MYSTERY AT THE DETECTIVE’S OFFICE

Written by Moe Zilla, Published on 2/20/2009

“You’re the worst detective ever,” said my brother.

“What does that make you?” I shot back. “You’re WORKING for the worst detective ever.”

My brother Larry didn’t say anything. He just glared at the phone, which sat silently on his messy desk. It hadn’t rung in more than two days. And that had been a wrong number.

We’d been working together for three years, and we were starting to drive each other crazy. Larry came in to work with me, and we left together at the end of the day. And since we hadn’t had a customer all week, we’d spent a full eight hours every day cooped up together in our tiny office—and then all night watching detective reruns in the apartment we shared.

Three years ago, the two of us had become famous after finding a stolen painting. It disappeared from a banker’s Halloween party, and the reporters had a lot of fun writing about the “haunted mansion.” When we’d figured out the painting’s whereabouts, they’d naturally written more stories, this time celebrating Larry and me as brilliant detectives. But the banker was one of our neighbors, and our “brilliant” detecting had just been to notice him smuggling the painting to an art collector as soon as the police stopped watching him.

It was my brother Larry who’d gotten the bright idea of cashing in on our success by forming a detective agency. (“HERO DETECTIVES LAUNCH INVESTIGATION OFFICE” blared one headline in the local newspaper.) We’d framed the article and hung it on our wall the day we opened.

It was still hanging there—over the phone that hadn’t rung in two days.

And then we heard footsteps coming down the hallway ...

Larry looked at me, and the few hairs left on his head were sticking up with alarm. No one ever walked down our hallway—and least of all, customers. Was it a criminal who we’d locked away, finally coming back for revenge? Larry nodded towards the door, signaling that he wanted me to answer it. And then he tiptoed toward the corner and hid in the closet.

I was worried, too. The glass on our door was frosted, but I could see the outline of an enormous body —and then a giant fist pounded abruptly on the wood. I’d had enough of this detective business, and flung open the door.

The mysterious guest had a bucket and a mop. It was our janitor, Joe. I sighed with relief, and Joe smiled back. “Did I scare you?” he asked. “I was trying to scare you.”

“Detectives don’t scare easily,” I said. And then Larry opened the door of the closet and reentered the room.

Joe stifled a smile, and Larry said defensively, “I was looking for clues.”

Joe laughed, and said, “Are you sure you weren't looking for coats?”

Larry grumbled that next he’d try to locate his missing dignity. “How about finding this month’s rent?” Joe suggested. I started to explain we were working on a big case. “Yeah, the case of the missing rent,” Joe persisted. I could see Larry getting annoyed.

But then Joe said, “No, I’m serious. I can’t find this month’s rent checks. Everybody stuffs them into that rent box on the wall by the manager’s door. The box was fine when I left last night. But when I came in this morning—the box was open, and empty. I think someone picked the lock and stole all the rent checks.”

“Ours was in there already,” Larry lied. “If it’s missing, that’s not our fault.”

“Would you shut up and listen to me?” Joe snapped. “Mr. Jorgensen always pays his rent in cash—so there was one thousand dollars in that box! If I don’t find it, he’s going to think I stole it.”

“Why would he think you stole it?”

Joe reached into his gray overalls and pulled out an enormous set of jangling keys. “Janitors have keys to the whole building,” he said sadly, “including the rent box. And now that it’s missing—I’m the likeliest suspect.”

It was quiet for a second, until Larry finally blurted out, “Are you hiring us?”

“Tell you what,” Joe said wearily. “From the way you’re acting I’m guessing you guys still haven’t paid your rent yet. Am I right?” Larry and I both nodded. “Find that money before the manager gets here, and I won’t tell him that you guys were late again this month.”

It was the best offer we’d gotten all week.

“But how do we know you didn’t steal it?” Larry teased.

“You don’t,” Joe said. “I’d like a thousand bucks as much as anybody.” He slid his bucket into the hallway, and headed for the elevator.

* * *

Larry and I ordered sandwiches—we always thought better after a good meal. We were happy and cheerful when they finally arrived, and as we munched away, Larry tossed out some theories. “Maybe Mr. Jorgensen is late on his rent too,” he said, wiping some mustard off his lips. “So Jorgensen breaks into the box, and then claims he’s paid his rent already."

“Like what you tried to do.”

“Exactly.”

“Maybe you stole the money,” I said. I took a bite of my roast beef sandwich, then offered yet another theory. “Or maybe the building manager stole the money. He’s going to keep the thousand dollars, and then blame the theft on Joe.”

“Or maybe Joe stole the money,” Larry said, “and he’s going to blame it on the building manager.”

My head was starting to hurt. Just then, there was another knock on our door. Larry grumbled about his lunch was being interrupted as he carried his sandwich with him to his closet hiding place.

“Who is it?” I asked, swallowing the last of my roast beef.

“It’s Mr. Jorgensen,” said an elderly voice.

From the closet, Larry called in a high-pitched voice, “Mr. Jorgensen who?”

“Mr. Jorgensen-wants to-wring-your-neck. Now open the door, you jackass.”

I looked over at Larry, and asked, “Why are you giving him a hard time?”

Larry looked sheepish. “I owe him money, too.”

Mr. Jorgensen looked very angry when we finally opened the door. “Hello, boys,” he said. We weren’t boys, but Mr. Jorgensen was nearly sixty years old—so to him, everyone looked younger. His sweater was probably older than we were, and even it looked angry. It was red with a crooked, darker red stripe that made it look like the sweater was scowling at us.

“Would you like a sandwich?” asked Larry.

Mr. Jorgensen shook his head. “My stomach can’t handle anything stronger than soup,” he complained. “You know what it's like to eat nothing but soup?” In response, Larry just took a big bite of his sandwich. This irritated Mr. Jorgensen, and he glared straight at Larry. “So, any chance you’ll be paying me back that five hundred dollars you borrowed from me?”

“It’s funny that you mention that,” Larry said, his mouth still full. “Just yesterday I came by your office to pay you. But you were busy with a client, so I decided not to interrupt you.”

“You’re lying,” said Mr. Jorgensen. “See this?” He gestured towards his neck. Larry and I both stared at his ugly sweater. Poking over the neckline was about two inches of what was probably a red silk Hawaiian shirt. Mr. Jorgensen also had a dark suntan, a result of his recent trip to Hawaii, and he explained, “I just got back from the airport—and I’m on my way up to the office now—I definitely wasn’t here yesterday.”

“Did I say yesterday?” Larry asked. “Oh, uh … I meant … last Christmas.”

Mr. Jorgensen mumbled something under his breath—though I definitely heard the word “stupid”—and shuffled out of our office. “You’re making friends with everybody,” I said.

And once again, we heard footsteps coming down the hall. Returning to the closet, Larry shoved the last of his sandwich into his mouth.

This time the closet was a good idea, because the man at our doorway was the building manager—and he was so mad that his face was red. By the time our door swung open, he was already shouting. “Give me one reason why I shouldn’t throw you two out of here!”

Larry stayed in the closet. I sighed and said, “Because we’re trying to help Joe find your missing rent money?” That slowed him down. He was probably just as mad about the missing rent as he was at us for missing rent. He thought for a second.

“I think it was someone in the building who stole the rent,” he said. “Someone busted open the back door and went straight to the rent box by my office. So it had to be someone who knew exactly where to look. Someone like you.”

“But it could’ve been anyone,” I said. “Why are you blaming us?”

“Because you’re the only guys who haven’t paid your rent this month,” he said. “And besides—I don’t like you. Your brother is a big wise guy. Where is he, anyways?”

“Oh, he’s around here someplace,” I said, trying not to stare at the closet. Our building manager stomped out of the office.

It was quiet for nearly a minute, until I heard Larry’s voice whispering, “Is he gone?”

I turned to the closet, then said, “Look at us. We’ve got no money, and everybody hates us. Maybe we should quit the detective business altogether.”

Opening the door to the closet, Larry laughed. “Not today. I had lots of time to think in there—and I’ve figured out who stole the rent money!”