The Investigators—Chapter 1

This work is copyright Amanda Mayne November 2011.

Detective Craig Young was sucking on the end of a candy cane, twisting it every few moments to make the tip pointy. A few feet away, his partner, Aaron Ackerley, was trying (and failing) to play with a paddle ball.

" I can't believe people can actually do this," he grumbled, muttering a few choice expletives under his breath, "What the world record? Like three hits in a row maybe?"

Young's face remained stoic, but he laughed inwardly, thinking about his young partner and rethinking going into business with the knuckle- head. If you could call it business, that is. Their little Private Investigations office had received only two visitors, not counting Ackerley's family, who frequented the place nearly as often as Ackerley himself.

The first visitor was an elderly couple, the Nelsons, who were very sure that someone was breaking into their house every night. When asked why they came to that conclusion, they just said "The dog's in the house when we go to bed, but when we wake up in the morning he's leashed up outside." Young spent more time putting up surveillance equipment than it took to solve the case once the equipment was up. Within the first twenty- five minutes after Mr. and Mrs. Nelson fell a asleep, the cameras showed the culprit. Mrs. Nelson had a sleep- walking problem.

Their next client wasn't much better. A Madame Daisy Paine, who seemed too Texan to be a Madame, demanded that they track down the person who hit her car in the Nordstrom parking lot. The only thing to go on: a spot of red paint left on the bumper of her black mustang. When Young tried to explain that they couldn't track down the manufacturer of the paint, let alone the make and model of the car or the driver, she was very offended. She stormed out of the building, without paying, yelling and complaining the whole way to her barely- damaged 'stang.

"If you were real detectives the guy would be locked up already!"

No, this business wasn't fairing at all. If they didn't get someone soon they'd have to give up. They'd set aside ten months rent on this office space and it had already been three. Even if a client walked through the door right that instant, they'd have to fork over a lot of dough to allow Torchlit Investigations to keep its head above water.

As if some unnatural force had heard Young's thinking, the front door opened and the brass bell clanged as a couple in their twenties made their way into the small reception area. Even though Young and Ackerley saw their entrance from their desks in the back, they allowed the couple to walk slowly and awkwardly forward and ring the small bell on the counter.

The detectives exchanged a silent look, both wondering what kind of disaster this could lead to. Both the husband and wife were wearing long black coats, his all buttoned save the top button, and hers loose revealing a very fancy green dinner dress underneath. She had tight blonde curls that just barely touched her shoulders and earrings that did almost the same thing. He was wearing a black fedora and looked like a PI himself.

Young rose deliberately and made his way up front. Ackerley beat him there and greeted the couple.

"Hello, and welcome to Torchlit Investigations! I'm Aaron, and this is my partner Detective Young." Aaron walked around the counter to firmly shake their hands.

The woman looked clearly distraught, while the husband remained placid.

"You have to help us." Her green eyes appeared to get bigger as tears started to make paths of burgundy eyeliner down her sallow cheeks, "We've been waiting so long, but the police won't do anything, and I don't know why. Why won't they help? Don't they care anymore? She's just a child! A child! And she could be . . . she might be . . . it's possible she's alive!"

Aaron placed a comforting hand on the woman's shoulder, "Hey, take it easy. Slow down. Tell us what we can do to help."

What we can do to help, thought Young, I don't even know what she's blabbering about. But despite his annoyance at the state of this woman's emotions, Young was intrigued by the urgency of her remarks and the pleading in her face. This just might be a real case. And from the looks of that designer gown, it might save them from eviction.

The man looked down at his wife, who was now crying into Aaron's neck, and frowned. Ackerley was patting her hair and whispering consoling words. The man's eyes met Young's, and he introduced himself.

"My name is Derek Penshaw, and this is my wife, Lydia." He paused for a moment to gather his thoughts. "I'm not really sure where to begin." He stopped talking and looked at Young expectantly.

"Well, your wife--"

"Lydia."

"Lydia was talking about a child, a girl. Who's that?"

Mr. Penshaw put his hand over his brow and looked up at the ceiling. It was almost a full minute before he answered. Lydia Penshaw had calmed down and was watching the two men with wide eyes. "The girl was our daughter; she was kidnapped four years ago. She'd been eight years old now if she were still--"

At this point Lydia began sobbing, loud wailing sobs. Mr. Penshaw looked embarrassed for her.

"She's eight years old," he continued over the volume of his wife, "but we haven't heard from the police in at least five years, probably more, until yesterday."

Young nodded. "What happened yesterday?" He prompted when Mr. Penshaw didn't continue.

"Yesterday the police called us and told us they received a tip that our Tara might be living here in Colorado, so we got on the first flight available, we just drove in from the Denver airport."

"And the police won't talk to us!" Lydia chortled between gasps of air.

"I don't know why not. Some BS about jurisdiction, or cold cases, or something. They just said they couldn't help, wouldn't help and that if we wanted to investigate the tip, we'd have to do it ourselves or hire private detectives."

Lydia pulled a crumpled piece of paper from her coat pocket, "This was inside our rental car, shoved between the seats." The paper was one of the flyer's Young had made Ackerley put up months ago. "Your ad appeared moments after we made up our minds to go back to California and forget this whole thing. We thought it was a sign."

"She thought it was a sign," her husband mumbled, audible enough Young could here it, but not Lydia or Aaron.

"Let me see if I understand," Young began. He grasped the counter behind with both hands and jumped up to sit on it. "The cops call you and tell you they've received a tip that your missing daughter might not be missing anymore. And then they tell you they can't help you?"

"Um, did we say the police called us? It was the National Missing Kids Agency."

Young glanced over at Aaron, who had taken up the paddle ball once more, then looked back at the Penshaws. Something . . . no it was nothing.

"You mean the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children?"

"Ya, that was it. That was definitely it. They called us up and told us that someone found our daughter."

Young just nodded lost in his own thoughts. Something was tugging at his brain, some feeling was trying to fight it's way out. But Young wasn't one for feelings or irrational gut instincts, so he shrugged it off and held out his hand to the Penshaws.

"We'll take the case."

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