It was a hot morning as I perused my files for Themestream material, and I had more metaphors than Jed Clampett . . .
It was just another day. Yesterday had been much the same. Tomorrow would be a repeat.
I'd seen a lot in this job. Sometimes I saw too much. It kept me up nights. Like a Stephen King replay in my brain. Like potent Colombian with an edge. Like a Pepperidge Farm cookie lodged under my bedsheet on a hot night. Oozing chocolate. You get the picture.
I was on a perplexing missing persons case. But they all were.
Mona X had shown up at my dark cluttered office that morning with a man on her mind and cash in her purse. She was beside herself.
"AaCHOO! AaCHOO!" She said.
Her dialect was obscure. I needed clues.
"ExCUSE me??" I asked.
"Christ, it's dusty in here!"
"Sorry. I keep meaning to hire someone for that. Just move that stuff and take a seat. Tell me your problem."
"Sheila, my new boyfriend, Parker, has disappeared. One minute we were having dinner and discussing commitment, and the next he was gone!" Mona informed me, voice quavering.
"Well, this does sound suspicious. Tell me, when did you actually realize that Parker had gone missing?"
"It was this morning. I found his apartment completely empty. His phone was disconnected. What could have happened?!"
"Sounds like an abduction. I'll get right on the case."
"Thank you!" Mona exclaimed right before she left. "AaCHOO!...AaCHOO!"
I developed leads.They were treatable. I got cracking. Moisturiser did the trick. I pounded the pavement. Local officials asked me to stop. That morning's Colombian made my body and brain sing. The java was boss, too.
My hunch had proven to be correct. It WAS another day. Yesterday HAD been the same. Today WAS a repeat. Now I would apply my amazing powers of deductive reasoning and intuition to the case at hand.
Just the facts, ma'am. Maybe this was no abduction.
To find, one must get inside the subject's mind. Parker was a young man. Easily excitable. Flighty. Got itchy feet. Decided to fly the coop. Went looking for greener pastures. Fancier addresses. Fancier women. Like some character in a story fleeing stale cliches, he beat feet.
The puzzle was coming together. I was onto something, and it wasn't Velcro. Nor Colombian.
(To Be Continued...)
Copyright 2001 By A. F. Waddell. All Rights Reserved.
Submitted By: A F Waddell
Feb 6, 2001 07:21