountered a completely different scene from the one that played out in the neighboring apartment.

Here, no curtains were present and Tannehill was able to fully absorb a scene of an attractive blonde woman in her late 20s or early 30s tangled in bedsheets astride a fat man about 20 years older.  The presence of hair around only his temples gave him the appearance of an uncle, but their activities appeared to be anything but avuncular.

Tannehill stared for a full minute appreciating the scene and snapped a few photos. He jotted a few notes down - a description of the couple, in case the photos were underdeveloped, a couple of ideas for outsmarting hardboiled doormen, and a simple drawing to help him determine what position from the Kama Sutra the couple were engaged in.  Then he headed back toward the roof access door.

He glided through the lobby on his way out signaling the doorman with a two-fingered salute, "Hope you get lucky with Tess tonight, Dick," and made his way to the nearest diner, realizing he hadn't eaten anything since breakfast.

Striding through the diner door he sat at the nearly deserted counter and ordered an egg sandwich.  "Say, how much will that be, anyway?"

"75 cents."

"Better be the world's best egg sandwich," Tannehill thought while putting the events of the last couple of hours together.  He still had no other leads in the case but could get any supporting details from Snell in the morning.  At least he had proof to present to a jealous husband (and paying customer).  If it were one of Snell's shakedowns, so much the better, he could just turn the picture over to Snell, collect his standard cut, and let his partner deal with the particulars.

"Could've been a worse day." He stared back at the diner kitchen as he consumed what was decidedly not the world's best egg sandwich.

[Author's Note: Today's chapter?  1248 words for a running total of 2723.  Don't worry, I've got another 2000 or so in my before this will start to go off the rails.  I've also started re-reading Don Quixote.  Guess which one's gonna be better?]