She came into my office looking like a refugee from the sixties, long blond hair, blue eye shadow and a see-through blouse.

“Mister Dumont?” she asked. She used that little girl voice I’ve heard a thousand times before, the one that wants something for nothing.

I left my feet up on the desk, but tossed the file I was reading on to the big stack in the corner.

“Yeah, I’m Dumont. What can I do for you?”

She shut the door and walked over until her thighs pressed against my desk. I got a good look at her chest, but I think that was the idea.

“Can you help me find somebody?” she asked. Still the little girl voice, but not sounding desperate or scared the way I expected.

“That’s one of the things I’m good at,” I answered, “but I don’t come cheap. You want to know what I charge before we get going? The meter’s already running.” 

“I don’t think the bill will be a problem,” she said and pulled a wad of cash from her purse. It was almost as big as the roll I found in a dead body coming across the border. Hell of a way to smuggle currency. And, yeah, I said I’m good at finding people. I didn’t say they were always alive.

I pointed at the chair across from me and she slid her backside into it like she was setting fine china down on a linen tablecloth, not bothered at all by my implication that she couldn’t afford me.

“OK,” I said and put my feet down where they belonged. “Who you looking for?”

She ignored my question and stuck her hand out across the desk. “Theresa Potter. Pleased to meet you.”

Her handshake was good, strong for a woman, cool fingers, palm warm but not sweaty.

“Danny Dumont. Likewise.”

“So,” she said, “do you want the whole story, or are you good enough that I just tell you who's missing and you fill in the rest?”

The little girl voice was still there, but from a tougher place than before. I looked at her sharply. I don’t care how smart mouthed my clients are, especially when they pay cash, but her face said the question was real.

“It might be faster,” I said, “to start at the beginning. That way, I don’t cover ground you’ve already been over. Assuming,” I added, “that you’ve already looked in all the obvious places.”

Nobody just disappears. Ever. There’s always something left behind: credit card slips, car rental, a plane ticket. At the very least, there’s always a body, no matter how hard it is to find.   

Theresa nodded.

“Carol Parker was my, uh, roommate. I mean, we lived together.”

I nodded. The sleeping arrangements were something I’d have to clarify, but that could wait. I grabbed a steno pad and started my notes.