You'd be amazed at how many people in a city like Nashville, Tennessee just up and disappear every year. That's what their relatives usually tell the Nashville Police anyway, that one day, the person woke up happy, went shopping or to work, watched the Late Show that night on TV, and was gone without a trace the next.
The Metropolitan Nashville Police are a great bunch of guys and girls who ought to get more recognition than they receive. They investigate every missing person report they get, and it they turn up even the hint of anything that suggests the person met with foul play, they'll do everything they can legally do to find them. They never stop looking either, even after years have passed.
Those missing people are the ones who want to be found. There are probably more people who disappear just because they want to, and they really don't want anyone to find them. The police can't do much about those cases since nothing against the law has happened and they don't have enough resources to go finding every wife who runs off with the washer repair man or every guy who decides that starting over is the way to go. That's where the private investigator comes into play.
We PI's are still supposed to stay within the law, but we can sometimes find out things the police can't. The people who know something are usually a little hesitant to talk to a uniform, but they don't seem to have as much trouble with a friendly guy dressed in street clothes.
That's what I'd just explained to the little brunette sitting across the desk from me. She'd been pretty hot at the Metro boys when she came in, but she'd cooled off some.
"So they really can't do anything to find my mother?"
"No, not unless you can give them reason to think somebody took her against her will. It doesn't sound to me like you have one."
"Well, no, but Mama wouldn't just up and go somewhere for two weeks without telling me. She just doesn't do things like that."
I shrugged.
"A lot of times, people let you see what they want you to see, but not who they really are. Maybe she just wanted to get away for a while. She'll probably call you in a couple of days or so."
"Well, I still want you to look for her. You said three hundred a day plus expenses?"
"Yes, with the first day in advance."
Janet Swenson wrote a check and passed it across the desk.
"I know you'll check it, but it's good. My husband owns Swenson Realty. You'll keep me informed, won't you, whatever you find out?"
"You'll know whatever I know by the next day."
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Janet left after filling out my standard questionnaire for missing people -- name, address, age, any distinguishing marks, tattoos, etc., known acquaintances, last known whereabouts -- the same stuff she'd told the police. She was right. I wouldn't do anything until the check cleared. I'd been burned before, and it's not like I could repossess her mother once I found her.
I looked over the questionnaire out of curiosity more than anything since I didn't have anything better to do. I don't advertise much, so I don't get all that many cases to work. It's serving notices that pays the bills and I'd already done a dozen that week.
Thelma Rogers was sixty-one, widowed, and from the pictures Janet had left, pretty foxy for a grandma. My grandma was heavy with short, gray hair and liked wearing muumuu's most of the time. Thelma liked shorts and sleeveless tops in summer, and had the legs, ass and boobs to make them look hot. I figured she dyed her hair. Most older women do anymore, and the deep red didn't quite match her light brown eyebrows.
She had a lot of friends and neighbors, and that was good because I'd have a lot of people to talk to for information. It was also bad, because I'd have to spend days talking to all of them and put each little piece of information into the puzzle that would tell me where Thelma had gone.
She didn't have any tattoos, not surprising considering her age, but she did have a birthmark on her right hip, just above the crease where it joined her thigh. That wasn't on the questionnaire. I saw it on one of the pictures where Thelma was bent over in her little shorts and talking to one of her grandkids.
I tossed the questionnaire in my inbox. It probably wasn't going to be hard to find Thelma, because one of those friends or neighbors had to know where she was. It was just going to be time consuming.
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I did have one active case, but it wasn't time to work on it yet. Amazon Amy wouldn't be up until about five that afternoon. Her real name was Deirdre Neflinger, and as Amazon Amy, she danced at one of the better gentleman's clubs in Nashville. Her thing was doing a handstand up against one of the brass poles, and then hanging there by holding the pole between her thighs.
Deirdre was very tall, hence her stage name, and really well endowed, thanks to a very accommodating surgeon it looked like from her pictures. When she was upside down, gravity pulled her gigantic breasts down too. She'd hang there on the pole while licking her nipples, then do another handstand and come down to the floor on all fours with her thighs spread wide, and her thin, stretchy panties outlining her pussy lips in a perfect cameltoe.
A twenty to one of the club bouncers yielded that information as well as the knowledge that she always got lots of tips, and if you tipped her enough, she'd come dance on your lap. She didn't go any further, though. Deirdre had a boyfriend, one Rick Marsh, who saw to that. According to the bouncer, Rick was not a very nice guy and he was usually in the club watching to see that Deirdre didn't go too far.
Deirdre had sued the club after an accident. She claimed one of the other girls had put something on her pole, and when she went to grab it with her thighs, they slipped and she fell on her head. Her claim stated she had hurt her neck, and was in constant pain. Her lawyer thought half a million would compensate her for lost earnings until she healed and that another two million for pain and suffering would be just about right. The club's insurance company asked me to find out if Deirdre was really hurt or was just trying to collect some easy money.
I'd done some surveillance on the house where Deirdre and Rick lived but she hadn't showed herself. After three days, I figured out she and Rick were night owls. I never saw either of them during the day, but one evening when I was getting ready to leave, Rick walked out to the curb to get the newspaper. He was wearing a bathrobe, and the way his hair was all messed up, I figured he'd just gotten out of bed. I stayed a little while longer to see what would happen next.
When it got dark the lights started coming on in the house. I could see shadows against the window curtains, and unless Rick had been hiding a pair of huge breasts under that robe, Deirdre was walking around in there straight as one of her dance poles. It didn't look like she was wearing much of anything, either, much less the neck brace she claimed she needed. I knew then she was faking it. I just had to figure out how to prove she was.
That's what I spent the rest of the afternoon doing after Janet left. If I could just have gotten inside for a few minutes to hide one of my little cameras, I'd have her cold. The problem is that Tennessee expects PI's to follow the same rules as the police. I could take a thousand pictures of Deirdre as long as she was outside in public, but I couldn't take even one inside her home without her permission. I didn't figure she'd think much of that idea.
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About five, my head was starting to hurt so I walked the three blocks to Joe's Burgers and Barbecue for a cheeseburger and fries for my stomach and a scotch for my head. I'd just pushed the plate to the back of the bar and drained my glass when I felt warm breath against my ear.
"Hi...I'm Bethany."
And it was, the same Bethany I'd helped a while back find out her husband was indeed cheating on her, but with another man. She'd been really, really grateful too, so grateful I'd been tired for two days afterward.
"Hi Bethany... or are you Beth tonight?"
Bethany's eyes flashed back the red and blue of the beer sign over the bar.
"Beth is the drunk me, and I don't wanna be her again for a while. I'm Bethany, thank you, and I thought we might have a drink and then go back to your place for a while."
"Uh...Bethany, I'm sorry, but I'm working tonight, probably late too."
"What's up? Anything I can help with again? It was fun the last time."
