Chapter 3
I DON’T have a real office. My detective agency is run through a virtual office. It’s all e-mail and websites and answering machines. There is an actual office building, up on the north side of town, and that’s what’s listed as the address on my business cards, but I don’t technically have an office there. When I have to meet with a potential client, I arrange for a small meeting room at the office building. It saves paying for an office that I would rarely use.
There are downsides to this arrangement. For one, when I meet with a client it’s usually in a bare, utilitarian room with no personality. I also don’t get to have a waiting room complete with secretary, like Sam Spade had. Of course, I wouldn’t have a leggy blonde for a secretary. Or if I did, it would be a male leggy blond. Robbie would probably get jealous, though, and find some way to scare the shit out of him. Still, I often yearned for an actual office where I could put pictures of… well, Robbie when he was still alive and Daisy before she became a zombie. Robbie had been quite a looker, despite a somewhat large and broken nose, and Daisy was adorable. She still was if you overlooked the slightly gray tinge to her fur and the bloodshot eyes and her penchant for eating squirrels and rats in a rather disgusting manner. You get that with zombie dogs, though.
I didn’t bring Daisy with me to meet with Janice Sanderson. I found that clients didn’t appreciate the presence of a strange-looking bulldog. There was no chance of Robbie appearing, either, as he’d never been in the office building.
The room contained a bare desk, which I sat behind. Janice sat on the other side. She was in her early forties, although she wasn’t the sort to admit it. Her dark brown hair was pulled tightly back, and she wore a no-nonsense business suit of a dull green. She probably thought she looked like Rosalind Russell in some old movie. If smoking had been allowed, she’d have lit up.
“I want you to find my daughter,” she said. She even had the quick snap to her voice. If I’d looked like Humphrey Bogart, she’d have been happier. But hell, Bogart would have had an office of his own.
I nodded. I thought about doing my Bogart impression and saying that the police had a whole department devoted to missing persons, but I wanted the case. Private detectives have to eat too. “How long has she been missing?”
“Two weeks. I’m guessing as to the time. It could have been longer. It’s been two weeks since I’ve heard from her and none of her friends have seen her in that time.” She crossed her legs rather demurely. I wondered if she knew the action was wasted on me. I raised my eyebrows just a fraction to make her happy. She was a potential client, after all.
“Have the police been informed?”
She frowned at me. Bogart wouldn’t have asked that question. “They are under the impression that she’s run away with one of her boyfriends.” Here she looked down so she didn’t have to look me in the eyes. “She’s not been herself lately. She’s going through one of her phases. She’ll do anything to annoy me.”
“Like running off with a boyfriend?”
That got me an angry glare. Janice Sanderson bit her lip and decided to ignore my comment. “Brenda just turned twenty. She doesn’t live at home any longer, but she does keep in touch. Kevin, that’s my son, and she are very close. Kevin still lives at home. I’m sure that’s why she still comes around. It’s certainly not for me.”
“Does she live alone?” I asked.
Janice shook her head. “She has a roommate. This girl, Tiffany, and she live downtown. I don’t believe for a moment that Tiffany is her real name. Even Brenda is using another name nowadays. She calls herself Amber.”
Tiffany. Amber. I took a stab in the dark. “Where has Brenda been working?”
Janice sighed heavily. “She’s been working at one of those clubs; this one is called Pickin’s. Imagine, my daughter a stripper! She’s just doing it to annoy me.” Mrs. Sanderson uncrossed her legs. Maybe she noticed it wasn’t getting her anywhere. Janice obviously liked to be noticed. Someone should tell her that the green business suit wasn’t helping. However, the diamonds in her earrings were nice.
For the next half-hour, Janice Sanderson filled me in on lots of little details of her daughter’s life, or at least what she knew. It was enough to get started at any rate. A missing person case isn’t easy for a one-man operation, but I told Mrs. Sanderson I’d do what I could. When she left she actually batted her eyes at me and told me she looked forward to seeing me again. Some people just don’t pick up on signals.
HE SHUFFLED across to the refrigerator, feeling less human than he had in quite a few years. It was time. He knew this, more by his internal clock than by the calendar that was affixed to the wall in his kitchen by a thumbtack. The man looked at his hands. He could see the aging process beginning. Fine lines and wrinkles showed on the back of his hand. He knew that if he went to the bathroom and checked the mirror there, he would no longer look youthful and fit. He’d have aged, looking decades older. Just yesterday someone had guessed his age at twenty-three. Now he’d be doing well if he could pass for his mid-forties.
The flesh would rectify all that.
Opening the refrigerator door, he looked at the meager offerings inside. Nothing looked good. Even the raw beef didn’t sound appealing. Eating it would only leave him wanting. He needed the flesh. The man closed the door and glanced over at the counter where his knife rack sat. The large butcher knife, which stood out amid the smaller cutlery, seemed to be calling for him. Yes, it was time.