Spotless


I was ahead of her and came to the door of the apartment and waited. Mrs. Fuentes hurried and caught up with me. She’d been looking to her right and left, catching glimpses of the thin blue line of the ocean on one side and the jam-packed touristy hotels and restaurants, in between each wide unit. I had the door unlocked and let her in. I was confident. As always, I’d checked and double checked everything. Being sure of things gives you a lot of confidence. I liked that feeling. She drew her breath as I was shutting the door behind me. She turned to look at me and I followed her gaze back to the quarter-circle wall of the apartment that was made of glass entirely, the bottom half dark blue and glinting in the afternoon sun and the top half, light blue and populated by puffy white clouds that sailed from right to left. It was quite a view.

“How much would this apartment have cost, do you know?”

“Half a million dollars.”

I knew, because I’d checked up on it. It was a decent price but this was in the late eighties I’m talking about.

“Wow,” She said as she walked forward and took the couple of steps down to the living area. She was observing the furniture – modern and stylish sofa and chairs, with light brown legs and white tops that looked like wool. A low coffee table in between had the same brown. Mrs. Fuentes ran her hand on the back of the chair, her expression showing her surprise at how soft it felt. She stood there, in the sunlit center of the living area, surrounded by the furniture, gazing at the view. I let her take it in, not wanting to hurry her, as I’d done the same the first time I came into this apartment.

I glanced at the Favre Leuba on my wrist. We had time. I needed a cigarette but resisted the urge.  She was tense, I could tell from the way she stood, arching her back and clasping and unclasping her free hand. The other still held her handbag. She turned around and saw me watching her.

“How much time do we have?”

“Easily a couple of hours. But I suggest we leave by 4.”

She looked around the living room and noticed, against the wall of the door we’d just come in, a clock face that had small wooden arms radiating out at varying lengths, as if it was a tiny sun. 

“Ok. Show me around.”

I waved my hand like a real estate agent. Or a magician. “You’ve seen the living room. Come this way.”

She came reluctantly, and I could understand why. It was just too nice a living room to leave. We walked down a narrow corridor to the right of the entrance, heading towards the bedrooms. She was following me but stopped every few steps to observe things carefully. She was looking at the few paintings and decorative items placed in lit recesses in the wall. I turned at the end of the corridor and walked into the master bedroom, hearing the clicking of her heels behind me. She came in tentatively, careful not to touch or disturb anything, appearing exactly like a potential buyer viewing property. I knew she wasn’t, so I didn’t bother with introductions and let her take a look for herself. That had been the agreement.

We’d arrived at the posh master bedroom. Queen sized bed with white linens faced another glass wall. This one had a see-through curtain draped across and the dark blue of the Pacific Ocean was visible through it. In large ceramic pots placed on the floor on either side of the bed, verdant palm leaves of the darkest hue hung lazily. Mrs. Fuentes walked across the room, taking in everything carefully and stopped before the large, dark brown doors of the wardrobe.

She looked at me. I nodded for her to carry on. She tried the handle and it slid smoothly to one side. Men’s clothes were neatly hung from the racks, with rows of polished shoes and loafers beneath. There were compartments for socks and ties, all of which were neatly rolled up and put away. Mrs. Fuentes stood looking at the wardrobe for several moments. When she turned to me again, there was a shadow of concern in her eyes that wasn’t there before.

“Bathroom?” she asked.

I pointed her in the direction and followed. The bathroom was brightly lit, with tiles of deep purple and white. I wouldn’t have chosen that color scheme myself but it worked nicely. She opened the cabinet behind the bathroom mirror, which had lights around its square edges, like those in makeup rooms of actors. The cabinet contained toothpaste, toothbrushes, razors, mouthwash, floss, small containers of over-the-counter medication. I noticed, as I watched Mrs. Fuentes carefully run her eyes on the items in the cabinet, that everything inside was immaculately arranged. Every bottle was facing forward with its label. Toothpastes were all standing in their holders with bristles forward. Was that what she was looking at? 

She shut the cabinet.

“Kitchen?”

The kitchen was modest after the spectacular living room and classy bedroom. Mrs. Fuentes stood on tiptoe, opening up the overhead cabinets and taking a look at their contents. Cups and saucers, ordinary glasses and wine glasses. Cutlery. The printed table runner on the small white dining table with two high chairs. Items in the fridge. She looked at everything methodically and as she went on, the concern I’d seen earlier grew in her countenance. She was uneasy about something. When she was done with the kitchen, she asked,

“We still have time, don’t we? Any photographs?”

I shook my head. I’d been inside and had searched the place very carefully. There were paintings and books but nothing personal. She walked out of the kitchen. We’d circled back to the living room, still warmly inviting in the sun. She took a chair facing the sea. I couldn’t blame her. It was the very best spot in a living room full of best spots. 

“How do we know it’s his place?”

“I know. I’ve followed him here several times from his place of work.”

“My husband?”

“Your ex-husband, yes. Mr. Fuentes.”

“He’s living alone?”

“Yes. So far, I’ve not seen him bring any friend over. And as you saw, there’s only his clothes in the cupboards.”

“Yes, you’re right. There is no woman living here. No perfume, hairbrush. I didn’t see any female clothes either.”

But she didn’t seem satisfied with her own statement. She sat silently looking out to sea. I remained standing, and turned to get a sea view myself. Then, being mindful, I looked at my wristwatch and double checked the sun-like wall clock. We were still good on time.

“I don’t think it’s him.”

“Mrs. Fuentes. You gave me your husband’s photo and contact information. I managed to trace him to this place and have been updating you for the last few weeks. As I have reported – he teaches in town, comes back here every evening. He lives here.”

She nodded, accepting my statement while appearing unconvinced, looking down at the floor, as if she’d only noticed that the deep carpet was also white and cloudy.

‘Yes. Your description of him seems right. He doesn’t look the same in the photos you sent although, as you said, it’s possible he’s deliberately changed his appearance. But after seeing this apartment, I have serious doubts if he lives here.”

“Why? Because he keeps no photos of himself? Remember that he left your home state to avoid paying alimony. What he wants is to maintain his low profile. He’s still doing that.”

She looked at me sideways. With the sun fully on her face, her flowing hair catching the light, in her sleeveless top and bellbottomed jeans and heels, she looked quite attractive. I must have hesitated a moment, because she said,

“I wish I could have a cigarette.”

“Not here. We can have one downstairs. Did he smoke?”

“Joe? He did not.”

I decided to sit down.

“Why do you doubt that he’s living here? Is the place too fancy by his tastes?”

She sat back, drawing her breath and casually glancing around, just to reconfirm.

“Yeah, I’d say this is too classy for him, but I also didn’t think he had money stashed away to afford a place like this. No. But it’s not the luxury which makes me doubt he’s the man living here.”

She sat up and leaned forward. The sun made her look like the central figure in a painting.

“What strikes me is how everything here, every single object, is so neatly arranged. I’d say perfectly kept.”

I think I understood what she was saying but didn’t reply immediately. I was still watching her.

“Joe was not a tidy man. Not at all. He’d put cups away without aligning their handles. He’d run out of toothpaste and use a pair of scissors to cut open the tube so he could extract the last vestiges of paste to brush his teeth. As for his clothes, there would be no order to their arrangement in the cupboard. You saw the wardrobe in there. Lightest coloured shirts on the left, darkest on the right. Every single pair of socks was neatly rolled up and stored in its place. Did you see the table runner in the kitchen? Perfectly aligned.”

She shook her head at the end, having made up her mind.

“It’s not him.”

“Maybe he’s got himself a maid. Maybe Joe decided to become tidier since he got this nice place for himself.”

“No, I don’t think so. I’ve known him for well over fifteen years. Are you saying for fifteen years, he pretended to be untidy and not care about how things in the house were kept? Pretended to be untidy for that long? That’s not possible. This place is spotless. I don’t think that man I was married to is capable of this.”

I remained silent. I’ve had clients show up and think that I’d got the wrong person before. I had always been proven right because a lot of work goes into confirming that my suspects was the right one. A lot of professional work. I never bring a client to where her missing husband is until I’d made absolutely certain we got our man. I could think of only one way to resolve this. The confident part of me felt I had a point to prove.

“He’ll be here in a few minutes. We can wait and make sure it’s him.”

She looked at the wall clock – the sun face – and got up. I settled in more comfortably. She walked a couple of steps and stopped when she realized I wasn’t getting up. I smiled at her.

“Wouldn’t it be better for us to wait downstairs and see him as he enters the building?” she said, adding, “and I can have that cigarette you promised me.”

“The car park is too far away from the entrance to this block. You won’t be sure it’s him.”

“ll know my ex-husband when I see him, even across a car park.”

“You won’t Mrs. Fuentes. I told you. He’s changed a lot of things about himself. His appearance. The type of clothes he wears. At least externally, you’d never really be sure it’s him.”

“Looks like I can’t be sure it’s him from here either. Even after walking through his apartment.”

It sounded to me that she said it to mean that I’d probably got the wrong man, the wrong runaway husband.  

“We can wait here. The weather is nice and you won’t get a better view than from this spot.”

“It’s breaking and entering. Even if it’s his apartment.”

She took a couple more steps and reached the door. She was anxious to get out. Perfectly normal for a law-abiding citizen. Even if the citizen was a woman who has been tracking down a husband who has been avoiding his alimony payments for several years while owning an exclusive piece of property on the Californian coast that she could rightfully confront him about. She can take him to court and get whatever amount she wants from him. Backdated. This apartment would make up the mind of any judge back in the State of Florida. But the thing is, she didn’t believe I had the right man.  

“Mrs. Fuentes, listen to me. If it’s not your husband and I made a mistake, I’ll take full responsibility. I’ll explain to the man who comes in. If he decides to take any action, I’ll face the law. However, if it’s your husband – and I’m telling you that I’m dead sure it is – imagine the value of the shock you’ll be delivering him after all he’s gotten away with.”

She listened to my words. I believe she actually was thinking of all that he’d gotten away with during their marriage. The main events. Something changed. She relaxed. She came back down the steps and lowered herself onto a seat, with the ocean behind her.  She sat facing the door.

“How long do we have to wait?”

“He’ll be back in less than half an hour. I know his routine. Been watching him long enough.”

“Are you armed?”

“Why?”

“Would he get violent?”

“He’s your ex-husband. Would he get violent, you tell me?”

“I mean if he’s not my husband. What if you got it wrong and a stranger comes in and we’re in his apartment? He could call the police. And press charges.”

I patted my waist which was covered by the edge of my sport jacket. “Don’t worry about it.”

I turned slightly towards the door so I was able to see both Mrs. Fuentes and the entrance to the apartment from where I sat. A few moments of silence ensued during which I thought about this case. What were the things I’d checked to confirm that this was her ex-husband, Joe Fuentes? I’d started with his most recent photos and his resume. I knew his education and the kinds of jobs he’d held before. I’d sent out feelers to people I knew around Tampa, where they were from. I got in touch with friends in law-enforcement in nearby districts and states. There were a few leads now and then but it took nearly six months after I’d been hired to get several credible leads in California. There’d been calls and eventually, a few tentative visits. Several dead ends. Actually, most of it went nowhere. But that’s the nature of the job. Many names got crossed off the list. Plenty of wrong ex-husbands out there. What was it in this case? At least a dozen leads that went nowhere. Or turned out to be the wrong guy. Husbands changing their appearance and keeping low profiles to avoid court orders from their home states wasn’t a new thing for me, so I just kept sifting through the leads. Six months. Then came this lead in California. There was a bite. Another Fuentes lead in California led to a college. I found the place, made a few reconnaissance visits and followed him. Back to this apartment. The man used a different name of course but several key things fit which told me the college lecturer was worth following up on. Appearance in the current location matched his disappearance in Tampa. His profession was a another clue. A teaching profession but at a college instead of a university. His height and general build matched. He was a southpaw. Kept a low profile and didn’t socialize with the staff. If you changed the colour of his hair, removed his goatee and glasses, that would be Joe Fuentes, formerly a professor at a university in Tampa Florida, who’d fled the state after being ordered by court to pay a sizable alimony to his wife of fifteen years. Here he was holed up in a fantastic beach apartment which she’d never known about. 

But coming back to Mrs. Fuentes. What had her concerned was the apartment being spotless down to the alignment of the contents in the bathroom cabinet. I’d not noticed that. How could I have known to look for that? 

I lifted a finger to my lips when I heard footsteps outside. Mrs. Fuentes stiffened again. Her eyes darted between the door and me. She was trusting me on this, that was the message I got from her eyes. There was a jangling of keys. A click and a double click, release of the locking mechanism and the door opened.  A man walked in, shut the door and turned, deposited his jacket on a clothes hanger and took a first step down to the living room, all done habitually without looking around. When he stepped on the carpet, he looked up and stopped dead. He saw us.

He was tall and a straight-backed man in his fifties, in a long-sleeved shirt and tie. He wore thick horn-rimmed glasses. His flowing hair was slicked back. A goatee gave him an academic air, as did the leather satchel that was still hanging off one shoulder. This was the man I’d been tracking for weeks and watched as he came and went from this same apartment. Mrs. Fuentes’s ex-husband.  

“Who are you people?” he asked, looking at both of us. I turned to Mrs. Fuentes, waiting for her confirmation. She was looking at the man with trepidation. Her nostrils flared, eyes grew wider and unexpectedly, rolled up. She fainted. I was stunned. Turning to the man who’d just come in, I asked,  “Joe Fuentes?” feeling unsure of myself for the first time.

 

 

photo from Unsplash.com by  Grant Lemons

 

 

246 thoughts on “Spotless”

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