The Dark Tomb

By K. L. Dempsey

The Dark Tomb is K. L. Dempsey's seventh thriller in less than three years and proof that he's fast becoming a recognized master of this particular style of mystery.

Jake Nelson, the current owner of the Warren Detective Agency located in Warren, Michigan, watched in disbelief as the old woman walked out of the woods while he had been vacation-fishing in Minnesota. It had been more than a shock to see her since this sighting would not have been possible unless she somehow had beaten her expiration date on earth. At the time of their first meeting, he had been twenty-seven years old, working for Eastern Airlines, and her eighty-six when she had joined him and a group of other travel agents on an airline-sponsored familiarization trip to New Orleans. Propulsive as a jolt of adrenaline, The Dark Tomb features a storyline that deals with finding out how this sighting could have been possible and the reasons why it is happening now. As the investigation entwines, Nelson calls upon one of the new employees that had just joined the firm to help him solve this mystery and at the same time force him to face his own demons.

With the chilling authenticity that has become the trademark of his previous works, this former Army veteran and airline marketing specialist once again delivers a novel that won't disappoint.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Sep 27, 2022
• ISBN: 9798886541298

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The Dark Tomb

K. L. Dempsey

Copyright © 2022 K. L. Dempsey

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2022

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

ISBN 979-8-88654-113-7 (pbk)

ISBN 979-8-88654-129-8 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Acknowledgment

About the Author

For the woman of many moons

Also by K. L. Dempsey

The Unholy Vengeance

The Vanishing Pharmacist

Beneath the Earth

Secrets of Eden's Dam

Death Before It's Time

Evidence of Failure

Write therefore the things you see, what they are and what is to take place hereafter.

—Revelation 1:19

Chapter 1

Jake Nelson watched as the old woman walked out of the woods near the large rusted thrashing machine looming in front of him, like some forgotten page in history. It had been a shock to see her since the sighting would not have been possible unless the woman had beaten her expiration date on earth.

When he first had met her, he had just turned twenty-seven years old, and his memory recalled that at that time she had turned eighty-six, which had made her now close to a hundred years old. Their paths had first crossed during the time that he had worked for Eastern Airlines as a sales representative in their Detroit marketing department. It had been a dream job that often required each sales representative to be assigned the responsibility to take a group of their highest-producing travel agents on what was then referred to as a familiarization airline marketing trip. That year he had already escorted several travel agents to Bermuda, Jamaica, Nashville, and Disney World, so the chance of him being assigned another such travel responsibility had been highly unlikely. But as luck would have it, suddenly due to the illness of another tour conductor, his opportunity to finally visit the old French city had arrived, so he gladly accepted the assignment and quickly extended the required invitations to his fifteen highest revenue-producing travel agents that made up his area of responsibility.

Jake had understood that this was not your typical familiarization trip because they would be staying at the Roosevelt New Orleans Hotel, which was famous for its Blue Room and its reputation as only accepting high-profile entertainers, like Marlene Dietrich, Frank Sinatra, Bob Hope, and the occasional visitations of US presidents and other dignitaries.

From past experience, he knew that this type of five-day weekend with all expenses paid plus airfare would be made up of largely of young travel agency women many of which would be removing their wedding rings upon the final approach to Louis Armstrong International Airport. Familiarization trips were not just business trips to learn about the hotels and the destination area, but to some it was a meeting location away from home in which to continue or develop a romance with another companion that had found their way to join them on the trip. That's why Jake had invited the octogenarian woman referred to as Peaches on this trip because at eighty-six, he knew that he could count on her being one of the few to go to bed alone and on time. In addition, he would be able to count on her providing a little motherly chaperoning to those in search of the continued nightlife for which New Orleans was famous for. All in all, they would expect a good time as they learned about the area. What he could expect and would receive would be little sleep and constant requests for room changes as the agents attempted to match up with their desired roommate. What he now recalled was that Peaches had joined his tour as the last member of his travel agent group and had arrived at the Eastern gate with an enormous briefcase full of excitement and energy about the trip. Together they would all travel to New Orleans to promote one of Eastern Airlines top vacation destinations and spend one full week visiting several major hotels and many of the historic sites that made up the Big Easy, the name which New Orleans was frequently referred to along with its French name of La Nouvelle.

It took Jake a while to remember her catchy name, Peaches Monroe, but aside from the unusual nickname, he now recalled the mysterious woman that he had just seen on that hill for two other very other important reasons. She had been an avid notetaker, who had the habit of writing down everything about the subjects she came upon; and second, much to his horror, this woman, Peaches, had gotten lost from his group as they toured an old New Orleans cemetery. In truth, the cemetery was not just any cemetery but rather called Saint Louis Cemetery, which was the name given to three Roman Catholic cemeteries located in New Orleans, Louisiana. He remembered that most of the graves were what was described as above the ground vaults constructed in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries and that Peaches had been the first one on the tour to have discovered from the groundskeeper that the custom of aboveground burials had nothing to do with the water table problems but rather was due to French and Spanish traditions.

Now all these years later, he watched as the older woman waved to him as she moved away from the rusting, thrashing machine and now stood in the center of a large area of weed-covered concrete, its perimeter surrounded by a high chain-link fence topped with chicken wire. It was a fence that he was very familiar with from the past because the owner always put local fisherman on notice that the padlocked double gates were there for a purpose. The property was private and available only upon invitation because behind the gates was the owner's personal fifty-five acres of the best fishing for miles around. The landlord's name was Paul Blangue, a prominent banker, merchant, lawyer, and considered to be his best local friend. Over the years, Jake had made a habit of visiting this spot twice a year, and although it was posted land, Blangue had reminded him the waterway was his to use, but he in turn seldom, if ever, called upon their friendship to fish the sacred spot. Jake knew that one could never be certain when a circumstance might require him to reassume his previous ownership of the Warren, Michigan, detective agency after leaving Eastern Airlines many years ago. So even if the chances were remote that his former position would bring him somehow into his friend's backyard in that capacity, he was not a man who took any unnecessary risks. It was nice to be retired at his early age, and he intended to keep it that way.

Turning, Jake waved back at the woman, still not believing his eyes, and started to move toward where he knew that the padlocked gates would read Keep out in bright-red letters. Then to his sudden shock, the woman disappeared from sight. He felt a cold chill running down his back, but he continued his slow walk, forgetting about his fishing tackle, hoping that he would still meet up with the strange but familiar face from so many years ago. As he took another ten steps in the far distance, he could hear a passenger train blasting its train whistle as it headed on its daily schedule toward the twin cities of Minneapolis and St. Paul.

Hey, Peaches! he yelled, hoping that she would slow down and wait for him, still not knowing for certain if it actually was the older woman that he once had met years ago or was just his mind playing a trick on him. His memory, the storage place of all things, had many dark places, and now he scrambled to unlock those mysteries, thinking that today might just be one of those places and what he saw might in fact not be true. Peaches could only be dead, he reasoned, unless by some miracle she had somehow managed to receive the blessings of Christ, who once had raised Lazarus from his sleep. Jake, now having reached the area where the woman had first appeared, couldn't find any trace of her. Goddamn, where did you go? he cursed. He waited for about fifteen minutes before finally giving up and heading back to the spot where he had left his fishing tackle. Now arriving, he pushed several tree branches out of the way and found the familiar old tree stump and sat down, still trying to make sense about the appearance of Peaches Monroe.

Lifting the metal tackle box, he opened it and removed the can of Budweiser, pulled the tab, and took a healthy swig. What in the hell was going on? He hadn't even thought about Eastern Airlines for now going on thirteen years let alone about the woman who had been so insistent in finding the grave of Delphine Lalaurie that she had gotten lost in the process. Slapping the black ant from his arm, he now recalled that when they had arrived at the gates of Saint Louis Cemetery years ago, the older woman had asked his permission to search the cemetery for the most famous New Orleans Creole socialite and alleged serial killer, a woman infamous for torturing and likely murdering her household slaves sometime around 1834. The rest of the travel agents had joined in supporting her request, although each knew that it was most unusual for any tour conductor to allow anyone to break away from any organized event. He recalled hesitating but finally granting her wish and then had then spent the next few hours fighting off a stomachache while he attempted to find her. Although he had searched the grounds for over an hour, he hadn't succeeded and had continued the tour minus the eighty-year-old-plus travel agent.

Later that night, as the group had returned to their hotel in preparation for attending a musical, Peaches had somehow managed to find her way back to the property where they were staying and rejoined her fellow travel agents and never caused any further problems. To this day he had never seen her again, although at the end of the trip, she had taken the time to thank him for her enjoyable trip, even forwarding a twelve-page summary of what she had learned while being part of his tour. Taking another swig from the can of beer, he remembered that in addition to the report, she had purchased for him a small locket containing the picture of Marie Delphine Lalaurie as a thank-you for his thoughtfulness in allowing her to find her grave. He still had the locket buried in one of his dresser drawers at home. Why? Maybe, it was because Lalaurie was so much a part of New Orleans history, or it was that she had owned a reputed haunted mansion three stories high. Maybe it was because actor Nicolas Cage had bought that same Lalaurie house for a sum of $3.45 million. Maybe it was because Cage also had purchased a future gravesite in the same cemetery where the mysterious socialite was buried.

Of course, the reason might have had nothing to do with anything other than he had liked the gift. He now felt the tears running down his cheek as he thought about that locket being the only piece of evidence that had ever been found in his wife's Chrysler that had somehow made its way into the Detroit Sanitary and Ship Canal. The car and his wife had stayed missing for over nine months before what remained of her body had been found in the trunk of her submerged teal green Chrysler. The coroner had been at a loss to find enough evidence and information to positively identify the remains until the locket was found floating in the water. His wife, Denise, had first worked as a forensic psychiatrist before they had gotten married and had just been employed at Metro South before she had suddenly disappeared when returning from a late-night meeting at Christian Valley College, where she served as president of the CVC Board of Trustees. Everyone, including the sheriff's police assigned to investigate her disappearance, had insisted that it was their opinion that his wife had just decided to go into hiding, having been tired of their marriage. Jake had rejected that opinion and had taken a month leave of absence from his airline job to search for her whereabouts, but nothing had come up until the day that the police had received a tip that the ship canal had been used over time as a dumping ground for those wanting to dispose of their cars. Finding the locket had pretty much sealed the deal since there wasn't another of its kind sold at any of the stores other than in New Orleans. That was years ago, so what in the hell was going on he wondered.

Now taking the last swallow of the beer, he tossed the can aside and got up from the tree stump, stretched, and wondered if it wasn't time to just pack it up and return home. Obviously, the sighting of the old woman had killed any interest he might have had in continuing to fish because now all that was on his mind was thinking back to that time when his wife had gone missing. Until he had spotted the woman from his New Orleans trip, the past had been just that, horrible memories of what had been the worst time of his life. Now everything was coming back and returning to that day and demanding that he pay a heavy price. He was going to return to being a searcher, and that was not good for him. Picking up his tackle box, he started the short walk back to his car, passing by three trees where someone had painted a large red X on each of them. To him the X meant the number ten, his favorite number, he thought, as he continued his walk. While others looked at it as an unknown quantity, a kiss, maybe a cross, Jake Nelson believed it meant what his mother had always told him was the meaning. It was the preferred number of God. Study your Bible, she had admonished him when he had questioned her about the number.

In Genesis 1, you will find the phrase ‘God says' ten times, which is a testimony of his creative power, she would tell him. Ten, therefore, represents man's responsibility to keep the commandments. A tithe is a tenth of one's earnings and is a testimony of believing in the Lord. Never forget that, Jake, she would remind him. Now reaching his car, he opened the trunk and placed his fishing rod and tackle box inside, then slammed it shut. He turned and took one glance back in the distance, hoping against hope that the woman would make one last appearance before he left. He raised his hand to shield his eyes from the afternoon sun and focused one last time on the thrashing machine, where she had first appeared. There was nothing now but two stray deer moving around the rusting piece of history. He had come to this place with the idea to dredge a recollection from some deep place in his past and help jumpstart his current life, but all that it had done was the direct opposite, leaving him confused and bitter. What did Socrates say? All I know is that I know nothing.

Opening up the front door of his car, he slipped inside and reached for the glove compartment that contained his cell phone. Pulling it free, it caused his enclosed bank statement book to fall on the front seat. Opening it up, he looked at his savings account that some would say made him a certified rich man, provided if having $7.5 million was actually rich these days.

The drive back to Warren, Michigan, had taken less than fourteen hours, but Jake was still wide awake as he pulled into the driveway of his two-story brick home. He was on the verge of exiting his car when he glanced in the rearview mirror and caught sight of a Warren township country sheriff's department black-and-white pulling up behind his car. The action puzzled him because having lived in his house for several years following the apparent death of his wife, he couldn't remember the last time that he ever sighted a country sheriff's car let alone now finding one pulling into his driveway. Maybe the cop had just moved into the neighborhood, or maybe he was just curious about Jake's new silver-and-black Chrysler 300 special addition with the Detroit Red Wings vanity plate. Then again maybe he was just a good guy just doing his job while checking on the house, which had been vacant for the last few days.

Not a chance, he thought. The tall and muscular deputy sheriff emerged from his car and approached the Chrysler, coming up from the driver's side. As Jake started to get out of his car, he couldn't help but notice that the officer had unsnapped his holster. Yet the action appeared benign and discreet, not the action of a man seriously intent on gunning down a homeowner. After all, this was Warren, Michigan, not the killing fields of the South Side of Chicago, where a police officer often shot first because your cell phone reminded them of a .44-caliber Taurus. Being a semiretired private detective who once owned his own business just five miles from his house, he knew the drill and didn't finish opening his door or provide any movement that could be misconstrued to appear threatening, such as reaching for the weapon that was tucked away behind his leather jacket. Being stopped by any police officer these days was dangerous for both parties. Instead, he pressed the button that lowered the driver's side window of the $88,000 car and then put both hands on his steering wheel, where they could be seen in order to make the officer feel more comfortable. The fact was Jake could have written a book on the art of how to behave in the presence of law enforcement. He watched as the officer bent toward his face while training his Guidesman flashlight on Jake's hands.

Good evening, the officer spoke. He was white, in his early fifties, clean-shaven, and reminded Jake of a former Marine MP with his crew-cut hairstyle. If he didn't know better, and he did, the cop could have been cast as the drill sergeant straight out of the movie Full Metal Jacket.

Hello, Officer, what can I do to help you? asked Jake.

Can you let me see your vehicle registration and proof of insurance?

Certainly, but first may I remove my hands from the steering wheel?

Yes, but do it slowly, he said.

The registration and insurance card are both in the glove compartment, Officer Jenson.

Jake watched him gesture with his flashlight beam on the glove compartment before he moved.

How did you know my name, Mr. Nelson? he asked with one hand on his holster.

Jake waited until he had removed his vehicle registration and proof of insurance and handed it to the deputy before answering, It's on your silver nameplate, Officer. Plus years ago, I met you at my office. I believe it was the time that you wanted your wife followed because you suspected her of infidelity if I remember correctly. I once owned the Warren Detective Agency that you had visited that day. He watched as the deputy was struggling to place the event.

You had a beard and mustache that day, didn't you? the officer asked.

That I did, but in those days, image was everything officer, and remember, I was younger. People who are seeking help don't want some kid messing into their affairs, no offense intended. Now can we both relax, and then you can you tell me why you stopped me from going into my own home? Frankly I'm tired after my long drive, and sleep would be so welcome, said Jake. The cop gave him a perfunctory glance, which appeared to send a message suggesting that he had heard all the stories before and was weighing the value of his. Then to his surprise, he returned the documents and started to walk away without even providing any explanation. Hey! he yelled. Why did you stop me?

The officer turned and walked back to his car. Two reasons, Mr. Nelson. First, you failed to display a current license plate sticker on the rear of your car, which is a code violation in the state of Michigan, regardless what type of car that you drive. I realize that many officers give passes on that subject along with turning their eyes away on vehicles with excessive window tinting like yours, but I don't. Second, this neighborhood has had several recent home burglaries, and by the looks of your full mailbox, it was clear to me that you haven't been around for the last several days. This just happens to be my job. It's called serve and protect.

Jake couldn't help but smile. You win on all counts, Officer Jensen, and just for the record, I'll get that sticker on the car before tomorrow. The window tinting may take a little longer.

I know that you will because unlike tonight I don't usually give do-overs if you understand my drift, Mr. Nelson. And just should you be curious, I divorced the bitch, so thank you very much, he said, now finishing his walk back to the deputy squad car.

Jake watched as the car backed up and pulled onto Twelve Mile and Vandyke, then moved straight ahead and turned the corner at the far end of the block and sped away. Getting out of his car, he crossed the lawn to the side entrance of his house. From his pocket, he pulled a small keychain that contained his house key and walked up to the door. Inserting the key, he found that it wasn't necessary as surprisingly the door wasn't locked. Turning the doorknob, he walked in while removing his weapon from its holster.

Jake turned on the kitchen light and stared at the wooden Amish table, which was still filled with the banking receipts and the two brown journals that he had left unfinished before his fishing trip to Paul Blangue's farm. He shifted his gaze to the answering machine, which rested just to the left of his Keurig coffee maker. It was no surprise that the red light would be blinking, he thought, as he sat down on one of the three hard Amish chairs, a leftover from his marriage to Denise. The breakfast nook had been her idea and still remained the centerpiece of his kitchen. He remembered that it had taken almost five months for the table, chairs, and bench to have arrived from the Pennsylvania Amish community, but it had been her pride and joy, and he intended to keep it as a reminder of their marriage. He laid the pistol on the table sat back and thought about the room and what it meant to his concern about the door being unlocked. Nothing seemed out of place, and this would have been the first room that any uninvited person would have had to pass through first. The unused café escape chocolate K-cup packs had not been touched, and the Midwestern open MRI pen remained by the small tablet that he used for writing notes about things still to do. It had not been moved.

He scanned the electric security eye and found that it was still blinking. Clearly if anyone had been in the house, they had been either very careful or a professional. His eyes found the twenty-four-inch-by-thirty-inch glass display case that held his treasured fifty-piece collection of Boy Scout and Girl Scout campfire knives. Getting up from his chair, he walked over and examined the case. All was in order, and each knife remained in its display position. He was about to close the two small doors when something caught his eye. It was the special addition of a Robert E. Lee Fredericksburg knife that his wife had purchased for him issued in honor of the battle fought at Fredericksburg. He had always been a Civil War nut, and she had bought it for him as an anniversary gift. What was now missing was the matching knife to the set in honor of the battle of Vicksburg. It was the US Grant Knife, and that now worried him because it clearly meant that someone had visited him. That act was not then professional since whoever took it would have certainly understood that he would discover the loss. Maybe that was the point that he was supposed to discover it? Taking a moment, he walked over to the answering machine and depressed mailbox number 1. It told him that he had four messages. Pressing the number 1 button again, he waited.

This is a reminder that your Chrysler warranty is about to run out. Please call your local dealership for more information. Interesting, maybe they can remove the tint, he thought.

He erased the message and pressed the button again.

You have been selected for a free cruise. Please call the provided number and speak to our representatives at Jolly Roger Travel and Cruises. He erased the message and repeated pressing the button.

Jake, this is Kinsey from the Warren Detective Agency, and I need to talk to you about that new contract extension that we need to agree on plus that unusual phone call that we keep getting. This time he didn't erase the message but instead recorded Kinsey's words on his cell phone. He pressed the button again.

Jake, this is Megan. Welcome back. Give me a call when you're settled in. Four days is much too long if you can get the idea. He did and missed her also. Megan was his first serious dating interest since the loss of his wife, but the woman was as different as night and day from his missing wife. Denise had been careful and a general homebody that preferred her house and the safety that it had provided, while Megan was a risk-taker, finding that what pleased her was always an adventure and new things. Walking from the kitchen, he took the ten carpeted steps to his bedroom on the second floor while leaving his gun on the kitchen table. Reaching the second level, he walked into the massive bedroom with the two large walk-in closets and immediately headed to the antique silver-tone dresser. He liked the black granite top, which allowed him to lay his keys, phone, and hot drinks on it without concern of spilling or scratching the surface. Opening up each of the seven dresser drawers, he was pleased that everything appeared in order, including the bottom shelf, which contained his ankle millennium .9 mm pistol. Now removing his cell phone from his belt, he dialed Megan's number and waited.

Hi, it's about time, said Megan. I thought at first that you might have found another woman while you were fishing.

Actually I did, but she's probably a shade over one hundred. It took me a long time to get used to her from years ago, and this time it was worse, but that story is for another day. Today it's about the woman that currently has my interest, which is, of course, you. When I left, as I remember you were scheduled to meet with the mayor on that project involving building that new junior college for the disadvantaged. How did it go, assuming that you can talk about it?

No secrets, Jake. We need to get additional funding because as you already know the city of Warren is experiencing much of the same problems as is Detroit and the rest of this very broke state. Nothing seems to work anymore, Jake. Everybody is tapped out, and raising new taxes is not an option at this point according to his honor.

What about your friends at the casino? asked Jake. Isn't that why the mayor put you on his blue-ribbon panel to put the pressure on the high rollers?

There are no free lunches as you well know, darling. Everything comes with a price, and Al Meadowlark has a high asking price to get him on board.

He wants more than to just play golf with the mayor, then, I take it?

Yes, much more, but because you're a territorial man, let's save that also for another time. Do you have any free moments tomorrow, say, around 6:00 p.m.?

That will work just fine right after I see Kinsey, he said.

Is she still trying to convince you to come back to the detective agency? asked Megan.

Probably, but you know how much I like my retirement and freedom, said Jake.

Are you talking about us or fishing? she asked, teasing him.

Look, fishing is wonderful, Megan, but there's no comparison to putting my hands through that wonderful reddish-brown hair of yours. I'm hurt that you would even think that my priority is built around tossing a forty-pound fishing line in the water in comparison to kissing a woman with a face photographers have fallen in love with, including yours truly. Few men in this world have been so blessed with dating a woman with the striking, flawless complexion that you have, not to even mention that prominent healthy figure if I might be so bold, over the phone, Jake said.

You have missed me. She laughed. I'll see you later tomorrow, and be sure that you take that five-hour energy drink, she said, hanging up while still laughing.

Jake put the cell phone back on his belt but couldn't stop thinking about Megan and her electric personality. There were these small things that made her different. Her nose alone was something that most men fell in love with. Prominent, with a bump at the bridge that produced an exotic cast alone. She had the ability to enter a room wearing the simplest yellow or pink dress, and every man would be dreaming about having the opportunity to get her in bed, but in the end, that man was him, and that was even better than any bank account, he thought.

Now turning his thoughts back to the Warren Detective Agency, he dialed Kinsey.

Warren Detective Agency, this is Andrea. May I help you?

Andrea, we've never met. This is Jake. Is Kinsey in today?

She certainly is and has been expecting your call. Please hold on and I'll buzz her that you're on the line, she said. Nice talking to you, Mr. Nelson, she said as the phone line went silent, and he waited for Kinsey.

How were they biting, Jake? asked Kinsey.

Faster than I could put them on my stringer lady. And if you believe that, you might be in the market for that bridge that everyone wants to sell you. Actually, the trip wasn't what I thought that it would be, but no more complaining. You called me, so what's up, boss?

Boss? For God's sakes, Jake, you still own this company. I just lease the space, and that's part of the reason I left you a message. You just can't continue to avoid me paying you market value for this lease. Seven hundred and fifty dollars a month for 2,500 square feet doesn't make me feel that good despite it being the deal of the century, so how about accepting eighteen hundred at least? That would still save me over two grand for this location.

I can't do that, Kinsey, because as you already know, I maintain my own office in your detective agency. It just doesn't seem right under the circumstances, he said.

Bullcrap, you don't have an office here, Jake. What you maintain is a storage area for our office supplies and stuff. If you don't establish a better rate, I may have to leave before people think that you and I are sharing the same bedroom, and that won't look so good.

Everyone knows that Megan and I happen to be a couple, Kinsey. Besides, you happen to be gay, and thus that boat doesn't sail for either of us now, does it?

Just think about it, Jake, that's all that I ask. I made over $300,000 last year after paying off expenses, and it should come in higher this year. Business is good especially now that I've been able to afford two new employees. One is now my full-time detective and the other our receptionist.

Is Andrea one of your new employees? Jake asked.

Yes, she's my African American detective and has opened another total market for us.

Good job, Kinsey. Now tell me about that strange call you've been receiving. It sounds like something that involves me.

Some woman has been calling and asking about you. She won't give her name, just insists that she knows you and has information about your former wife's disappearance. She insisted that the person who actually kidnapped Denise years ago failed to kill her as planned and that there were other reasons for her current disappearance and that some police officer was involved in this matter. I know that this sounds more than weird after all these years, Jake, but I thought that you needed to know.

I take it you don't have this woman's name or where she might live? asked Jake.

You know how these things work. They give you just a little to wet your lips, and they just disappear while you wait for them to call in again, said Kinsey.

So there's no name, phone number, or address of this mystery caller. Is that what you have? asked Jake, showing for the first time his disappointment.

I actually didn't take the call, and when my staff asked those questions, she didn't cooperate, but we do have something. It's small, but at least it's worth considering, she said. Andrea, the investigator who came to us most recently, handled the call. She felt very strongly that the woman was very old. Intelligent, but old was the way that she described her manner and voice inflection.

I understand what old means, Kinsey, but the voice inflection part is something that I don't get, said Jake.

It sounded like someone who has spent a good part of her life in Louisiana, that type of accent, Jake. I don't know what else to tell you frankly, she said.

Would you mind if I had a talk with Andrea? You can be present if you like, he said.

Certainly at any time, and we'll leave it up to Andrea if she wants a third party sitting in.

Agreed, and I'll call first. Maybe you should give her a heads-up that this will be happening. That way she'll understand that her boss supports the meeting, he said.

Now about that contract, said Kinsey.

I'll work on it. You have my word that it will be soon, said Jake. After disconnecting the call, he got up from his chair, laid the gun on the dresser, and walked into the master bedroom bathroom, ran the cold water, and washed his face. Opening up the medicine cabinet, he removed two Bayer Aspirin, flushed the tablets down with a glass of water, and made his way to the king-size bed. Taking a small transistor radio, he pushed it under his goose-feather pillow and fell asleep, listening to an all-night news radio station.

Breathing lightly, he failed to see or hear the woman that had just come out of the closet. The stranger lingered over his bed, then checked his breathing to be certain that he was fast asleep before finally placing the earring in his open hand.

Jake, now turning over, woke up with his hair drenching wet. Reaching, he touched his forehead in an attempt to move the hair from his eyes when he felt something fall to the floor. What the hell was that? he wondered, now leaning over the side of the bed, trying to locate the object that he had once held. Looking under the bed, there was nothing. Why is that when you drop something, you never can find the damn thing? he wondered, now sliding his feet to the floor. His eyes found the dresser clock, which reported that he had overslept by two hours. Jesus, it was 10:30 a.m., which already shot the entire morning. He needed to see Kinsey and determine if he could solve the mystery of the calls that had come in regarding his former wife. Rubbing his eyes, he found his way into the bathroom and hurried his way through a hot shower and the washing of his disheveled hair. He remembered and smiled at Megan's last words yesterday having something to do with a five-hour energy drink. The implication was clear, and he certainly didn't want to disappoint, but God was he tired.

He had a pharmacist friend whom he had once asked what he could take for more energy. Well, the answer wasn't two cans of Red Bull or a NoDoz tablet, she had told him. Those temporary pick-me-ups wouldn't cure what's bothering you, my good man, she had pointed out. He had confessed to her that his personal favorite energy solution was a caramel macchiato with whipped cream. In the end, they had settled on trying some Panax ginseng that was intended to improve his adrenal function and sex drive, both of which she had said should provide a temporary needed energy boost in his relationship with Wonder Woman Megan. Walking back to his bed, he tried another attempt in locating whatever had fallen from his hand. Again he found nothing, which now had convinced him that it was, in fact, nothing.

The drive to the Warren Detective Agency took all of twenty minutes. The traffic was slow and suggestive of the continued buildup in population from what at one time had been a modest bedroom suburban city fifteen miles from the center of the declining but deadly Detroit. He couldn't help but feel depressed watching his hometown city slowly becoming just an escape haven for those trying to flee from the gangs of a once-proud city. In the distance, he could see the headquarters for the General Motors Technical Center that was once total farmland, where he had hunted rabbits and pheasants after coming home from school. Now the area was filled with three quarter-million-dollar homes, upscale schools, and people who got up each day and filled the highways with new hopes for a better life.

Changing lanes, he entered Twelve Mile and Van Dyke Street, which in another three miles would put him directly in front of his former office. Approaching centerline avenue, Jake's eyes caught the red-and-blue lights of a Warren police squad car issuing a ticket to some teenager. Passing the two cars, he cursed to himself as he now remembered that he still hadn't put his license plate sticker on, which was not going to sit well if he ran into Officer Jenson today. Well, it would just have to come later, he thought, now seeing the office building where he once practiced his trade after leaving Eastern Airlines. His original idea had been to purchase the business as an investment until he had interviewed Kinsey Waterhouse, who had answered his advertisement for an office manager. When he had asked her what her five-year plan would look like, she had told him at that time that it was to make his office the center for excellence and profitability despite the fact she was gay. He had