Mary Reed Speakman

Mary Reed Speakman came from old money, owning half of downtown real estate and redeveloping old rundown factors. Some people said she had more tenants than three beyond-capacity supermax prisons combined.

Speakman spent her weekends island hopping in the Caribbean. She shopped exclusively at high-end shops around the world, and when she had enough, she headed off to the Isle of Anglesey for privacy. So, when she landed on the front page of a Welsh newspaper, wanted in a missing person’s case - it was a shock to many folks.

On a Fall day, Speakman found herself in the intake room of the local police department.

The Intake

There she was, arms crossed, one leg resting across the other, looking at the gray walls of the intake room. Her two-piece jogging outfit seemed like it was hugging her. Her brown eyes and high cheekbones were classic traits of her Mohawk ancestry. And her handbag with a golden latch took residence on top of the table.

Her attorney sat next to her.

The ashtray overflowed with cigarette butts; it washed the room with a permanent odor of ash and damp used athletic socks.

Occasionally, the ceiling light flickered as if it was doing a Suzie Q dance step.

The door swung open, and in walked Inspector Flint Ives. That day, Brown was his favorite color. His tie was loose around his neck. His shirt looked tattered as if it was a piece of crumpled paper, and his trousers looked as though they were one size too big. A cigarette was performing a balancing act between his lips. Finally, he arched his head and yelled out the doorway, “I’m not resetting anything!”

“Sorry for keeping you waiting. I’m Inspector Ives.” He sat down and lit a cigarette.

Speakman said, “Please, I would rather you not smoke.”

“Sorry, it’s a bad habit. I’ll smoke it quickly!”

Speakman turned to her attorney, “If it were up to me, I would have buried him in my backyard long ago! The cop’s already getting on my nerves!”

“Is that what happened to your tenant Henrik Largo?” he asked.

Speakman, still staring at her attorney, “I mean it! He’s stressing me out!”

The attorney leaned in and whispered in her ear.

“So, what can you tell me about the disappearance of Henrik Largo?” Inspector Flint Ives asked.

“He was bad for business,” she said.

The attorney rubbed his nose, leaned over, and whispered.

Speakman rested her hands in her lap. “Of course not! He paid his rent on time.”

“So, when was the last time you saw him?” he asked.

Speakman pushed up her lower lip. “I don’t know. I can’t keep track of it all. I have an awful memory of names.”

“Was it yesterday, last week, or last month?”

She looked at her lawyer. “Largo, Largo, I’m sure it was last week. It could have been at the Cricket match in Barbados: England versus the West Indies.”

Inspector Ives leaned back in his chair. “Are you sure?”

The attorney wiped his brow, leaned in again, and whispered in Speakman’s ear.

“Well, don’t take my word for it; check the Internet,” she said. “Somebody took our photo.”

As Speakman’s attorney leaned in to whisper, a Christmas carol chimed from Inspector Ives's jacket. He reached in, pulled out his phone, and stared at the screen.

She turned sideways on her chair and crossed her legs. “Well, go ahead. Answer it. It must be important.”

“It can wait,” he said.

The door opened, and an officer placed a folder on the table and left the room.

“So, tell me about last night.”

“What do you want to know?” Speakman asked.

Inspector Ives opened the folder, pulled out a black and white picture, and slid it towards Speakman. “Tell me about the man you were having dinner with last night.”

Speakman looked at the photo and slid it to her attorney. “What do you want to know?”

“The man sitting across from you is Henrik Largo.”

“My God, you can’t have a private meal in this damn city?!”

The Inspector looked at his phone. “No, not when you’re an influential woman having dinner with a known felon.”

“A felon?” she asked.

The attorney took a deep breath, leaned in, and whispered.

Speakman rested her hands on the table. “Look, I don’t do background checks on people I occasionally meet. Besides, he kept my company because his date didn’t arrive.”

“What did you two talk about?” he asked.

She leaned back into the chair. “We didn’t talk much. Then, finally, he said to reset your password. After that, he got up and left.”

“That’s all?”

The attorney stood up and buttoned his coat. “Yes, that’s all. My client does not know Mr. Largo’s whereabouts. I’m sure your team has checked surveillance cameras in the restaurant and nearby streets.”

The Inspector looked at his phone while putting out his cigarette. “I’m not done. I have more questions about this password reset.”

Speakman stood up. “I’m not losing sleep over this. But if anything should change, I will contact my legal team.”

He placed his phone in his jacket pocket. “Where are you staying tonight?”

She had a soft smile. “That’s none of your business, Inspector Ives.”

The attorney pulled out a handkerchief, wiped his forehead, and whispered. She walked passed him and opened the door.

“Good day Inspector Ives,” she said.

The Inspector smiled. “I’ll be speaking with you soon, Ms. Speakman.”

The attorney walked behind his client and said, “No, you won’t.”

The End