watching me.
So maybe I’d caught the Christmas bug.
OK, at least the sniffles.
I was thinking spotting Mrs Claus’ reindeer might have something to do with it. Even though a street-by-street search following the sighting had turned up nothing.
Of course, I purposely banned any thoughts related to his being anywhere near Queens Boulevard, which was also unaffectionately called The Boulevard of Death. I argued that anyone else would be sure they were seeing things and would give him a wide berth.
A human being, on the other hand, they would hit.
I’d happily called Mrs Claus and reported the news. Why, I don’t know. To let her know I’d spotted him, apparently alive and well? She’d been so overjoyed even I smiled.
Of course, that didn’t mean that tomorrow he wouldn’t end up sausage or reindeer jerky if the wrong person crossed paths with him.
Damn. Now why did I have to go and think that? Yuk.
I thought that perhaps there was something I should be working on related to the kidnapping case, perhaps beating the bushes or pounding the pavement, but since so many others were also on the case, I didn’t like the thought of fighting with anyone the way I had to at department store sales.
As far as I was concerned, they could have the last pair of red, suede boots at a killer price.
As for me . . . well, I planned to wait until the holiday crowds dispersed and a regular clearance sale would get me the same pair without the fight.
Guess the same could be said of my method of detecting. While chasing down leads yielded important clues, they also led down many a wrong road. I was satisfied for now that I had enough information to work with until I figured out my next step. Since no ransom demand had been made yet, there wasn’t all that much to go on.
The idea that the little girl might have been taken by a child predator . . .
No. Chances of that were so slim, they weren’t worthy of consideration.
And considering the money at stake, my thinking was she would be well looked after.
Hopefully.
Anyway, I certainly wasn’t going to solve the case tonight. So I had my notes and background checks and photographs spread out on the back of the sofa, passing them often and pausing here and there to leaf through a page or two while I decorated.
I didn’t have plans to buy a tree – artificial or otherwise – but while I was out picking up a couple of smaller gifts for my family, I put a few holiday decorations in my basket. Nothing major. Just some colored strings of lights, a couple of cookie trays with Santas on them (which I hoped Muffy would refrain from watering), and two fragrant table arrangements of live pine branches that filled the space with at least the scent of Christmas; one for me, one I planned to take to my mother.
Seeing as this was my first Christmas on my own, I wasn’t sure how big or how small I wanted to keep it. But while I’d grumbled at Rosie’s overboard efforts, truth was for the most part I liked the little touches around the office. Made it feel more festive somehow.
Festive. Now there was a word I hadn’t been compelled to add to my vocabulary lately.
Truthfully, I don’t think I’d used it before.
‘. . . then there’s Miss Platterpot, she live downstairs. She no like kids. Always tell Jolie “keep quiet” . . .’
I’d set up my cell phone to play my earlier interview with Jolie Abramopoulos’ Argentinian nanny. I was a half an hour into the nearly uninterrupted monologue of names and details and had essentially tuned out about ten minutes ago, much as I had during the conversation itself.
As with then, nothing glaring stuck out at me. But I still had an hour to go on the recording. And if there was something there, bookended with inconsequential details about the night security man’s bathroom habits (seemed he liked to relieve himself on tenants’ car tires), and the nice new mailman who always gave Jolie a head pat, I was determined to find it.
A knock
So maybe I’d caught the Christmas bug.
OK, at least the sniffles.
I was thinking spotting Mrs Claus’ reindeer might have something to do with it. Even though a street-by-street search following the sighting had turned up nothing.
Of course, I purposely banned any thoughts related to his being anywhere near Queens Boulevard, which was also unaffectionately called The Boulevard of Death. I argued that anyone else would be sure they were seeing things and would give him a wide berth.
A human being, on the other hand, they would hit.
I’d happily called Mrs Claus and reported the news. Why, I don’t know. To let her know I’d spotted him, apparently alive and well? She’d been so overjoyed even I smiled.
Of course, that didn’t mean that tomorrow he wouldn’t end up sausage or reindeer jerky if the wrong person crossed paths with him.
Damn. Now why did I have to go and think that? Yuk.
I thought that perhaps there was something I should be working on related to the kidnapping case, perhaps beating the bushes or pounding the pavement, but since so many others were also on the case, I didn’t like the thought of fighting with anyone the way I had to at department store sales.
As far as I was concerned, they could have the last pair of red, suede boots at a killer price.
As for me . . . well, I planned to wait until the holiday crowds dispersed and a regular clearance sale would get me the same pair without the fight.
Guess the same could be said of my method of detecting. While chasing down leads yielded important clues, they also led down many a wrong road. I was satisfied for now that I had enough information to work with until I figured out my next step. Since no ransom demand had been made yet, there wasn’t all that much to go on.
The idea that the little girl might have been taken by a child predator . . .
No. Chances of that were so slim, they weren’t worthy of consideration.
And considering the money at stake, my thinking was she would be well looked after.
Hopefully.
Anyway, I certainly wasn’t going to solve the case tonight. So I had my notes and background checks and photographs spread out on the back of the sofa, passing them often and pausing here and there to leaf through a page or two while I decorated.
I didn’t have plans to buy a tree – artificial or otherwise – but while I was out picking up a couple of smaller gifts for my family, I put a few holiday decorations in my basket. Nothing major. Just some colored strings of lights, a couple of cookie trays with Santas on them (which I hoped Muffy would refrain from watering), and two fragrant table arrangements of live pine branches that filled the space with at least the scent of Christmas; one for me, one I planned to take to my mother.
Seeing as this was my first Christmas on my own, I wasn’t sure how big or how small I wanted to keep it. But while I’d grumbled at Rosie’s overboard efforts, truth was for the most part I liked the little touches around the office. Made it feel more festive somehow.
Festive. Now there was a word I hadn’t been compelled to add to my vocabulary lately.
Truthfully, I don’t think I’d used it before.
‘. . . then there’s Miss Platterpot, she live downstairs. She no like kids. Always tell Jolie “keep quiet” . . .’
I’d set up my cell phone to play my earlier interview with Jolie Abramopoulos’ Argentinian nanny. I was a half an hour into the nearly uninterrupted monologue of names and details and had essentially tuned out about ten minutes ago, much as I had during the conversation itself.
As with then, nothing glaring stuck out at me. But I still had an hour to go on the recording. And if there was something there, bookended with inconsequential details about the night security man’s bathroom habits (seemed he liked to relieve himself on tenants’ car tires), and the nice new mailman who always gave Jolie a head pat, I was determined to find it.
A knock
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