PROLOGUE
It was the cold that woke her, though she tried, as she always did, to hover in that nether place between sleep and waking, more observer of her dream than participant. In the dream, she was running toward school, her feet crunching across a broad, snow covered field, friends standing by the entrance, smiling and waving her on before the bell. She was running hard and her breath was short, misting over in the cold, but try as she might, she couldn't seem to get any closer to her friends. She wasn’t wearing her mittens and the fingers wrapped around her textbooks were beginning to burn with pain. Finally, desperate, she dropped the books in the snow and ran for all she was worth. She ran until she couldn't run anymore and, still, she could get no closer. It was then, even before her eyes opened, that she began to sense something was wrong this morning, knew instinctively that things were not as they should be. The further she rose from sleep, the stronger the feeling of unease became. It wasn't just the cold; her mouth was dry, bone dry, and her head ached terribly, worse than she could ever remember.
When at last she blinked, that was when she knew. Dreams are never pitch black. She blinked again and turned her head, searching for the familiar glow of her bedside clock but found only darkness. Her first thought was that the power had failed but the moon had been nearly full when she went to bed and the light that should have been filtering through the curtains wasn't there. She raised her hand to her face and wiggled her fingers, trying to make them out. Nothing. I'll at least be able to see the stars, she thought, but when she reached to pull the curtain back, her hand hit something cold and moist and rough. She yanked it back as if she had been stung and an involuntary shudder escaped from a place deep inside her that, until now, she had never known existed. Everything was wrong: this wasn't her room, she wasn't in her bed and she had never known such darkness.
The fear nearly paralyzed her but eventually the need to know overcame the dread and her hand went out again, this time with infinite care. A silent litany went with it, "Please, God, I promise, I'll do my homework and clean my room and not be such a smart ass. I'll even call my mother and tell her I love her, just please, please, please, let this be a dream."
When she touched the wall again, it was the same and the shudder returned, more powerful than before. She tried to breathe but could only gasp and when at last she exhaled, it came out a long, low moan that ended in a scream.
CHAPTER 1
By rolling it between his thumb and forefinger, he formed a tiny ball. When he had it the way he wanted it, he held it above his target, aimed carefully, and let go, watching intently as it drifted down through the thick, amber liquid. There was a miniature pyramid of little, white balls on the bottom now and it reminded me of the snow forts we built in my youth, stock piling our weapons for the war with the neighbors that was sure to come. In this manner, he had deposited most of his napkin, a piece at a time, on the bottom of the candle.
The ice in his drink was melting, the sun noticeably lower in the sky, and still, I hadn't learned the reason for his call. His name was Derek Wayland and he said he was an investment advisor, meaning he made his living at race tracks and casinos operating under the polite guises of The Chicago Board of Trade and The New York Stock Exchange. From his offices in Beverly Hills he managed large amounts of risk capital for an exclusive list of clients, one of whom had given him my number.
On the phone he had asked if I would be willing to meet him for drinks in Malibu after the markets closed and I told him I would be delighted. He wouldn't tell me what he wanted, preferring he said, to explain in person, but I didn't mind; any excuse to drive up the Coast Highway on a summer's day is a good one. If I got a new client out of it, all the better.
After we shook hands he asked a few questions about my background and seemed satisfied with the answers but, so far, had neglected to tell me why I was here. I tore off a corner of my own napkin, rolled it into a ball, and dropped it into the melted wax on my side of the flame. It was kind of fun. He looked up, startled and slightly embarrassed.
"I've never done this before," he said.
I didn't know if he meant the snowball thing or talking to a private investigator.
"Not many people have," I said.
"Would you like another?" It was the waitress. She surprised him and he jumped, glancing guiltily at the candle holder. If she noticed his handiwork, it didn't show. She was a superb beach specimen, outfitted in a powder blue T-shirt and snug white shorts that set off a smooth, cocoa butter tan. The restaurant logo was, I thought, tastefully displayed on the front of her shirt but difficult to make out because the design was stretched in ways the artist had never envisioned. To see it clearly required careful observation. She caught me looking.
"Nice logo," I said.
She gave me a knowing smile, "Thanks." I smiled back, Mr. Innocent.
Derek gestured toward my beer and I nodded. This looked like it might take awhile. If I had wanted to impress him, I might have frowned at my watch and said something like, 'I suppose I have time for one more. A shame I didn't wear one. Probably a shame, too, that I had all the time in the world.
He looked at his, a thin, gold Patek Philippe, and after admiring it for a moment, made a slight moue and said he would have another, as well. The waitress gave us a big smile, as if we were, by far, her favorite customers and bounced away with our order. I looked for a matching logo on her shorts but didn't see one. Derek was evidently looking for it too. She glanced over her shoulder and caught me again. I did a Groucho with my eyebrows and tried another smile. She shook her head and grinned.
We were in a window booth and outside, the blue Pacific stretched effortlessly to the far horizon and beyond, to a distant place where someone, perhaps not unlike myself, was sitting with a cold beer watching the waves lean endlessly into shore. I lifted my bottle to him or her in a silent toast. Below us the glare from the sand would have been blinding but the smoked glass reduced it to nothing and it was cool and comfortable inside. Under different circumstances, I would have been enjoying myself a great deal. Then again, I was out of the office and Derek was paying for the drinks. He followed my gaze and we sat that way for awhile, minding our own thoughts. Mine were mostly about the waitress.
On the muzak tape, Jimmy Buffet was singing about "Margarita Ville." After a little more staring, he said, "You're right, I need to find her. Sometimes I miss her so much I think I'll go nuts but the not knowing is what's really killing me."
His mouth collapsed again and it was an effort for him to keep his emotions in check. He was a solid looking young man, not handsome exactly, but good looking in a prep school sort of way. His dark hair was just starting to pepper with gray and I guessed his age at maybe thirty-eight or forty. He was starting to go soft, probably a little too much of the good life, but his tailor made up for it; neither the shirt nor the suit had ever carried a price tag. I had on a pair of faded Levi's and a navy polo from Bullock's. My Reeboks were new but I wasn't sure he'd noticed. I thought the stripes coordinated nicely with the shirt.
"Her?"
"Julia, my fiancé. She's missing."
"Have you filed a report?"
"With the police? No. I don't mean she's missing exactly, she's gone. I don't think she's come to any harm but she left without saying anything. None of her friends have talked to her and her parents either don't know or won't say where she is. It's driving me crazy."
"Sounds as if maybe she doesn't want to be found."
My response unsettled him but before he could reply, the waitress returned with our drinks and set them in front of us. I finished the Dos Equis I had been working on and handed her the bottle. Adios, amigo. She favored me with another smile, then put a pile of napkins down in the middle of the table with a mischievous grin and said, "Extra ammo."
I started laughing and so did my potential new client but his grin had a sheepish quality to it. He handed her a twenty and told her to keep the change. If I had been paying, I probably would have too. Men are idiots. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her glance back again as she was walking away but I was looking at Derek. Was it my imagination or did her shoulders droop in disappointment? Jimmy Buffet began singing about "changes in attitudes" and "changes in latitudes." Maybe this was the Muzak equivalent of an anthology.
Derek's face grew serious again, "It doesn't make any sense for her to take off like this, not tell anyone where she was going."
"She left without a word?"
"Just a note with my secretary. It didn't say where she was going or for how long. All it said was that she had to take care of something and would be gone for little while. And that I shouldn't worry. Shouldn't worry. We're engaged for Christ's sake. It's been almost a week and I haven't heard from her. How can I not worry?"
"Did you have a fight about something?"
"That's just it. We get along great, almost never fight. I'm as happy as I've ever been. She says she is too. That's what's so crazy."
"What about her job?"
"She's my partner, the company is half hers. I put on the dog and pony show, bring in the clients, do the baby sitting. Julia is the nuts and bolts: market analysis, systems evaluation, trading strategies, money management. I can do it but she's better. We made a good team . . . make a good team. Listen to me, I'm talking about her like she's never coming back."
"How's business?"
He sat back, took a sizable pull on his drink and gave me a speculative look. There was force behind his next words, "It's not like that. I can't say it wouldn't be better for business if she were here but I can handle the trading. I love her and I'm worried about her, I miss the hell out of her. That's why I called you, that and the not knowing. It's turning me into a basket case."
"It would anyone," I said, "anyone in love."
His mouth drooped again and he tried to hold my stare but couldn't. He leaned forward, dropped his head and hunched his shoulders, nodded once, and sat that way, his gaze fixed on the circle of his forearms. Love is a distaff canine.
"I'll find her for you," I said.
He raised his head and his eyes were close to tears but the pain in them had turned to hope. Hope and a little fear. Maybe about what I was going to find.
Derek and I talked for a while longer and when I had learned as much as I could I walked him out to the parking lot. The valet brought up a British racing green XJ12 and left the door open. We shook hands and Derek got in behind the wheel, staring up at me with an expectant look on his face. I wasn't sure why. I had been on the case for fifteen minutes and, so far, hadn't found her. His look made me feel like I should have.
"Concentrate on the business," I said, "let me worry about where she is. Make sure she has something to come back to when I find her."
It must have been what he wanted to hear because his face brightened, he nodded and thanked me again for making the drive. I told him it was my pleasure. His head bobbed once more and he was gone. I bet he used that same look whenever he closed a sale. 'All we need to get started, Mrs. Warbucks, is a check and your signature here, and here, and here.' I bet most of them signed.
The valet asked if I would like my car brought around but I told him the most beautiful woman in L.A. was meeting me here for dinner. He looked me over and said, "Sure thing."
The city makes cynics of us all. I went back inside, found a payphone off the entranceway and dialed from memory.
"Anne Elyse, how would you like to drive up the coast and have dinner with me in Malibu?"
Anne and I share office space. She is an attorney who specializes in environmental law and whose grandfather left her a modest trust fund and the converted two story home on Ocean Boulevard that serves as our offices, me upstairs and her down. From there she wages war on behalf of the planet and the disenfranchised. The suits hate her because she is a skilled litigator and a tireless advocate who can't be bought or intimidated, though some have tried. The first time it happened I paid the opposing side a visit and reasoned with them. When word got back to Anne she forbade me from interfering again unless she asked for my help.
"It undermines my autonomy. The notion that I need Sir Galahad riding to my rescue is positively archaic. I can take care of myself. Besides, I would feel terrible if you got hurt because of me." When I asked if she really thought of me as Sir Galahad her reply had been, "Yes, only older and with a smaller sword." Annie.
I still keep an eye on her but now I tell the threatening party that should word of my visit get back to Anne I will be forced to return, albeit in a much fouler mood. So far it has worked. She retains her independence, or at least the semblance of it, and I get to make sure nothing bad happens to her. Many successful marriages are based on subterfuge.
The house we work out of is surrounded by office buildings and is the last of its kind on Ocean Boulevard. She gets calls from real estate developers at least once a week offering her sums of money that would make "The Donald" salivate. Invariably, she turns them down and, thinking she is holding out for more, they come back a week later with a higher offer. What they never seem to understand is that it isn't about the money.
When Derek's call came in I was sitting at my desk cutting an article out of the Los Angeles Times with Anne in mind. It was an undercover series about an Arkansas poultry plant where the employee turnover rate is one hundred percent annually, which translated means, no health plan, no Christmas bonuses and no wage increases. Just a steady flow of unskilled, migrant labor recruited from as far away as Arizona, New Mexico and California, working in conditions so miserable not a single worker can stick it out. In this age of litigation overload and enlightened work place standards you had to hand it to those chicken pluckers in management, a hundred percent turnover and no state or federal intervention. The story sounded like something Anne would love to sink her pretty white teeth into.
"Who's the new client?" she said.
"How do you know I have a new client?"
"Whenever you're feeling cocky, you use my middle name. And if you're inviting me to dinner in Malibu you've come into some money."
"In another life you could have been a river boat gambler."
"If I'd been a man."
"True, but let's not let it spoil our evening. I'll tell you about it over dinner," I said.
"Such confidence. It's hard to understand why you sit home alone all the time."
“If you are not too long, I will wait here for you all my life.”
"Sometimes you say the sweetest things. Who said that?"
“Oscar Wilde… and now me.”
"I can be out of here by 6:30."
"What time is it now?"
"3:45."
"Perfect." Derek had given me Julia Dempsey's address and a key to her front door. Three hours would be about right to go take a look and come back.
"Are you picking me up or do you want me to meet you there?"
"I'm at the restaurant now."
"What if I'd said no?"
"You can't be serious."
"It's where you met the client isn't it?"
"What did I have for breakfast, you know that too?"
"Blueberry muffins, fresh fruit and coffee? Sumatran blend, with cream and honey?"
"Nobody likes a smart ass."
She held the phone away but I could hear her laughing. I was grinning from ear to ear. She does that to me.
"Where am I meeting you, anyway?"
I told her the name of the restaurant and it seemed to please her.
"Mmmm. I love their blackened swordfish."
"When were you here?"
"Oh, the occasion slips my mind."
Nothing ever slips Anne's mind. You can hear the groans all the way from the downtown high rises when they find out she is representing the plaintiffs.
"It was with one of your tree hugger friends, wasn't it? Let me guess, a live bait activist. Flannel shirt, beard, leather wrist band and pooka shells. Wore a button that said 'Save the Worms."
Her voice was all smiles, "No pooka shells."
"I've never hit anyone wearing sandals but I wouldn't rule out the possibility."
"I just love a man who talks with his fists."
"I may get drunk now."
"Wait until I get there.
"And after you get here?"
"After, sweet cheeks, there will be no need."
There wasn't much I could say to that so I didn't. She told me to pace myself, thinking I was going to wait for her in the bar. I didn't disabuse her of the notion. Tough PI's have an image to maintain, just like everyone else.
The ice in his drink was melting, the sun noticeably lower in the sky, and still, I hadn't learned the reason for his call. His name was Derek Wayland and he said he was an investment advisor, meaning he made his living at race tracks and casinos operating under the polite guises of The Chicago Board of Trade and The New York Stock Exchange. From his offices in Beverly Hills he managed large amounts of risk capital for an exclusive list of clients, one of whom had given him my number.
On the phone he had asked if I would be willing to meet him for drinks in Malibu after the markets closed and I told him I would be delighted. He wouldn't tell me what he wanted, preferring he said, to explain in person, but I didn't mind; any excuse to drive up the Coast Highway on a summer's day is a good one. If I got a new client out of it, all the better.
After we shook hands he asked a few questions about my background and seemed satisfied with the answers but, so far, had neglected to tell me why I was here. I tore off a corner of my own napkin, rolled it into a ball, and dropped it into the melted wax on my side of the flame. It was kind of fun. He looked up, startled and slightly embarrassed.
"I've never done this before," he said.
I didn't know if he meant the snowball thing or talking to a private investigator.
"Not many people have," I said.
"Would you like another?" It was the waitress. She surprised him and he jumped, glancing guiltily at the candle holder. If she noticed his handiwork, it didn't show. She was a superb beach specimen, outfitted in a powder blue T-shirt and snug white shorts that set off a smooth, cocoa butter tan. The restaurant logo was, I thought, tastefully displayed on the front of her shirt but difficult to make out because the design was stretched in ways the artist had never envisioned. To see it clearly required careful observation. She caught me looking.
"Nice logo," I said.
She gave me a knowing smile, "Thanks." I smiled back, Mr. Innocent.
Derek gestured toward my beer and I nodded. This looked like it might take awhile. If I had wanted to impress him, I might have frowned at my watch and said something like, 'I suppose I have time for one more. A shame I didn't wear one. Probably a shame, too, that I had all the time in the world.
He looked at his, a thin, gold Patek Philippe, and after admiring it for a moment, made a slight moue and said he would have another, as well. The waitress gave us a big smile, as if we were, by far, her favorite customers and bounced away with our order. I looked for a matching logo on her shorts but didn't see one. Derek was evidently looking for it too. She glanced over her shoulder and caught me again. I did a Groucho with my eyebrows and tried another smile. She shook her head and grinned.
We were in a window booth and outside, the blue Pacific stretched effortlessly to the far horizon and beyond, to a distant place where someone, perhaps not unlike myself, was sitting with a cold beer watching the waves lean endlessly into shore. I lifted my bottle to him or her in a silent toast. Below us the glare from the sand would have been blinding but the smoked glass reduced it to nothing and it was cool and comfortable inside. Under different circumstances, I would have been enjoying myself a great deal. Then again, I was out of the office and Derek was paying for the drinks. He followed my gaze and we sat that way for awhile, minding our own thoughts. Mine were mostly about the waitress.
On the muzak tape, Jimmy Buffet was singing about "Margarita Ville." After a little more staring, he said, "You're right, I need to find her. Sometimes I miss her so much I think I'll go nuts but the not knowing is what's really killing me."
His mouth collapsed again and it was an effort for him to keep his emotions in check. He was a solid looking young man, not handsome exactly, but good looking in a prep school sort of way. His dark hair was just starting to pepper with gray and I guessed his age at maybe thirty-eight or forty. He was starting to go soft, probably a little too much of the good life, but his tailor made up for it; neither the shirt nor the suit had ever carried a price tag. I had on a pair of faded Levi's and a navy polo from Bullock's. My Reeboks were new but I wasn't sure he'd noticed. I thought the stripes coordinated nicely with the shirt.
"Her?"
"Julia, my fiancé. She's missing."
"Have you filed a report?"
"With the police? No. I don't mean she's missing exactly, she's gone. I don't think she's come to any harm but she left without saying anything. None of her friends have talked to her and her parents either don't know or won't say where she is. It's driving me crazy."
"Sounds as if maybe she doesn't want to be found."
My response unsettled him but before he could reply, the waitress returned with our drinks and set them in front of us. I finished the Dos Equis I had been working on and handed her the bottle. Adios, amigo. She favored me with another smile, then put a pile of napkins down in the middle of the table with a mischievous grin and said, "Extra ammo."
I started laughing and so did my potential new client but his grin had a sheepish quality to it. He handed her a twenty and told her to keep the change. If I had been paying, I probably would have too. Men are idiots. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her glance back again as she was walking away but I was looking at Derek. Was it my imagination or did her shoulders droop in disappointment? Jimmy Buffet began singing about "changes in attitudes" and "changes in latitudes." Maybe this was the Muzak equivalent of an anthology.
Derek's face grew serious again, "It doesn't make any sense for her to take off like this, not tell anyone where she was going."
"She left without a word?"
"Just a note with my secretary. It didn't say where she was going or for how long. All it said was that she had to take care of something and would be gone for little while. And that I shouldn't worry. Shouldn't worry. We're engaged for Christ's sake. It's been almost a week and I haven't heard from her. How can I not worry?"
"Did you have a fight about something?"
"That's just it. We get along great, almost never fight. I'm as happy as I've ever been. She says she is too. That's what's so crazy."
"What about her job?"
"She's my partner, the company is half hers. I put on the dog and pony show, bring in the clients, do the baby sitting. Julia is the nuts and bolts: market analysis, systems evaluation, trading strategies, money management. I can do it but she's better. We made a good team . . . make a good team. Listen to me, I'm talking about her like she's never coming back."
"How's business?"
He sat back, took a sizable pull on his drink and gave me a speculative look. There was force behind his next words, "It's not like that. I can't say it wouldn't be better for business if she were here but I can handle the trading. I love her and I'm worried about her, I miss the hell out of her. That's why I called you, that and the not knowing. It's turning me into a basket case."
"It would anyone," I said, "anyone in love."
His mouth drooped again and he tried to hold my stare but couldn't. He leaned forward, dropped his head and hunched his shoulders, nodded once, and sat that way, his gaze fixed on the circle of his forearms. Love is a distaff canine.
"I'll find her for you," I said.
He raised his head and his eyes were close to tears but the pain in them had turned to hope. Hope and a little fear. Maybe about what I was going to find.
Derek and I talked for a while longer and when I had learned as much as I could I walked him out to the parking lot. The valet brought up a British racing green XJ12 and left the door open. We shook hands and Derek got in behind the wheel, staring up at me with an expectant look on his face. I wasn't sure why. I had been on the case for fifteen minutes and, so far, hadn't found her. His look made me feel like I should have.
"Concentrate on the business," I said, "let me worry about where she is. Make sure she has something to come back to when I find her."
It must have been what he wanted to hear because his face brightened, he nodded and thanked me again for making the drive. I told him it was my pleasure. His head bobbed once more and he was gone. I bet he used that same look whenever he closed a sale. 'All we need to get started, Mrs. Warbucks, is a check and your signature here, and here, and here.' I bet most of them signed.
The valet asked if I would like my car brought around but I told him the most beautiful woman in L.A. was meeting me here for dinner. He looked me over and said, "Sure thing."
The city makes cynics of us all. I went back inside, found a payphone off the entranceway and dialed from memory.
"Anne Elyse, how would you like to drive up the coast and have dinner with me in Malibu?"
Anne and I share office space. She is an attorney who specializes in environmental law and whose grandfather left her a modest trust fund and the converted two story home on Ocean Boulevard that serves as our offices, me upstairs and her down. From there she wages war on behalf of the planet and the disenfranchised. The suits hate her because she is a skilled litigator and a tireless advocate who can't be bought or intimidated, though some have tried. The first time it happened I paid the opposing side a visit and reasoned with them. When word got back to Anne she forbade me from interfering again unless she asked for my help.
"It undermines my autonomy. The notion that I need Sir Galahad riding to my rescue is positively archaic. I can take care of myself. Besides, I would feel terrible if you got hurt because of me." When I asked if she really thought of me as Sir Galahad her reply had been, "Yes, only older and with a smaller sword." Annie.
I still keep an eye on her but now I tell the threatening party that should word of my visit get back to Anne I will be forced to return, albeit in a much fouler mood. So far it has worked. She retains her independence, or at least the semblance of it, and I get to make sure nothing bad happens to her. Many successful marriages are based on subterfuge.
The house we work out of is surrounded by office buildings and is the last of its kind on Ocean Boulevard. She gets calls from real estate developers at least once a week offering her sums of money that would make "The Donald" salivate. Invariably, she turns them down and, thinking she is holding out for more, they come back a week later with a higher offer. What they never seem to understand is that it isn't about the money.
When Derek's call came in I was sitting at my desk cutting an article out of the Los Angeles Times with Anne in mind. It was an undercover series about an Arkansas poultry plant where the employee turnover rate is one hundred percent annually, which translated means, no health plan, no Christmas bonuses and no wage increases. Just a steady flow of unskilled, migrant labor recruited from as far away as Arizona, New Mexico and California, working in conditions so miserable not a single worker can stick it out. In this age of litigation overload and enlightened work place standards you had to hand it to those chicken pluckers in management, a hundred percent turnover and no state or federal intervention. The story sounded like something Anne would love to sink her pretty white teeth into.
"Who's the new client?" she said.
"How do you know I have a new client?"
"Whenever you're feeling cocky, you use my middle name. And if you're inviting me to dinner in Malibu you've come into some money."
"In another life you could have been a river boat gambler."
"If I'd been a man."
"True, but let's not let it spoil our evening. I'll tell you about it over dinner," I said.
"Such confidence. It's hard to understand why you sit home alone all the time."
“If you are not too long, I will wait here for you all my life.”
"Sometimes you say the sweetest things. Who said that?"
“Oscar Wilde… and now me.”
"I can be out of here by 6:30."
"What time is it now?"
"3:45."
"Perfect." Derek had given me Julia Dempsey's address and a key to her front door. Three hours would be about right to go take a look and come back.
"Are you picking me up or do you want me to meet you there?"
"I'm at the restaurant now."
"What if I'd said no?"
"You can't be serious."
"It's where you met the client isn't it?"
"What did I have for breakfast, you know that too?"
"Blueberry muffins, fresh fruit and coffee? Sumatran blend, with cream and honey?"
"Nobody likes a smart ass."
She held the phone away but I could hear her laughing. I was grinning from ear to ear. She does that to me.
"Where am I meeting you, anyway?"
I told her the name of the restaurant and it seemed to please her.
"Mmmm. I love their blackened swordfish."
"When were you here?"
"Oh, the occasion slips my mind."
Nothing ever slips Anne's mind. You can hear the groans all the way from the downtown high rises when they find out she is representing the plaintiffs.
"It was with one of your tree hugger friends, wasn't it? Let me guess, a live bait activist. Flannel shirt, beard, leather wrist band and pooka shells. Wore a button that said 'Save the Worms."
Her voice was all smiles, "No pooka shells."
"I've never hit anyone wearing sandals but I wouldn't rule out the possibility."
"I just love a man who talks with his fists."
"I may get drunk now."
"Wait until I get there.
"And after you get here?"
"After, sweet cheeks, there will be no need."
There wasn't much I could say to that so I didn't. She told me to pace myself, thinking I was going to wait for her in the bar. I didn't disabuse her of the notion. Tough PI's have an image to maintain, just like everyone else.
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Comments: 32 ( 1 removed by Brad S. )
Your PI is a likeable guy, even when he's being male (i.e. ogling the waitress). I LOVED his interaction with the waitress - it seemed right on. Good capture.
The only thing I'm not sure on... if the kidnapped girl at the beginning is supposed to be the same as the missing woman, I missed that. The schoolbooks and parent references made me think 'girl' while Derek's business partner/girlfriend seems 'woman'. If they're two different women, then you've hit that right as well.
Good luck, Brad!
"...he made his living at race tracks and casinos operating under the polite guises of The Chicago Board of Trade and The New York Stock Exchange." Nice!
"When I asked if she really thought of me as Sir Galahad her reply had been, "Yes, only older and with a smaller sword." " OK, here you are personally responsible for me spewing Diet Coke all over my keyboard. And in spite of the fact that he's supposed to be a hard-boiled PI, I can almost see the besotted smile on his face as he thinks: "Annie..."
One question came to mind: "I went back inside, found a payphone off the entranceway and dialed from memory." A PI without a cellphone seems odd to me.
One nitpicky typo I noticed: Margaritaville is one word. At least according to the album label I have.
Again, great job!
You've got good character development and dialog.. no small feat. I too liked the exchange with the waitress.
It was a little slow getting to the point when they were having drinks, but over all it was an enjoyable read.
Like Wendy, I'm not sure about the transition from 3rd person in the prologue to 1st person in the main body, but it didn't bother me too much in terms of readability.
This is great writing and great characterization.
______________
Two Birds, One Stone
You deserve more votes.
If you have a chance, take a look at my entry, A Cappella Blues
DW. Derek Wayland; Daddy Warbucks. Nice touch. Let me say up front that I don't trust him. Somebody kidnapped the girl in the prologue and I don't think it's our hero. The only other guy we know is Derek. So before our PI finds Julia for him, is he going to check out DW's stated motives?
All this is to say that the storyline is quite compelling. You do a great job of it. Something you've done that I've never encountered is the POV switch between third and first persons. That is nicely done as well. The dialogue, settings and descriptions are right on. You use of editorialism and metaphor (the distaff canine, for exampe) is actually quite good in my opinion--although, as Gale said, it made me stop and read the passage twice. And I'm guessing that "White Lies" is a play on words that goes beyond innocent falsehoods. This is an archtypical detective mystery that is very finely done.
I'm sorry you haven't had more traffic because your chapter really deserves it. I hope you will comment on lots of the others, as you did with mine, and leave your link so folks will find their way to you. Good luck. Don't be surprised if the judges snap you up for the semis. --Laz
The Medicine People
Describing somebody as a young man doesn't make me think 38, 40 years old- I would just make it "a solid man..."
And the line "Love is a Distaff Canine" is a great line, but doesn't quite fit, I agree with Gale. I stopped and read it through a couple of times.
But overall, really enjoyable- can't wait to read more.
If you get a chance check out my entry, "Unaware", by Kellie S. Good Luck!
David
Unspoken Evils
And thank you again for your supportive comments on my entry STACCATO
David V.
To other readers, I'm working my way down the list of chapters, but anybody who comments on my chapter get moved to first in line to be read and rated next. I only vote 10 as its all that matters.
MURDER IN MYKONOS
"He looked at his, a thin, gold Patek Philippe, and after admiring it for a moment, made a slight moue" Hard one to catch. I had stare at it for a moment, but I think you meant move (u/v).
If that's all I can find to comment on, you know you've done a great job on this chapter.
10 from me. Good luck
Carpet Ride
Please check out my entry--MURDER IN WINNEBAGO COUNTY--thanks!
Your prologue is interesting and hooks the reader right in. I've noticed a lot of people have suffered with their transition then to chapter 1, but you didn't at all. You introduced our main character, set down the mystery he's been hired to solve (or at least, the tip of it), and had some great dialogue between the PI and Anne. Good stuff. If I had a couple of little bitty things to suggest - tell us it's pieces of napkin that your PI is rolling into balls. And ax the word "moue". I also had a bit of trouble with "distaff canine", but a trip to the dictionary solved that. Amusing and clever, but will probably confuse some.
Great job!
~Rose
I'm assuming that Julia is the girl in the prologue and she's dreaming about something terrifying in her past. Retreating from the intolerable present.
I look forward to chapter 2. 10.
Jim, The Third Hand