DAVE ZELTSERMAN has worked as a software engineer for years and wrote crime fiction in a futile attempt to maintain his sanity. He has had a number of crime stories published both in print and on the web. In His Shadow is his first novel. He has recently decided to make a more serious go of writing crime fiction, and has completed two more dark crime novels since In His Shadow's publication, one of which was finished only weeks ago. In His Shadow has recently been picked up by the Italian publisher, Meridiano Zero, and Dave is looking for a UK publisher with the foresight and guts to pick up his books. If you're interested, please contact his agent, Bob Mecoy. 

EXTRACT FROM IN HIS SHADOW

My poppa used to always say life just ain't fair, and I guess of all the things he ever taught me that makes more sense than anything else. At least it helps to explain what follows.

Johnny Lane

Denver, Colorado 1997

Chapter 1

If I was lucky Debra Singer was still in Denver, and if she was, East Colfax would be a good bet. East Colfax was always a good bet for runaway teenagers.

Every major city's got its East Colfax. In Los Angeles it's Hollywood Boulevard, in New York it's Times Square. In Denver it's East Colfax. As I drove down it, I spotted Rude at the corner of Nineteenth Street smoking a cigarette, his black eyes staring far into the distance. Rude works as a bouncer at a strip club a few doors down from where he was standing. He also pimps for a couple of the dancers. When he was in Vietnam he was assigned to an elite unit where he'd be let loose into the jungle to return two or three months later with a string of Vietcong ears tied to a rope. The way he explains it now is he can't stay cooped up inside for too long, he needs to get out every half hour or so for some fresh air. I once tried arguing the point that the air inside his strip club was probably a hell of a lot fresher than the brownish smog floating around Denver, but he failed to see the logic of it.

I pulled up alongside him. He looked past me, inhaled deeply on his cigarette, held it in, and let it out slowly through his nose. "If it isn't the famous celebrity detective, Johnny Lane," he said in a soft, menacing manner. "I read your last month's feature in the Denver Examiner. It sucked. I used it to mop up some spilled coffee."

"Well now, everyone's a critic these days."

I parked and got out of the car. As I approached him, I noticed his handlebar mustache had gotten thicker and grayer, looking more like a steel brush than ever. He took in another lungful of smoke and swallowed it down. "I hear there's dissension in the ranks," he said.

"How's that?"

"One of the private dicks you hire was bitching and moaning to me. He thinks you're taking advantage of him. And if there's one, I guarantee you there are others."

I waited for him to go on but he was finished. He spat on the sidewalk and lit a fresh cigarette. His face had the hard, dispassionate look of a granite block.

"I got to tell you," I said, "that's just not true. I'm upfront with everyone I hire. And you know, Rude, it's really just generosity on my part that I subcontract my overflow cases. But you're always going to have your complainers no matter how good you are to people, know what I mean?"

"He told me you take sixty percent off the top. That's not very generous, Lane."

"Yeah, well, I got to disagree with you."

"And how's that?"

"Look, I don't put a gun to anyone, understand?" I was starting to feel a little hot under the collar. "If your guy feels he can do better than what I pay, let him."

A thin smile cracked Rude's face. "Hey man, don't get excited. I was just telling you what was said. You don't have to convince me of anything."

"Yeah, sure." I forced a smile. "Who's complaining about me?"

"I'm not going to betray a confidence." He took a final deep drag of his cigarette and flicked it away, his eyes half-closed and peering off into the distance.

"Sure, anyway, that's not what I came here to talk to you about." I handed him a color photo of Debra Singer. "Know anything about her?"

Rude studied it slowly and nodded. "Fresh meat," he said. "In a few months, though, there'll be maggots coursing through her flesh." His eyes shifted to meet mine and for the first time in all the years I'd known him I saw a glint of life in them. "That's a hell of a lot better prose than the crud you write," he added sourly.

"I won't disagree with you."

"Maybe I should talk to your editor. If he's going to publish crap like your 'Fast Lane', maybe he'd be interested in something good. Something real. The Rude Streets, stories of the hardluck."

I shook my head. "It won't sell, " I said.

"And why not?"

"Because you need a sympathetic hero. Someone for the reader to relate to and like. Not too many folks are going to relate to a borderline sociopathic, sleazebag pimp."

"But they relate to you, huh?"

I shrugged. "Look," I said. "I'm not making up the rules. I'm just telling you what they are."

"I'm a war hero, godammit!"

"Yeah, you're a fine, outstanding citizen." I took Debra Singer's photo from him. "How about the girl, where can I find her?"

Rude pressed his eyes shut. Thin lines of concentration ran down his forehead. Like grooves running down granite. "She's working at a peep show across from the Cabaret Club," he said after a while. "Fresh meat's working the private booths. For a buck she'll take her panties off. After that, a buck a minute and she'll play with herself so you can jerk off."

I felt a little sick hearing it, but it could've been worse. She had run away two weeks earlier. At least she wasn't working the streets. I thanked Rude and handed him forty bucks. He lowered his gaze to his watch.

"Tanya's on stage in five minutes," he said. "You should come in for the show, Lane. This girl's really something. She can pick up a roll of quarters and count the change."

"Yeah, well, I got more than enough change as it is. And as my poppa used to say -"

He groaned, interrupting me. "Not one of your folksy little sayings, Lane. It's too early in the day for it."

"That's funny you'd say that, cause my poppa -"

"Cut it out."

"Well now, it's too bad you feel that way. Maybe you would've learned something. Anyway, have a nice day."

As I moved away, Rude's gaze shifted, staring into some godforsaken world that fortunately not too many people other than him were privy to.

It bothered me to hear that someone was complaining about me, and it really didn't make any sense. At least none that I could see. My one-man operation handles a large case load, larger than most ten man agencies, and the way I do it is by subcontracting out my overload cases. Of course, my clients naturally want me to personally handle things, but they're satisfied with knowing I'm involved, even if it's only at a supervisory level. I guess it comes from the trust they develop from reading about me month in and month out in the Denver Examiner.

Regardless of what Rude thought, the forty percent I pay when I subcontract out a case is more than fair; especially when you consider that forty percent of my four hundred a day charge is roughly what the smaller operatives can get on their own. You see, what my clients are paying for is my name, reputation, and expertise. Not for some nameless private dick they couldn't care less about.

I decided I couldn't help it if someone's going to be unreasonable, and I put it out of my mind.

The peep show that Rude pointed out was a quarter of a mile further down East Colfax. There weren't any parking spaces out front so I double-parked next to a Mercedes with an MD license plate. Before I could make it into the establishment a huge hog-like farm boy came puffing out of the peep show and blocked me.

"Hey Buddy," he said. "You gotta move your car."

He was wearing a stained tee shirt and the largest dungaree overalls I'd ever seen, overalls that probably could've held ten forty pound sacks of potatoes. As it was, they fit snugly on him. I told him I was just going to be a minute.

"Sorry," he nudged me with his belly. I noticed he had small pink rat's eyes. "The cops will be down my neck if you block traffic. Go ahead and move your car. The girls will wait."

He had a sick oniony smell. I backed away from him and showed him Debra Singer's photo. "I'm looking for this girl," I said.

His small rat's eyes grew smaller and meaner. He moved towards me and bumped me again with his belly, pushing me back a couple of feet. "She's busy," he said. "Why don't you go get lost?"

I shook my head. "She's a minor. You bring her out here now or I'll close your place down."

"She told me she was eighteen," he argued stubbornly.

"Sorry Tiny, she's only sixteen. Look, your smell is beginning to make me a little nauseous. Why don't you go get her?"

He stood staring at me. "I don't like that name," he complained. "You think it's funny because of my size, huh?"

"Well, now," I said. "That didn't even have anything to do with it. I just heard some of the girls were calling you it."

He gave me a long sullen stare as he tried to make up his mind about something. I guess he decided my crack wasn't worth worrying about. He turned around and headed back into the peep show. I waited out on the sidewalk for about a minute and then stepped inside.

It was dark. It took a moment before my eyes could focus on a sign indicating that private booths were available in the back. As I turned the corner I walked into a room with about a half dozen girls sitting on a long cheap brown sofa, the oldest of them couldn't have been more than twenty. They looked nervous. From what I could tell with them sitting down they also looked like they weren't wearing a hell of a lot. One of them smiled weakly at me. Then I heard the commotion coming from behind them.

Tiny pushed his way through the red curtains that separated the room from the private booths, pulling Debra Singer behind him like he was pulling a bed sheet. She was crying hysterically, pleading with him, begging him. All she had on were a pair of panties. Tiny jerked her to her feet and then shoved her into the middle of the room. She collapsed onto the floor, sobbing.

"Go on," he said, a satisfied smirk twisting his little mouth. "Get her out of here."

I could feel my hands balling into fists. "You could've let her put her clothes on," I said.

Tiny took a small step back and then let his smirk grow into an ugly grin. "You told me you wanted her right away, didn't you? Now get her out of here! And I better never see your face around here!"

One of the girls had run to the back room and retrieved a pair of jeans and a halter top and was helping Debra into them. Another one had gotten her a pair of sneakers. Watching her, I noticed how thin and frail she looked. Like a stick that could be broken in half by stepping on it the wrong way. I took a deep breath and felt my hands relax. Tiny stood cautiously watching me.

The two girls finished dressing her. One of them was rubbing her face with a towel. Debra had stopped sobbing. Her eyes looked blotchy, the rest of her face pale and bloodless. I walked over to her. "Come on, Honey," I said. "Let's go."

She let me lead her out. The way the sunlight hit her as she stepped outside made it look as if you could see her skull shining through her flesh. There just wasn't enough flesh on her. As she walked ahead I could count the vertebrae running down the back of her neck. She was so skinny and gawky, her hips had barely begun to develop into a woman's. Thinking about what she had been doing in there made me almost turn around and seek Tiny out.

As I started driving off, Tiny stepped outside shaking his fist and yelling. I looked behind me and caught his eye and then put the car in reverse. He quickly disappeared back into the peep show.

Debra had been sitting quietly, her pale blue eyes staring blindly at her feet. All of a sudden she tried to bolt. I grabbed her around the waist and reached across her and pulled the door shut. She resisted for about a ten count and then her body went limp.

"I'm not going back," she stated in a barely audible monotone.

I drove the car until I could pull over to the curb. Then I turned and looked at her. I couldn't help but make out the thin pale blue outline of veins crisscrossing her temples. "Honey," I said. "Your parents are worried sick about you."

She started to giggle and then bit her lip. "I'm not going back. I'll kill myself if you make me go back," she said.

It was getting close to twelve o'clock. On the corner up ahead a couple of hookers were getting ready for the lunchtime crowd, disguising their sores with makeup and pulling their pants tighter against their crotches. Even with that sight I was feeling a little hungry. I also wanted to get Debra out of there as quickly as I could. "You look like you could use something to eat. Why don't we talk about it over lunch?"

She didn't answer me. As I drove I heard her teeth chattering and looked and saw her shivering. "I got a jacket in the trunk. Would you like me to get it for you?"

"No."

"What drugs are you doing?"

"None."

She had her hands clasped in her lap. I glanced at her arms and didn't see any needle marks. I drove downtown, towards the Financial District, and was able to find a spot right outside of the Corner Diner.

Carol was working the counters. She waved, but I indicated I was going to take a booth. I noticed her eyeing Debra somewhat suspiciously as we made our way to the back of the diner. For some reason it made me a little angry.

Carol came over with a couple of menus and a dishrag. "Hi, Johnny," she said as she leaned her cute little body forward and wiped off the table. "I really enjoyed your story last month."

"You didn't use it to mop up spilled coffee?"

"No way. I saved it. Maybe you could autograph it for me later?"

"Sure." I smiled at her. "I thought I saw you working the counter today?"

"I am." She started blushing, the red looking nice against her blond hair. "But it's not busy yet, so I thought I could handle a table. Is this, uh, your niece?"

She was smiling at Debra. I guess I was still a little angry at the way she had looked at Debra before because I smiled broadly and told her she was my new girlfriend. Debra let loose with a giggle and Carol's blush turned into a deep red. I felt bad as soon as I said it. Carol was a good kid, always cheering me up when I needed it, and with the type of cases I was taking these days I needed it more than ever.

"I'm just kidding," I told her. "She's a kid who's had some tough luck recently. I'm taking her back to her parents as soon as she has a good meal in her."

Debra had been smiling, but when I said that the smile dropped from her face, leaving it pinched. Carol turned to her and put a hand on her shoulder. Debra shrank back from it.

"You poor thing," she said. "What do you think you feel like eating?"

"Nothing," Debra murmured.

"Why don't you get her a cheeseburger and a chocolate milkshake," I told Carol. "And how about getting me your meatloaf plate. Think you can hide some extra mash potatoes on it?"

"I'll think of something," Carol said, flashing me a grin as she took the menus and headed back. I couldn't help smiling as I watched her walk away.

Debra had started tearing at one of her fingernails. "You're the detective in the newspaper," she said without looking at me.

"That's right. Ever read my stuff?"

"Yeah, it's okay."

"Everyone's a critic these days," I said. I leaned forward. "Honey, they really are worried sick about you. When I met with your daddy today he didn't look like he was doing too well."

She giggled again and then looked up at me, her eyes stone hard. "I bet he didn't call the police," she said.

I stared at her. I didn't know whether he had or not. "Why do you say that?"

"You're the detective, figure it out." She looked down at her nails and continued to tear at one of them.

"You don't think your daddy's worried about you?" I asked. She didn't say anything. Her lips started moving but nothing else.

I sat staring at her, a sickish feeling pushing into my stomach. Carol came with the food. I pulled her aside and asked if she could watch Debra while I made a phone call. She said sure, and told me I could use the phone by the cash register.

I called a Denver cop I knew and asked if a missing persons report had been filed for Debra Singer. He told me to wait a minute and he'd check. When he came back, he told me there wasn't. "Why," he asked. "Is she missing?"

"I'm not sure." I hung up and went back to the table. Debra was nibbling on her burger, barely making a dent in it. I had lost my appetite for my meatloaf. I waited until she put down her burger, and then forced a smile and asked her why she ran away.

She looked up and saw that I knew. Her face looked so pale and pained. She squeezed her eyes shut.

"Honey, what did he do to you?"

"What do you think he's been doing to me?" she asked back in a tiny whisper. And then she told me.

It was funny, I had half suspected it when her daddy had hired me earlier in the day. I guess I tried convincing myself it was the way he had explained it. I wanted so much to believe it was that way, that Debra was only a troubled and confused kid who had gotten into drugs and other bad stuff but if I could bring her back, him and his wife would do whatever it took to straighten her out. If only I'd find her and bring her back ...

If only it could've been that way. With all the lowlife cases I'd been handling recently I needed it to be that way. I needed a chance to do some good for a change. Rescue the lost, wayward daughter. Bring her back to her heartsick parents. Instead I was right back in the gutter, scraping my goddamn nose against it.

Debra was describing the sexual abuse in detail, about how it began when she was only seven and how it had gradually progressed. As she talked her small face tightened, her words coming out in an angry rush. Inside I was reeling.

Tears had started to well up within her eyes. One of them broke free and was rolling down her cheek. All I could do was look at her. It took a while before I could find my voice and ask her whether her mother knew.

"She couldn't care less," she said. Her bottom lip looked like it was about to give way.

"Now, Honey, that just couldn't be true -"

"I said, she couldn't care less!" she screamed. "She couldn't care less! How many more times you want me to say it?"

She pushed her burger away and dropped her arms and head to the table, sobbing. "You should've left me alone," she forced out, her words choked and anguished. "I had a glass wall separating me from them. No one was going to touch me there."

I told her I'd help her. That I'd work things out. My words sounded silly but there wasn't much else I could say. Carol came over and gave me a concerned look and asked if everything was okay. I didn't answer her. She sat next to Debra, and Debra turned and fell against her and started sobbing harder than before.

I sat and watched for a while, the sickish feeling in my stomach twisting my insides into a knot. Then I got up and called Craig Singer. I told him I found his daughter, but there were some problems and I needed to talk with him. He asked whether he should have his wife join us, and I told him it would probably be better if she didn't. There was a hesitation in his voice as he asked how Debra was. I told him we'd better talk about it in person. We agreed to meet at his home in a half hour.

I walked back to the table. Debra had stopped crying, but it looked like it could start up again at any moment. The short order cook yelled out to Carol that food was stacking up. I asked her if she could keep an eye on Debra.

"It could be a while before I come back, but it's important."

Carol looked uncomfortable. She nodded. "I'll try, Johnny. I got to get back to work, though."

I gave Debra a weak smile. "Stay put," I told her. "Everything will be just fine. I promise you that. Okay?" She looked away from me.

Craig Singer lived in Longmont, a suburb on the western edge of Denver. As I drove, I found myself daydreaming, thinking about things I hadn't thought about in years. Realizing it, it kind of shook me up, because they were things I really had no right thinking about. Things that wouldn't do me any good at all. It shook me up bad enough that I had to pull over on the highway to collect my thoughts.

As I sat there trying to clear my head, a state trooper pulled up behind me. He slowly walked over to my car, bent his head towards the window and sniffed, trying to detect alcohol.

"Everything okay in there?" he asked.

"Everything's fine. I was just feeling a little woozy."

"You haven't been drinking, have you?"

I laughed. "Not yet, officer. But I could sure use one."

"Why don't you show me some identification?"

I handed him my driver's license. He studied it slowly and handed it back to me. "I enjoy reading your 'Fast Lane' column, Mr. Lane," he said. "You okay now?"

"I think so, officer." I had a sick feeling in my gut that told me I wasn't.

Chapter 2

I ended up being quite a bit late for my meeting with Craig Singer. It was almost an hour and a half after I called him before I pulled up to his house. It was a nice house, a brick English Tudor. The front yard was extensive and covered with thick green grass. It takes some money to keep grass that green in Denver.

I rang the bell and waited. Singer appeared, smiling nervously. "Where's Debra?" he asked, looking past me.

"I thought it would be better if we talked first. I'll bring her over later."

"Is that usual?" he asked while trying his damndest to smile pleasantly.

"Sometimes it is."

Singer was a tall skinny man with a head that was too large for his body, making it look like he had a tough time keeping from tipping over. Like his daughter, he could've used some more flesh around his face, especially around the eyes and nose. He also could've used some better coloring, his skin was way too white and his lips way too red. I couldn't help thinking there was about a pint more blood in those lips than there had any right to be. He stepped aside, apologizing and letting me through.

He led me into the den and asked if I wanted a drink. I told him I could sure use one, that bourbon right now would do me a world of good. He pulled open a portable bar and asked if scotch was alright. I told him it was.

He handed me the drink and then sat across from me. "I've been so worried about Debra," he said. "I haven't been able to work or really do much of anything. I can't believe how quickly you found her."

I didn't say anything. I took a long sip of the scotch and leaned back in my chair.

"I got to be honest," he went on, his pleasant smile beginning to wear thin. "You're getting me nervous with the way you're acting. How bad is it with Debra?"

"Why don't you first pay me the three thousand dollar bonus you promised me and then I'll tell you all about it."

He sat for a moment blinking stupidly. "I thought I'd pay you after you brought her home," he said after a while.

"Well now, I think it would be better if we did it this way."

"I-I guess it doesn't matter. You're going to bring her home later today?"

"That's right."

"And I could always stop payment of the check if you don't." He blinked again and smiled at me.

"Of course you could."

"Well, then," he pushed himself up. "Why don't I go write a check?" While I waited for him I finished the rest of my scotch.

When he came back he handed me a check for three thousand dollars. I noticed some moisture had formed on his forehead. I put the check away in my wallet and then told him where I had found Debra and what she had been doing.

As I talked he kept muttering about his poor little girl, but for a second, I guess before he had any control over it, a look of excitement blurred his face. He must've realized it because he quickly buried his face into his hands. When he pulled them away he was the picture of the tortured dad. He had even forced a couple of tears in his eyes.

"Oh dear god," he cried softly, "my poor little girl. Thank you so much for finding her."

I stood up and turned away from him. I couldn't get that picture of him out of my mind, of him getting excited hearing what his daughter was doing for a buck in a peep show.

"Oh god," he was going on, hamming it up. "I'll make sure she gets professional help. I'll make sure that -"

I spun on my heels and swung at him, catching him hard on his mouth and bursting his lip wide open. He went down like he'd been shot. I only half saw him as he curled into a fetal position, spitting out blood and teeth.

He lay on the ground blubbering. I stood over him, trembling, trying not to do what I wanted to do, trying not to look at him, trying not to think about him. Somehow I got to the portable bar and poured myself another drink. I drank it quickly and filled the glass again.

He was still blubbering. Tears streamed down his face and mixed with his blood. He cried out between sobs that I was insane and that he was going to call the police on me. I walked back to him.

"Your daughter told me all about you."

"Y-You're c-crazy!" he screamed, thick red bubbles popping from his mouth. "G-Get out of here! Get out of here now!"

I kicked him in the stomach and that started him blubbering even harder. I leaned over and grabbed him by his hair and pulled him up so he had to look at me.

"She told me all about you," I said. "About you raping her and -"

"You going to b-believe t-that lying bitch? That lying little cu-"

I threw him down and kicked him hard in the chest, giving it just about everything I had. I then kicked him again. Both times I heard his ribs crack. He moaned and curled up tighter. I was still holding a glass of scotch. About half of it had spilled out when I kicked him. I drank down what was left.

"She's not lying," I told him. I repeated everything Debra had told me, every detail. All he could do was blubber away.

"When I bring Debra here later you're going to be long gone. For good. God help you if she ever sees your face again."

"What am I going to tell my wife?" he cried softly, and then broke out with more blubbering.

"That's your problem." I turned away from him. I had to. I walked over to a rosewood bookcase and picked up a family portrait. In it, Craig Singer is smiling with all his teeth intact, his arms wrapped around his wife and Debra. If you looked at it quickly you'd think it was just as it appeared, a typical upper middle-class family. The proud father, the loving but impatient wife, the sullen bored teenage girl. But if you looked a little closer, a little more carefully, you'd realize it was more than simply boredom on Debra Singer's face. More than just teenage angst. And if you looked hard enough, you could also detect the rigid lines around Mrs. Singer's eyes and mouth, indicating something more than impatience.

I heard Singer whimper. I put the photo back on the bookcase.

"I'm hurt pretty bad," he moaned. "I need help. I need a doctor."

"Again, that's your problem," I said.

He pushed himself up into a sitting position. I knew he was in a good deal of pain. He'd have to be with a busted up mouth and a chest full of cracked ribs. He looked pretty much a mess.

"You don't understand," he implored. "I love my daughter. She's really all I care about. If you give me a chance I can change and -"

"You better stop now while you can," I interrupted him. "In another minute it will be too late."

He started crying again. "What am I going to do?"

"You're going to get out of here," I said. "I think it would be best if you get a move on it now. I don't know how much longer I can stomach being around you."

He slowly got to feet, moaning every inch of the way. He grabbed his side tightly and started heading towards the staircase. He told me he was going to pack a few personal items.

I told him that I was sorry, but there wasn't time for that. He hesitated and then turned around. I followed him as he hobbled to the bathroom and then watched as he cleaned and bandaged his mouth. The area around where he bandaged had already swelled to the size of a small melon. I didn't much see the point in what he was doing, but I also didn't see any point in arguing with him.

When he was done, he asked again about packing some items. I shook my head and told him he'd just better leave now. I followed him as he left the house.

As he safely got behind the wheel of his Volvo his expression changed, the submissiveness in his eyes shifting to something else, something cagey. He waved me over.

"You had no right doing to me what you did," he said. "What you did was assault and battery, possibly attempted murder."

"I guess you could look at it that way."

"You guess I could look at it that way? I could ruin you for what you did. I could sue you for every penny you got and then put you in jail."

"Well, you could sure try."

"I could do a lot more than just try," he said, watching carefully for my reaction. "If you tell anyone about your allegations or write about them in your newspaper column, you'll find out how much I can do."

"Yeah, well, if you'd like we could go to the police right now. I'd be glad to bring Debra along and have her tell her story."

His eyes dulled a bit as he looked away. Blood had seeped from his bandaged mouth and was dripping down his shirt. "You better keep quiet about this Lane. If you don't I'll sue you." He turned back, facing me. "And I'll move back home."

I gave him a big, toothy smile, nice and friendly-like, and leaned forward, resting on his window. "Let me make sure you understand something," I said as politely as I could. "The only reason I won't write about this is because I don't want to make things any more difficult than they already are for your daughter. If she ever sees your face again, I promise you there won't be any face left afterwards."

He grimaced, and then put the car in gear and stepped on the gas. I had to jump back to keep from having my feet run over.

I watched him as he drove off. Of course, he was only kidding himself. I guess the finality of it all hadn't sunk in yet, but it will. It was only a matter of time. I wondered how it would feel.

I realized I was trembling. I looked down and saw my hands were shaking worse than a junkie's. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to blank out my mind, trying not to think about Craig Singer, about what I almost did to him, about what I wanted more than anything to do to him. Because when I was standing over him I knew I came within a hair's breath of sending him straight to hell. I knew it took every ounce of strength I had to keep from doing it.

I stood there for a while and then got in my car, and then waited until the shaking stopped.

I almost didn't get to the bank in time to cash Craig Singer's check. As it was, the teller was a big fan of mine, and by the time we were through chatting and I was able to leave it was past five o'clock. It was almost five thirty before I got back to the Corner Diner.

Carol was sitting at a table waiting for me, looking miserable. When she saw me her face went white.

"I'm so sorry, Johnny -"

I put up a hand, stopping her. Of course Debra was gone. I told her it was my fault for taking as long as I did. I asked her what time she left.

"Around one thirty," Carol said. "I tried to keep an eye on her, but it got so busy, and when I looked up she was gone. I'm so sorry. My shift ended at three but I've been waiting for you so I could -"

"So you could sit around and make yourself more and more miserable," I said, forcing a smile. "Look Darling, the reason I come here is that you got such a beautiful smile it makes me feel good just to look at you. If you're going to look the way you do right now, I might have to find myself another diner."

That made her both blush and smile at the same time. "I feel terrible about this, Johnny," she said.

"Don't. I'll find her. Besides, second time is always easier."

I gave it my best shot. I spent over an hour driving up and down East Colfax without any luck. After that I drove to Denver International Airport and showed Debra's picture around. People would stop and look at it and shake their heads sadly and tell me how sorry they were they couldn't help. I got about the same reaction when I tried the bus terminal. It was ten thirty when I gave up there.

I tried East Colfax again. At each street corner I would slow down and wait for the hookers to come running over and then I'd show them Debra's picture. Some would try to argue that they could give me a better whirl for my money than what I was looking for, others got nasty, and a few tried to help, giving me the old news about Debra working Tiny's peep show. After East Colfax, I drove around the State Capital building with pretty much the same results, only difference being that more of the hookers were transvestites.

By the time I got home it was two thirty in the morning. I was dead tired. I realized I hadn't really eaten that day, having skipped lunch and dinner, but as it was I didn't have much of an appetite. I tried going to bed. As I lay awake thoughts started entering my head, things that I just had no right thinking about. After a while, I realized I also didn't much feel like sleeping. Especially with the images that were swirling around in my head. I got up, found a bottle of bourbon, and brought it back to bed. A long time later I passed out.

When I woke the next morning, I felt like I had swallowed a pound of chewing tobacco the night before and then spent the rest of the night being kicked in the stomach. It was a lot more than the hangover that made me feel as bad as I did. I couldn't keep from thinking about Craig Singer, about what I almost did. About what I wanted to do. It was more than just that, though. It was the other things that had seeped through. Real crazy things that just didn't make any sense at all.

As I lay awake trying to sort it all out, I realized I was blowing everything out of proportion. Making a mountain out of what wasn't even a pimple on a rat's ass. Because if you think about it, what I wanted to do was perfectly normal; any sane, rational person would've wanted to do the same thing. If you lift up a rock and see things crawling under it your natural reaction would be to stomp on them, right?

There wouldn't be much under any rock lower than Craig Singer.

Realizing all that made me feel better, maybe even a little hungry.

I got out of bed, showered, dressed and headed off to work. My hangover seemed to pass through me. Like a bad chill. By the time I left I was feeling okay.

My office is right in downtown Denver, about twenty minutes from my house. As I drove I realized I was feeling more than a little hungry. When I got there I parked behind my building and then walked the three blocks to the Corner Diner. Carol was again working the counters and when she saw me she gave me a worried smile and asked how Debra was. I didn't see any reason for her to be tearing herself up over something like that, so I told her a white lie about finding Debra Singer and bringing her back to her parents. That brought a genuine smile to Carol's face, which in turn made me feel a little better and a little hungrier. I ended up polishing off a stack of pancakes and four side orders of bacon and a pound of hash browns.

Considering the fact that I run one of Denver's more successful detective agencies there's not a hell of a lot to my office, just an anteroom overflowing with file cabinets and a small fifteen by fifteen room - large enough for a desk, a coat rack and a couple of chairs. At one time I carried a secretary, but found I was throwing my money away. I handle the typing myself, and have an answering service for my calls.

The first thing I did when I got to my office was call Jimmy Tobbler. After that I called my service and got a list of messages. All but one were from Mrs. Singer. She didn't leave any real message other than she needed to see me. The lone other message was from a Mary Williams. I was able to locate her at the second of two numbers that she had left. We arranged an appointment for later in the morning. She sounded young.

I tried to make a dent in the paperwork piling up on my desk, but just wasn't in the mood for it. As I sat staring at it, Max Roth called to tell me that the case I had subcontracted out to him wasn't going as expected. He thought he would need another week, maybe two, to wrap things up. I was disappointed. The case should've been a three day job. He was obviously milking it. I told him if it looked like it was going to take more than another week to let me know, that I'd consider giving him some help on it. When he hung up, he wasn't all that careful about letting the receiver down. The noise damn near popped my eardrum.

A few minutes after that, Jimmy Tobbler showed up. I handed him Debra's photo. He sat down and studied it.

"She looks anorexic," he said looking up at me.

"I think she is." I rubbed a hand across my face and smiled guiltily at him. "I found her yesterday and then lost her. She'd been working a peep show on East Colfax. I'd like you to check out the other girls working there."

He thought it over, nodded. "I can think of worse ways to spend an afternoon. What if I strike out?"

"She's only been out on the streets for two weeks, probably doesn't have too many contacts yet. You could try checking the youth hostels. Still no luck, maybe she hitchhiked out of town. Boulder would be a good bet, so would Colorado Springs. My gut feeling though is she's still in Denver."

I paid him for a week's advance and then gave him the address for Tiny's peep show. As he got up to leave I asked him if he could take it easy with the expense money.

"Come on, Johnny," he grinned. "I'm going to have to tip these girls."

"Well, just try and be a little careful with what you spend, okay?"

Tobbler, being the comedian that he was, hummed Thank Heaven for Little Girls as he strolled from my office.

I picked up Debra Singer's photo and studied it. I couldn't look away from the pained blankness in her eyes. As I sat staring at it, I found myself wishing I had kicked Craig Singer a good deal harder, maybe a few times in the mouth.

There was a harsh wrap of knuckles against my office door. I got up, opened it, and found a middle-aged woman standing there breathing hard. I recognized her from the Singer family portrait.

"You wouldn't return my calls," she accused in a tight, forced voice. The rigid lines around her eyes and mouth were pronounced. "I came here hoping to find you."

"You must be Mrs. Singer," I said. I stepped aside to let her through. "Why don't you come in and take a seat?"

She faced me full on, glaring, her lips pressed into two bloodless lines. She was thin, bony, with blond hair that was streaked with some gray and pulled tightly away from her face. Her elbows looked sharp enough to cut paper with. She looked away from me, glanced quickly around my office, and then moved to a chair and sat down

I sat back at my desk and smiled at her. I couldn't help noticing her neck. While the rest of her seemed to be pulled up tight, her neck was long and thin and webbed with loose, sagging flesh. Next time she had a face lift she should look into doing something about it.

"I'm sorry about your phone calls," I said. "Just got back to my office only a few minutes ago. I've been out all night looking for your daughter."

She didn't say anything. She just sat there glaring at me.

"What can I do for you?" I asked.

"I think you know."

I blinked at her stupidly. "I'm sorry, I really don't have any idea -"

"My husband's in the hospital!"

I let my eyes grow wide with surprise. "Is that a fact?" I said. "I saw him only yesterday morning when he hired me. What happened to him?"

"He claims he fell down the stairs." She lowered her eyes from me. "From his injuries his doctor thinks he was punched in the face and kicked several times in the chest." She turned back to me, glaring. "Facial fractures, two teeth knocked out, four broken ribs," she said.

And, I thought to myself, a partridge in a pear tree.

"So you'd like to hire me to find out who did this to him?" I asked sincerely. "Do you know what he could've done to deserve that kind of beating?"

For a while all she could do was glare at me, pure hatred shining in her eyes. "He told me he's not coming home when he gets out of the hospital," she finally murmured.

"Well, now -"

"We hired you to find our daughter, not to split up our family!"

"I'm afraid I don't understand -"

"Where's my daughter?" she demanded. "Craig said you found her. Why isn't she home?"

I gave her a long, hard look. "He must be confused," I said. "Probably from the fall he took. I did speak to friends of hers who've seen her. She's having a pretty rough time, and when I do find her and bring her home she needs you to listen to her and -"

"My daughter lives in a fantasy world," she interrupted. "Debra's always making up ridiculous stories. I hope you didn't believe any of her nonsense."

"And what nonsense might that be?"

Mrs. Singer started to say something, choked it back and looked away from me. "I believe we made a serious mistake in hiring you," she said. "Why don't we consider you fired."

I shrugged. "That's fine with me. I'm still going to find her, though. And when I do I'm going to make sure she's safe."

"You leave my daughter alone!" she yelled. She sprung from her chair, her face livid, her bony hands clenched into tight fists. "You understand me? Leave my daughter alone!" She didn't wait for me to answer. She turned and fled from the office, the door slamming hard behind her.

I sat there feeling a little shaky inside, wondering what the hell good it would do to find Debra Singer. There didn't seem to be much point in it, at least none I could see. As I reached for a bottle of rye I keep in my bottom desk drawer, a soft knocking interrupted me. My office door opened and a young girl peeked in, smiling nervously.

"Hi," she said, "I'm Mary Williams. We have an eleven o'clock appointment?"

I apologized for keeping her waiting and asked her to come in. As she entered my office, I felt a funny feeling start to kick in my chest. She was that beautiful. It was more than just the way she looked though. More than just her slender body, or her soft brown eyes, or the way her long black hair flowed past her shoulders. More than all that. There was a freshness to her, a sweetness. As I watched her, I found myself smiling, a real, honest, genuine smile, and I realized that for the first time in god knows how long I was actually feeling pretty good. It surprised the hell out of me.

She was still smiling nervously. "I read your column every month," she said, looking around her. "This office is so cool. It's exactly the way I pictured it."

"Yeah, it's not much, is it?"

"It's perfect!" she exclaimed. "It feels just like a detective's office."

"Well, that's certainly good to hear." I said, grinning. "Otherwise, I guess I'd need to find a new job." A little red tinged her cheeks. "I hope I didn't keep you waiting out there too long," I asked.

"No, not too long."

"But long enough?"

She shifted uncomfortably in her chair. "I'm sorry," she said, giving me an uneasy smile. "I couldn't help overhearing what was being said. I guess I have the opposite problem of the woman who was just here."

"You're sexually abusing your father?"

"What?"

I shook my head, waving off my comment. "Sorry about that. I've been having a real rotten couple of days."

"He's sexually abusing his daughter? Is that why you beat him up?"

"No." I corrected her. "That's why he fell down a staircase."

She spotted a picture of Debra Singer on my desk. "Is that her?" she asked, a concerned look forming over her face. "That poor girl."

I gathered up Debra Singer's photos and dropped them into my bottom desk drawer, next to the rye. "Well, Miss. Williams, how can I help you?"

"Please call me Mary."

"Okay, Mary."

"I'd like you to find my parents."

"You lost them?"

"In a way." She stared down at her hands, a darkness clouding her face. "I was adopted. I'd like to hire you to find my birth parents. How much do you charge?"

"Four hundred a day, plus expenses."

She looked up at me, surprised and disappointed. "I didn't think it would be that much. I've been saving up for this, but I don't think I'd have enough if it took more than a week."

"How long have you been saving up for this?"

She gave me a dejected smile. "Almost two semesters."

"You're a student?"

"I'm trying to be. I'm a sophomore at Denver University."

I asked her what she'd been doing to save up for this, and she looked away, sort of embarrassed, and told me she's been working nights at a convenience store. After some prompting, she told me she's also putting herself through school. Her parents wanted to pay, but she didn't think it would be fair, not with her getting a job so she could hire a detective and the way they felt about it. From what she told me, I gathered they weren't too thrilled with the idea of her searching for her birth parents.

Watching her explain her situation, I just wanted to break out laughing. Not out of meanness or anything, only cause of how sweet it was. I mean, here she's going to college all day and working her butt off all night so she can hire a detective to find her parents. I found it touching, touching enough that I was almost ready to do it for free. As it was, I needed a case like this. I needed something where I could do some good for a change. Especially after the last few cases I'd worked on. Anyway, as my poppa used to say: it never hurt none to do a pretty young gal a favor.

I told her I'd charge her fifty dollars a day with expenses coming out of my own pocket. Her face lit up brighter than any Christmas tree. I sat back and enjoyed the sight.

"If you don't mind." I said. "I might write about this for my newspaper column."

"I wouldn't mind at all. It would be exciting." She lowered her voice, her face reddening a bit. "I've been saving your columns for a long time."

"Well, then, why don't we get started. How much do you know about your birth parents?"

"Nothing. My parents told me when I was twelve that I was adopted. They told me I was a baby when they got me. I don't have any memories of my biological parents."

"This may sound silly, but do your parents know who your birth parents are."

"No," she shook her head.

"Are you sure?"

"I'm positive." She pushed her chin out slightly, challenging me to argue with her. "They got me through an agency. They don't know anything about where I came from, or even what state."

"Okay, then." I found a pen on my desk and pushed the cap off. "Why don't you give me the name of the agency."

She looked at me blankly. "I don't know it," she said after a while. "I don't think my parents ever told me it."

"I'll need to see your parents. Why don't we set something up for tonight."

She was shaking her head. "I'm doing this on my own. I don't want them involved."

I sat back, puzzled. "Why?"

"Because it will upset them." She let out a lungful of air through her mouth and then smiled sadly at me. "For some reason they think I'm rejecting them. That's not true at all. Frank and Julie are wonderful. I love them and think of them as my parents, and I'll always think of them as my parents. But that doesn't mean I don't need to find out who I really am. I need to. They just can't understand that."

"I need to talk with them, Mary. Otherwise I'm stuck right now."

I could tell she didn't like it at all, that she was struggling with the idea of it. "Could you maybe just give them a quick call?" she offered as a compromise.

"Sorry, no, I need to talk with them." I flashed her my most sincere smile. "I'd just as soon find your birth parents for you as quickly as possible."

That settled it for her. She nodded slightly and asked if it would be okay if I came over at six thirty. "I have to be at work at eight," she added.

"Six thirty's fine."

"Okay," she smiled, "how much should I pay you?"

"Nothing right now. I'll bill you later. Just write down your parent's address for me. Also, I'm going to need a picture of you. If nothing else, it will look good on my desk."

She shook her head, still smiling. "I'd like to pay you a two week retainer," she said. "It will make me feel more like I'm really doing this."

I didn't argue. I could see it was important to her. She wrote me a check and then directions to her parents' house, and then held out her hand to me. It was a nice hand to hold. I felt sorry letting it go.

After she left, I sat back and realized I was feeling pretty good. I realized there was nothing at all to worry about with Craig Singer.

Not much else happened the rest of that morning or afternoon. I got a call from Eddie Braggs at the Denver Examiner, harassing me about whether my 'Fast Lane' feature would be ready on time. After that I drove around Denver looking for Debra Singer. I didn't find her.

Copyright© 2002 Dave Zeltserman

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