Pretext calls using a spoof card: We investigators use them all the time. But we’re not usually on the receiving end.
Last December, I got punked by just such a call. It was well past midnight—an hour when events and conversations melt into Dali-esque landscapes of warped memory. The joke shone clearer in the edgy light of morning. But that night, I got punked. Hard. By a friend who was having a much longer, better night than I. I’m sure she meant well.
As for her identity, you’ll find some clues below.
Have you ever been punked? I’ll bet you have. If there’s any detective movie trope that rings true, it’s this one: The client is never telling you the whole story. Somebody, somewhere has probably had you on a bit, even if you weren’t aware of it.
And that doesn’t make you, or any of us, any less a detective. After all, if you trust no one, what kind of life does that leave you? Pure cynicism, 24-7, is no place to dwell.
In honor of deceptions, lies, and practical jokes, well-meaning and otherwise, I give you this story. And a very happy April Fool’s Day to all!
12:30 am
A phone rings, dull and sharp, poking holes in my dreams, reaching in to wake me.
“Hello,” I say.
“I need your help,” she says in a sweet voice.
The radio’s still on. There she goes. There she goes again… Leigh Nash’s sweet, perfect voice serenades me softly through the speaker.
“Hello?” I say.
“Are you a PI?” She says.
“Yes.” I say.
“I need your help,” she says. “Can you help me?”
“Maybe,” I say. “Can this wait ’til morning?”
“No,” she says. “My husband is cheating on me.”
The radio breathes … And I just can’t contain this feeling that remains …
“I’m not going to be able to do anything about that tonight,” I say.
“He’s with her right now,” she says. “I’ll pay you. I can pay you well. My family is … famous. We have money.”
“I … I … I’m still half asleep,” I say.
“I can pay you $500 per hour,” she says.
… She calls my name, pulls my train no-one else could heal my pain …
I’m awake. “What do you need?” I say.
“I need proof,” she says. “Can you get to the hotel in 30 minutes?”
“No,” I say. “ I can’t. I can be there in an hour.”
“He’ll be gone by then,” she says and hangs up.
I don’t even know her name.
“What the hell?” Kim says.
“Scorned woman,” I say and drift back into bliss.
Sixpence None the Richer fades … I just can’t contain this feeling that remains …
1:45 am
The phone rings, sharp, puncturing any hope of sleep.
“Hello,” I say.
“You’ve got to help me,” she says in that perfect voice. “He’s still there. I know he is. I’ll pay $1,000 per hour. But you’ve got to get proof.”
“Proof?” I say.
“Yeah, proof,” she says. “I need POP.”
“You need what?” I say.
“I need POP,” she says.
“What is POP?”
“Proof of penetration,” she says, laughing, and hangs up.
“What the hell?” Kim says.
“I just got punked,” I say.
Kim laughs and rolls over.
The radio’s still on. Leigh Nash’s sweet, perfect voice lands softly on my ear, as it has all night.
Kiss me out of the bearded barley
nightly, beside the green, green grass
swing, swing, swing the spinning step
you wear those shoes and I will wear that dress. …
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3YcNzHOBmk8