Chapter
1
The Sixth District Substation was the definition of
chaos. Police officers milled wildly. Lieutenant Greaves moved
just as haphazardly. But he had a mission.
Cross the room and drop off his file while resisting temptation: his
eleven-thirty donut.
The room seemed to stretch as
Greaves stalked forward, dodging boxes from the local bakery. Commander Strauss’
desk could have been a mile away. Time slowed.
Strauss was polishing off a
glazed when Greaves arrived. The
Lieutenant threw down the file and hummed a few bars from Rocky.
“What’s this?” Strauss asked.
He wiped off the straw fibers surrounding his toothless mouth.
“The Meriwether Case. FBI
wants you to report to Langley by one.”
Strauss glanced down at his
watch. “Challenge accepted.”
Chapter
2
A burly man sat on his coach. An empty apple pie tin sat
on the table beside him, along with a Redskins bobble head signed “to George”.
He pulled a pocket knife from the chest pocket of his XXL flannel and dug the
grime from his fingernails. Bits of rope were amid the usual dirt.
A strange noise hit George’s
ears. He glanced around, then locked his eyes on the door to his basement. Patiently, he traversed the room, opened the
door, and stomped down his fur-lined stairs.
Sixty gallons of water filled
the aquarium taking up the back wall of the cellar. Half a dozen plants seemed to dance as they
were buffeted by the bubble-maker on the tank’s gravelly bottom. A single fish thrashed near the surface. A red herring.
George nodded self-assuredly
and tossed a soda from a mini-fridge beside his Ping-Pong table into the
corner.
Chapter
3
Strauss knocked on the door of a humble townhouse
a stone throw from DC. The man who answered the door looked both gaunt and
puffy. His cheeks clung tightly across prominent cheekbones, yet the skin
beneath his eyes was black and swollen.
“DC police,” Strauss said,
flashing his badge. “I’m here to ask some questions regarding your daughter’s
disappearance.”
By now a woman had appeared
as well. Her face was coated thickly with bronzer and vanishing cream. “Please,
come in,” she said, not sounding too excited about it.
“When did you see your
daughter last, Mrs. Neeson?” Strauss asked once he was seated at the dining
room table. He pulled a pencil from behind his ear and opened a notepad.
“Two days ago, during her
dance recital,” Mrs. Neeson said.
Strauss nodded. “And when did
you notice that she was missing?”
“Sh-she,” stammered Mr.
Neeson “didn’t come back on st-stage to take her bow. It was always her…always
her favorite part.” He took out a handkerchief and blew into it loudly.
“Where was this dance recital
taking place?”
Mrs. Neeson answered, “at the
Youth Theatre on Shifty Street.”
Strauss looked up from his
pad and gave each of the Neesones a look. “Thank you. I’m on it.”
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