CHAPTER TWO

      It was a Tuesday, a typically slow day in my line of business, and I was bored out of my gourd.

      The mailman had already been here, delivering nothing but the cell phone bill and a knot of flyers advertising businesses I’d never heard of (which, I guess, was the actual point of advertising). The phone hadn’t rung all day but then, it usually didn’t. It’s stubborn like that. The office door had only opened three times: Once, when I came in; once when I went out to lunch, and once when I came back from lunch. I’d spent most of the morning diving down a YouTube rabbit hole, watching ghost videos that were about as convincing as the special effects in Sharknado, and reading online blogs with the latest rock’n’roll news. Seemed that Weapons Grade Charm were gearing up for their first worldwide headliner tour and expected the European leg to be sold out the moment it went on sale.

      I wished them luck. I really did.

      Fuckers.

      They’d come to me for help a few years back, and now they were global superstars. In return, they’d given me a couple of tickets to shows when they played nearby.

      Swell.

      I sat back in my chair and put my feet up on the desk. Sure, there were better things I could be doing with my time but, at the moment, I couldn’t think of any.

      If Marina were there, she would have told me to hit the gym.

      Thankfully, Marina wasn’t there.

      The click of a doorknob turning echoed out in the shared hallway and I raised my eyebrows and cocked my head. Might be someone coming to see me. Probably not. It was more likely someone to see Lucy the Nutritionist or Art the Accountant, whose offices book-ended mine. I decided to stay where I was, leave my feet on the desk and see what happened.

      Odds were, whoever it was, they weren’t looking to hire a private detective today. Their loss.

      But then the door opened and someone peered in. I couldn’t see them clearly through the pebbled glass that separated my office from my tiny waiting room, but I saw enough to make my eyebrows arch in curiosity.

      Why were they on their knees?

      The door opened a little more and a single person entered the waiting room. I realized they weren’t on their knees, after all. They were standing and walking toward the office door in a slow, uncertain gait.

      They couldn’t have been much more than four feet tall.

      I shook my head, swung my feet off the desk, and headed for the door. My hand reached the knob on my side first and I swung the door open and stared down. I blinked twice in surprise.

      It was a young boy. Nine, ten years old, I’d guess. He had a mop of black hair sprouting from his head like a dark water fountain. He wore a bright green T-shirt adorned with Minecraft images (I knew that because the word “Minecraft” appeared multiple times within the design) and a pair of miniature blue jeans. He looked up at me with a combination of confidence and fear that impressed me.

      “You lost?” I blurted. I didn’t know what else to say. It was the first time I’d had an nine-year-old show up at my office.

      “No,” the boy said. “No, sir.”

      We stared at each other for a couple of quiet seconds.

      “Are you Mr. Heller?” he asked.

      “I am.” My standard response was “That’s what it says on the door,” but that’s how I talked to smarmy adults, not lost little boys.

      “The detective?”

      Again, “That’s what it says on the door,” flashed through my mind. “Yes,” I said. “The detective.”

      The boy smiled, but the smile was more one of relief than it was joy. “Good,” he said, holding up a plain envelope. “I want to hire you.”

      I took the envelope, peeked inside. There was a stack of one-dollar bills there about a quarter inch thick. Maybe forty of them.

      “Oh, yeah? What for?”

      The boy cocked his head and gave me a look. “I want you to find my sister,” he said.

      I arched my eyebrows and considered. Did I entertain this kid or send him on his way? Odds were, his parents were just down the hall, getting their taxes done or being told what to eat to stay healthy. They’d be along any moment now, calling for their son, wondering where he’d wandered off to, apologizing for the intrusion. What harm could it be to indulge him for a minute or two?

      “Come into my office,” I told him, standing back and guiding him toward the desk. “And tell me all about it … uh, what’s your name again?”

      “Tyler,” the boy said, climbing into one of the two client chairs.

      “Tyler what?” I prompted.

      “Tyler Atkinson.”

      “How old are you, Tyler?”

      “Almost ten.”

      “How old exactly?”

      “Nine years and five months.”

      I nodded, thumbed through the stack of singles in the envelope. I set the envelope on the desk and slid it across to him.

      “Consultations are free,” I said. “You pay when I start.”

      Tyler nodded, reached out, and slid the envelope closer to him. It was a very adult move, and I smiled just a little.

      “So tell me about your sister,” I said.

      “Her name is Lisette,” he said. “She’s five.”

      “Five, huh?” I asked. “Half your age.”

      Tyler nodded. Apparently, he wasn’t any better at math than I was.

      “And how do you and Lisette get along?”

      “Really good,” Tyler said. “I heard Mom tell Dad she was very proud of us.”

      I smiled again. “That’s good to hear. By the way, where are mom and dad?”

      “At work,” Tyler said. “Mom gets home at four; Dad gets home about five.”

      I glanced at the clock on the wall. Almost 3:30pm. Were the Atkinsons really at work? And, if so, what was their son doing here?

      “Where do they work?”

      “Mom works at the yarn store,” Tyler said. I figured he was talking about YOU’RE YARN RIGHT, a fabric store on Main Street. “And Dad’s the boss at McDonald’s,” Tyler continued proudly. “The one by the beach.”

      “Good for them,” I said, and meant it. “So where’s your sister? Why do you need me to find her?”

      “She’s been gone for a few days,” Tyler said. “I don’t know where. Mom says not to worry about her, that she’ll be all right. But I can tell she’s worried about her. Dad, too. They’ve been awful quiet the past few days and I know they’re thinking about Lisette.”

      I squinted my eyes and looked at him. “So, she just vanished?”

      “She didn’t disappear,” Tyler said. “She’s somewhere. I know it and Mom and Dad know it. I just don’t know where. That’s why I want you to find her.”

      He reached out and slid the white envelope back in my direction. “Can you start now?”

      I sat back in my chair and looked at him. Smart little kid. Brave. Obviously loved his sister.

      “How’d you get here?” I asked and couldn’t believe I hadn’t thought to ask that first.

      “Walked.”

      “Walked? How far did you walk?”

      “All the way from home.”

      I squinted again. “Where’s home?”

      “1611 West Allen Street,” Tyler said, as if I’d know where exactly that was. And I did. It was one of the condos in the Marillion Dunes Homes just off Ventura  Avenue. About a mile and a half away. Long way for a nine-year-old to walk. Hell, a long way for me to walk. And not a very safe walk at that.

      “Your parents don’t know you’re here, do they?”

       Tyler shook his head. “I have to be back before Mom gets home.”

      “I don’t think you’re gonna make it,” I said, glancing at the wall clock. “Tell you what. I’ll drive you home, talk to your parents, see what they have to say about Lisette. Sound like a plan?”

      Tyler beamed. “Sure does,” he said.

      I picked up the envelope of cash and handed it to him. “Hang on to this for now,” I said. “I’ll get it later, if I need it.”

      ‘Thanks, Mr. Heller.”

      “Brace,” I said. “Call me Brace.”