Third Degree (A Murder 101 Mystery)

release you to your precious work,” Max said, her gaze focused on the events playing out on the street next to the van. Jerry turned up the sound and I listened as one of the Hooters waitresses, a tall, athletically built African-American woman in a blond wig, approached the man and asked him where he was going.
    “Not Hooters,” he replied.
    That was enough to send the Hooters waitresses into a tizzy. They accused him of cheating on his wife, threw out some details about his mistress and her location, and detailed his most recent assignation in graphic detail. I put my hands over my ears when they got to the most salacious parts. I watched as the man’s face went pale under his spray tan.
    The “cheater,” as Max referred to him, got a little mouthy with one of the Hooters waitresses and the one with the blond wig took umbrage. It wasn’t long before she had the man pinned to the ground and was whispering something in his ear that none of us could hear. I looked at Max. “Are they supposed to do that?”
    “Do what?”
    “Manhandle the cheaters?”
    Max looked at me, solemn. “They are to do whatever it takes to make these men realize that what they’re doing is immoral and wrong.”
    “And get ratings?”
    She gave me a look that told me she didn’t appreciate my take on the situation. “Get a tight shot on Queen,” she said to Jerry.
    I assumed that Queen was the waitress in the blond wig. The name rang a bell but I couldn’t come up with why. She pulled the man to his feet by his collar, sending him on his way down the street. That was one strong Hooters waitress.
    “And cut!” Max called to no one in particular. She clapped her hands together, apparently in a good mood now that they had gotten what they had set out to shoot. It was a reality show and I was naïve enough to think that there were no scenes to be shot and that we had just happened upon this sordid scene. I now knew that I was wrong on that count. Although the target didn’t know that they were going to confront him, Max’s team had done “recon,” as she called it, knowing his every move so that the waitresses could be in position when the moment was right. They knew he’d be leaving his apartment at exactly that time that evening, and hence they’d been able to pull off this entire, elaborate setup. It wasn’t exactly staged, and it wasn’t exactly scripted, but close enough. Max told Jerry to let the girls know that they were done for the evening; the girls were wearing earpieces and Jerry communicated this information to them. They took off in different directions down the street, disappearing without a word as if nothing had transpired in front of the building.
    Max asked me if I’d like to get a bite to eat, but having been cooped up in a van with Jerry and having witnessed a rather lurid situation unfold, I told her the truth: I had no appetite. Plus, I had already eaten. Even though that usually didn’t stop me from eating again. She seemed to have forgotten that she had been mad at me and that was a good thing. A mad Max is a scary thing indeed, but like everything else in her life, her mood changes so swiftly that if you just wait it out, she’ll come back around. I got out of the van and took in a deep breath of New York City air, which smelled mountaintop fresh after my having breathed in eau de Jerry for the past two hours.
    I went home to my dull, boring, beige house, so glad to see it after spending a few hours in Max’s world. The dog walker had conveniently left the mail on my kitchen counter, and Trixie, although excited to see me, had just been walked, according to the note on top of the mail. I spent a few minutes giving Trixie the love and attention she so richly deserved. I looked through the mail quickly, tossing the phone, cable, and electric bills to the side to deal with later and ending up holding a letter that was addressed to me in beautiful handwriting but which had no return address or mark of a business stamped anywhere on the crisp white of the envelope. I tore it open and read the pamphlet inside:
     
It may seem like you deserve what has befallen you, but you don’t.
Seek help before IT IS TOO LATE!
We can help you get out, and more important, GET UP again.
    This day was shaping up to be a doozy.
    The cryptic message was followed by a 1-800 number and a note written in very elegant and left-leaning script: “we can help you” was the repeated message. I wondered if I had