Free Castro Directive by Stephen Mertz

he approached the house next to Simms's place, he took out his notepad, rang the bell. When the door opened, a man in his early thirties, wearing suspenders and a tie, greeted him with a questioning look. "Can I help you?"
    "Evening. My name's Tracy Holmes. I'm a private investigator. I'm just doing a routine insurance company check on your neighbor, Elise Simms. Can I ask you a couple of questions?"
    "You got a card?" Suspenders asked warily.
    Pierce patted his shirt pocket. "Just gave out my last one. Sorry."
    He hadn't used his real name because he didn't want Suspenders warning Simms if he didn't manage to talk to her this evening. He always used Tracy Holmes, because it sounded vaguely familiar, like someone you'd heard of. No one, to his knowledge, had ever realized it was a combination of Dick Tracy and Sherlock Holmes.
    "Look, I don't know her very well. We've only lived here a few months. I've said hello once or twice. That's about it."
    "She have any friends in the neighborhood?"
    Suspenders frowned at him, obviously interested in ending the conversation. "You might ask across the street. The old lady keeps tabs on everyone."
    Over the, years, he'd developed his own interviewing technique, and usually knew just what balance of authority and friendliness to use to get a person talking. With suspicious types, like Suspenders, he looked for leads while assuring them he'd be on his way any moment now. He noticed the man's smug smile when he mentioned the neighbor lady. Either the woman was going to beat him with a broom, or she'd talk nonstop about everyone on the block. He was hoping for the latter.
    He thanked the man, started to turn away, then stopped. "Has Ms. Simms caused you any problems?"
    "Like I said, I don't know her well. She's a good neighbor as far as I'm concerned. She's quiet. Real quiet. Like a mouse."
    "Seen any visitors over there?" he asked, making one last effort.
    "Can't say I've noticed any. But I don't have a good view with all her trees and shrubs, and I really haven't paid much attention. Now if you'll excuse me, my dinner's getting cold."
    Pierce walked across the street. Suspenders had been a disappointment, but there were plenty of neighbors, even if he struck out with the old lady. Unlike most of the others on the block, the house the man had pointed out wasn't encased in tropical shrubbery. The front windows offered a clear view of the street, and he could detect a shadowy figure watching him as he stepped along the walk. He glanced over his shoulder as he approached the door; he could see Simms's driveway and part of the house.
    As soon as he knocked, an outside light came on. He read the name on the mailbox just as the door opened. He wouldn't have been surprised to see a woman in a loose shift and gray hair tied in a bun, wearing pointy-rimmed glasses—the prototype neighborhood gossip. Instead, he was looking at a spindly woman whose shoulder-length silver hair was streaked with pink. She was dressed in a gaudy outfit with black tights, tennis shoes, vibrant green mini- skirt, and paint-splattered baggy white blouse. She might've been dressed by a granddaughter on bad drugs. Her lips were smeared red; she was a nightmare.
    "If you're selling something, I've already got one. Or I don't want it."
    Pierce smiled, shook his head. "I'm not selling anything, Mrs. Johnson." He told her who he was and what he was interested in talking about. He caught a glint of interest in her eyes. She nodded.
    "Well, you look like a nice young man. If we're going to talk, let's not do it on the front step. Please come inside, and you can call me Fanny."
    She led the way into a living room that was furnished like a boudoir. She stopped in front of a plush pink couch. "Sit down. You're lucky you caught me. I was just about to leave for the movies. Can I get you a drink?"
    "No, I'm fine." He felt a little uneasy as she sat down next to him on the couch.
    "Now who'd you say you were with, Mr. Tracy?" She