Chapter 6

At 9 Monday morning I was indeed in my office, checking my e-mail. It was actually a few minutes before 9 when Marla buzzed me, and then at my request brought Vern in. I swiveled and shook Vern's hand across the desk, and we both sat down – I sat back down, actually, since I'd stood to shake his hand.

I hadn't put a lot of conscious thought into the matter over the weekend, but of course my mind had been working on the question while I was paying attention to everything else. And I got right to it. "What I'll need to do, Vern, is get a bunch of information from you, but I'll take the case."

"I thought you might, so I brought all the reports I've gotten so far. Probably everything you need is in there, and if not you can ask after you read the reports." He lifted a manila folder he'd put on the desk, and which I'd wondered about without consciously noticing it. As a cop I'd learned to notice everything, and to only pay deliberate attention to what might be a threat – and if a manila folder with an inch or so of paper in it could be a threat, then it was time for me to get out of the detecting business.

I reached for the folder, and he handed it over. "It'll take me a while to look through all this," I said, "so let's get the formalities out of the way. Here's a copy of the contract I'll want you to sign – look it over and see if it'll work."

He did, and looked up again. "It's not much different from the others."

"I suppose not." I grinned at him. "If you want, you can go out and have Marla fill in the blanks for you, and sign it, while I start on this stuff." I put my hand on the folder. "Tell her I don't need a retainer on this one."

"All right, and thank you." He stood up, the contract in his hand. "I really appreciate it."

"Not a problem." We shook hands, and he went out to do his thing. It might well prove to be the very first time someone besides me sat in the chair Marla keeps beside her desk – usually I handle the contract myself, but usually I don't have an inch of paperwork to deal with right from the beginning.

Just to start with, I flipped the folder over and opened it from the back, so I could get at the last report. I scanned it, my eyes picking out crucial bits of information – names the woman had worked under, sightings both confirmed and not, quotations from police reports. I was just trying to skim through and see if anything jumped out at me, but it didn't. It seemed to be a summary report, wrapping up that particular PI's work for Vern, and the sum total of it was that the detective had been able to trace Vern's daughter to Albuquerque – which I already knew.

I sighed. It was going to be, at least at first, the typical investigation – boring as all get out. Mike Hammer and Magnum, punching and shooting their way through exciting cases, are fiction. The reality is that a PI does a lot of searching through documents or microfilm, or hunting around online these days, and doing tedious interviews which might turn up one usable piece of information for every 50 hours of talk.

I flipped the folder back over, and picked up the first report. The first thing would be to read the whole blasted accumulation. I set the report back down and got up to get a Coke from the fridge. I'd located one place where I could get vanilla Coke – by the bottle, at a convenience store on Central and Western Skies. I had made a solemn vow to myself that if vanilla Coke ever became common again, I'd buy it by the case and store it in my study, in Cecelia's weight shed, under the bed, in my office, wherever I could. I hated not having it whenever I wanted it. Vanilla Coke is the best thing Coca-Cola ever did, and they act like they're ashamed of it.

With my Coke in hand I sat back down. I twisted off the cap and took a swig, and picked up the first report. And stared. I don't believe in coincidences, but I tried very hard right then to believe in coincidences with all the faith I would put in Cecelia's word.

I sat up straight in my chair. "Marla!" I bellowed, not bothering with the intercom.

She came rushing in. "What is it, Darv?"

"Get me my copy of Vern's contract, now."

She looked at me like I'd gone nuts, and maybe I had. In nearly four years I'd never shouted at her nor given her such brutally direct orders. But she went back into her office, and was back in a few seconds with the contract. I checked spaces I was interested – the client's name, the name of the person he wanted me to find, the signature.

His name was Vernon Hitt, and he wanted me to locate Alison Burdett Hitt.

I knew I was standing up only because I saw the movement of the room. I noticed that Marla was backing away, with a look of fear on her face. And I heard a voice – my voice, I realized – uttering a foul blasphemy ... and I hadn't spoken a single cuss word since 1989. I saw the window coming toward me, the Sandia Mountains framed by the walls around the glass, and suddenly I felt a blow on my knuckles. Stupidly I looked at my right hand – which was bleeding from the scrapes on my knuckles. And beside the window, on the textured beige surface of the wall, were a few spots of blood. I must have punched the wall, though I had no memory of doing so.

I felt hands on my right arm, turning me around, and there was Marla's face again. "Darv, are you all right?"

I stared at her. "Darvin, are you all right?" she asked again, louder.

I found my voice. "This person," I said, except I used another obscene word, "raped his daughter, and now he wants to find her again."

"Oh no..."

I hurled the contract across the room, or tried to, but paper doesn't hurl very well. The contract fluttered and landed on the floor just a few feet away. Marla leaned down and picked it up – she had to keep it for my records, after all.

"What do you want to do?" Marla asked me.

"I want you to find his contact information, put it on a card for me, and keep this case inactive until I tell you otherwise."