Damaged Goods

Chapter Twenty-Three

"Fantastic," I said, as I disconnected and stowed the phone. So much for that client. So much for this month's rent money. Now what?

I reviewed the situation. What did I owe Blaine other than a refund—partial refund? He'd tossed me aside like a pair of old shoes. That left me with the decision about the police.

If I blabbed to the cops about the ins and outs of my relationship with Blaine, would it affect my reputation as a licensed private eye somewhere down the road? But there was more at stake than Blaine's problems. Apart from the fact that I'd been shot at by someone keeping surveillance on Terry's apartment, there was the unsettling matter of Terry's disappearance.

My head throbbed, my back ached, and my chin stung where it had kissed the sidewalk. I angled the rearview mirror for a look at the damage. Minor road rash. I'd suffered worse.

"The hell with it," I announced to no one in particular. I had reason to believe something bad had happened to Terry. Time to file an official report. I could keep Blaine's name out of it.

I headed straight to the police station in Wheaton. I was tempted to just handle it with a phone call, but I felt like I needed to look someone in the eye while filing my report. This was more than just an everyday misdemeanor and I had to know whether the police took my concerns seriously.

At the police station, I entered through a lobby and found a skinny little guy in street clothes behind a desk, on the phone. He finally hung up and greeted me with a terse, "Yes?"

"I'd like to report a missing person."

The phone rang and Mr. Bones jerked a thumb toward a wall bench. "Wait there. An officer will take your report." He snatched up the receiver. "Montgomery County Police, District Four, Rolland," he told the caller.

I meandered over to the bench, sat down, and checked my email by phone. But I kept an eye on the multitasking greeter, to make sure he told someone I was there.

My head still pounded and I did my usual seated mambo to keep the lower backache at bay. I stowed the phone and shut my eyes, in a lame attempt to ease the pain.

After what seemed like only a few minutes, I opened my eyes and checked the time. I'd been there an hour. Startled onto my feet, I went to check with Boney Rolland.

I walked over to the desk and planted my hands on the edge. "Remember me?"

Rolland squinted my way. "Missing person?"

"Right," The word came out bit louder than intended. "You said an officer would come take my report. I've been here over an hour."

"Well, I've been here since 6:30 a.m. So I've got you beat."

"Any idea how long it will be?"

"As soon as possible," he said. "After they've attended to the usual murders, rapes, and burglaries."

My headache suddenly worsened. I closed my eyes and leaned against the desk.

"Are you alright?" The man's voice seemed to come from a great distance.

When I didn't answer, I felt a touch on my arm. "Why don't you go home and call the report in?" Rolland said. "We'll send an officer to your house."

I opened my eyes and, straining to stay calm, I said, "Thanks. I'll do that." Why didn't you tell me that in the first place?