Total pages in book: 117
Estimated words: 108342 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 542(@200wpm)___ 433(@250wpm)___ 361(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108342 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 542(@200wpm)___ 433(@250wpm)___ 361(@300wpm)
“…Because you were the only investigator who cared enough to even take my brother’s missing person case in the first damn place… and because of you, the police finally found him. He’d be still rotting in the water if you hadn’t gone there in person! You gave me hope when others refused to help.”
Porsche sighed and nodded in understanding. She again glimpsed at the photo of the two children splashing gleefully in the water, and her heart cracked. She was looking into the two biggest sets of brown eyes she’d ever seen—a brother and sister who were close as peas in a pod. A wave of grief washed over her as she recalled her own brother’s death. Swallowing her pain, she handed the photograph back.
“I’m sorry for acting like this, Porsche.” She sniffed. “I guess with the funeral and all, I’m just overwhelmed. I don’t want to seem ungrateful. I am. You’ve done a lot. More than most. I’ll leave now. You take care.”
Ava slipped the picture into her purse and made her way toward the door to leave.
“Ava…”
“Yes?” She turned to look at her from over her shoulder.
“I’m not making any promises. And this is strictly off the books… between you and me. Look,” she clasped her hands, “I can make a few calls… I can do a little bit of digging, maybe find a couple of leads to hand over to the police.” She shrugged.
The woman’s pink lips curled into a bow.
“Please don’t get too excited though, okay? I don’t want your hopes dashed. Chances are high nothing will come of this, Ava, because the autopsy report unfortunately did detail high amounts of heroin, Fentanyl laced with horse tranquilizers and meth in his system, and though it’s a homicide, we both know that this will be viewed as a drug related crime, maybe a deal gone bad, or something of that nature. Regardless, I’m going to put some feelers out there on your behalf.”
“Thank you!”
“At least then, you’ll be able to say you did all you could. I know that’s what you ultimately want.” And I’ll be able to say the same…
“Thank you, Porsche. Thank you so much!” she repeated tearfully, then disappeared out the door, closing it softly behind her…
CHAPTER TWO
Nikolai slipped out of his gray Portland Winterhawks sweater, tossed it onto the kitchen chair, and poured himself a beer as he listened to a cello soloist on some public broadcast. He’d absentmindedly turned on the television purely for background noise, not bothering to change the channel. Classical music was fine by him.
His dinner was cooking, the aromas filling the air around him. Garlic. Basil. A pinch of thyme. He leaned forward onto the kitchen island, taking long, slow gulps of the cold brew, then looked out of the double patio doors, at the open view beyond—unobstructed by curtains or blinds. There was no sun. In fact, the sun had disappeared some days ago. It farted on its way out, and left a fog. The sky was draped in shades of pearl and gray, swimming and tangled together like fishing ropes flung in the atmosphere.
The clinking and clanking of pipes came alive from the basement, forcing him to let go of his weather analysis and daydreams. There it was again. Clank!
The old furnace danced to an uneven tempo of heat for a few short seconds, then settled. He listened to the twisted tune, then looked about the kitchen, making mental notes of things he needed to take care of before turning his attention to the adjoining living room that smelled of fresh cedar and pine. He’d knocked the wall down the prior summer, creating a more open concept. He admired it often. He’d slaved over it until it was fit for his standards—and if he said so himself, his standards were pretty damn high.
The old property, a five-bedroom, four-bathroom residence built in 1867, had been a piece of beautiful shit. It had the bones of a solid structure, much potential, but neglect from the prior owner, who’d had it for over fifty years, had caused a world of issues, some of which was taking thousands upon thousands of dollars to resolve. Due to the location on Danforth Street, it was a prized spot to be. Worthy of the investment. Many were vying for it when it came up for sale, but he’d wanted the house so badly that he was determined to get it. So he’d bought it with some money he’d saved while working for Parker Hannifin, and tackled each project himself. New flooring in the living room and parlor. Carpentry for the steps. Fixing bad plumbing was now a thing he felt he’d mastered too.
It was coming together quite well. He’d installed all new appliances in the kitchen too, but he’d allowed the original brick wall that made up the back of the kitchen and part of the largest bedroom to remain. The windows would need replacing soon—an expensive juncture. All of them had panes as thin as uncooked angel hair pasta. The slightest whistle of the wind would make them rattle and roar. The walls though? Solid. Thick. No one made walls like that anymore.