Chapter 1
Sunlight filtered in through the blinds. Dust motes cluttered around Sergeant Foxwell, but it didn't bother him much. He was three sheets into the wind. He put his feet up on the desk and waited. He knew she wouldn't come, which is why he had started drinking in the first place. Besides there wasn't anything better to do on a Friday night. Foxwell thought about all the wrong turns he had made in life. He could have been married to Martha, had those two point five kids and a fucking dog or, maybe, a cat by now. He took a long pull on the glass until the ice tapped his teeth. It was a hot night in the Old North State. He could feel it in the ways his clothes stuck to him. He sat the glass down, got up, and stumbled over to the makeshift bar, really just a filing cabinet filled with various bottles. His mother had a taste for the booze, and perhaps that was the only thing she gave him, but he wasn't into making excuses, but only drank this night because sometimes that was the only thing you can do; the only time you can feel is when you are numb.
"Well, this one's for you Martha," Foxwell said and raised his glass. He almost spilled the amber liquid when he nearly lost his balance. He grabbed the desk to steady himself and took a small sip. He wobbled his way over and plopped into the leather desk chair. He adjusted his tie, took another sip, and set the glass down. He thought about Martha, which was always a mistake. He thought about his life now and placed his new, imaginary, life as an overlay. He closed his eyes and saw these tumblers falling into place. He breathed deeply letting the whiskey settle in some more like a warm, velvety blanket. He knows Martha would have never worked out. Not because of her, but he knows that beneath the thin veneer of the "overlay" lies who he really is and he can't change that. He sees, in his mind, Martha walking out the door along with his cat, dog, and two point five kids. Where is Martha now? He thought, but he is too drunk to look it up, and in the morning he will be too sober to do it either. Best to let sleeping dogs lie.
There is bang, which causes him to jerk awake. For a moment he is disoriented. He pats his body as though he has been shot, checking for wounds that are not physically there. His head still swims with half a fifth of rot gut whiskey, but he is up and out of the chair. He reaches into the desk drawer for his 9mm, but then he looks at the door. A woman is standing inside his office. She is a red head with glasses. Her slender frame is draped by a dress as though it decided to wear her. She is holding her hands against her chest as though he startled her. He closes the drawer and smooths his hair back. He quickly checks his breath and walks out his dimly lit office area. How long had I been asleep?
She smiles when he comes closer, and says, "Mr. Foxwell?"
"Sergeant, Mr. Foxwell was my dad." He clears his throat hoping to push some of the awkwardness out of the room.
"I need some help."
"Young lady --"
She holds up a hand to stop him. "I'm young and a lady, Mr. Foxwell, but don't think I'm helpless or hapless."
"I wouldn't assume either, Miss? I never got your name."
"Julianna Velvet is my name, and I really do need your help."
"Well, you've come to the right place, I guess. Have a seat," he said and pointed to a small couch. Julianna sat down, which caused her to almost be engulfed by the dress. She looked like those old pictures of kids who play dress up, yet her eyes were those of an old soul. They seemed to burn through Foxwell as he watched her adjust, but that could also be the whiskey. He wiped his brow with his sleeve, and continued, "So, what can I help you with? You sure Frank Sanders didn't put you up to this?"
She rolled her eyes, and said, "This is a pressing matter, Mr. Foxwell. I don't know who this Mr. Sanders is, but I do need help, so are you going to listen or try and make more jokes?"
"You've got my undivided attention, Ms. Velvet."
"OK, " she said and took a deep breath. She closed her eyes, and let it out. There was something about this that intoxicated Foxwell more than any form of booze could ever. It wasn't a sexual attraction, but there was an energy in watching another human breathe that was undeniably primal. When her eyes popped open he jumped slightly, but then the moment was over. "I need you to help find my brother."
"I don't get too many missing person cases, Ms. Velvet. Have you talked to the police?"
"Yes, but they wouldn't help."
"They give you the whole '24 hours' runaround?"
"Well, yes, but he's been missing for a week."
"What do you want me to do?"
"Look, I don't know you from Adam, Mr. Foxwell, but I was Googling detectives near me when your name popped up. You didn't have a website or an administrative assistant, so I had to charge down here to speak with you in person."
"I don't want to waste your time, Ms. Velvet."
"It's my time, ain't it?"
"I've got other cases to work. I just can't do it."
"When I walked in here, the only case you were working was the back of your eye lids."
"You can't afford me."
"And you can't afford not to work this case," she said, and stood up. "You can call me at this number. I am staying at the Marriot on South Main." She handed him a card: JULIANNA VELVET was stamped on one side in red letters. On the other side was a phone number. She walked out of his office. Foxwell placed the card in his pocket and locked the door. What am I going to do now? He thought.
