From Berkeley with Love by Hamilton Waymire

Description:

The hunt for a blackmailer sends private investigator Benson Keirstad on a trip up the California coast. Neither attack dogs nor violent brawls in seedy dives can stop him in the pursuit of his mission. When he finally arrives in Berkeley, an unexpected and deadly showdown awaits him. Could this be Keirstad's last case? A short story.

Excerpt:

I put a call through to Patty O’Connor, an old flame from my days at St. Augustine High School. As a claims processor with the Social Security Administration, she had access to a huge computer database. Unfortunately, she’d never forgiven me for dumping her for this fun-loving biker chick I met right after graduation.

“You’ve got some nerve,” she barked as soon as I said my name. “I have work to do. If you’re going to ask a favor, forget it.”

“When have I ever asked you a favor, honey? Look—”

“I’m not your honey, and the last time you asked was in February. I’m really swamped, Ben.”

“I’m looking for a Steven Wainer, born around 1938 or ’39. Last known address is 15 Basilone Alley, Berkeley, California. That was back in 1971. I don’t have a social.”

She snorted. “You must be joking. It would be illegal for me to give out such information. And besides, with so little to go on, I probably wouldn’t find him anyway.”

“I know you can do it.” I hated myself for buttering her up like this, but I really needed the money from this job. “Please. For old times’ sake. I’d do the same for you.”

“Old times’ sake? You friggin’ dumped me for a leather-wearing slut.”

“Honey, if I could turn back time, I wouldn’t make that mistake again,” I said, trying to sound sincere. “Please.”

“What was the name again?” she grunted.

I repeated the information.

“I don’t know why I should, but I’ll give it a shot,” she said. “You owe me. Big time.”

“Sure,” I said. “And while you’re at it, could you throw in Tammy Zelter, same address, couple years younger? Next time I’m in Baltimore, I’ll take you out to dinner. Promise.”

I could picture her sardonic grin as she said, “Give me some advance warning. I’ll need to think up something to tell the hubby.”

I made some more calls—phone companies, utilities—but didn’t get anywhere. When I finally put my feet up on the desk, my right shoe came to rest on the blackmailer’s envelope. I pulled it out from under my foot, extracted the letter and contemplated the photo again. If only I could’ve been a hippie. All this free love floating around, the chicks experimenting and just wanting to love the one they were with. Ironically, the girls of my generation, daughters of hippies, had been super uptight, at least in Platteville, Wisconsin. I held the page closer to my eyes. Blood rushed to my head. Hum. Maybe finding the pictures would be its own reward.