I told Jim that I either needed a trip to the tombs, or that he needed to arrange for the evidence boxes to be delivered. He told me that they would be delivered to my office, but I had to sign for them; chain of evidence and all that hoo-hah. I told him that I would need an assistant, to help with the leg work, and some of the techy-magical-computer stuff that reputable investigators use these days. He told me that would have to be filed under the 'expenses' part of the ledger, and since when did I consider myself 'reputable'?

            Touché. Ouch, but touché.

            I reminded him that I would probably have to interview him, just to get his perspective on the events. He told me his perspective was in the files. Not a good sign. I told him that we could do a quick, once-over, informally, just to get the highlights set up. He gave me that look. The look only a hard-core, lifer cop can give you, that makes you feel like he knows, just knows about all the crap you've pulled, including that time you lied about your age to get into a movie that you weren't supposed to be at in the first place...when you were 14.

            "All right", he said. "We'll go over some of the particulars, just to get you going."

            He sat back in the booth and collected his thoughts. It can be very interesting to watch a man's face as he starts pulling memories up, especially the ones that cause pain. The little twitches, winces and furrowed brows are giveaways, but you never know which memory causes what twitch.

            "January 14, 1997," he began in a voice that was younger, less gravelly, less jaded. "Jamie Brewer, 25, of Lincoln, was reported by her husband, Rick, 28, as missing, when she failed to return home following a night out with several friends."

            'Last seen at?," I interrupted.

            "Her friends said they dropped her off at her car after drinks at Iguana's . The six of them were out partying, having a blow-out. They walked Jamie back to her car, she got in and drove off. Her friends all assumed she was going home, that was at 1:30 a.m."

            I was taking some notes, beginning to think that this was going to end up as a wild goose chase, but I did have to exercise my due diligence.

            "Mr. Brewer's first call came in at 8 a.m., we gave him the standard, 'You need to wait 24 hours' bit. She might be taking a break, crashed at a friend and forgot to call...'All that good stuff. So, the next day, he shows up at the station, all pissed off and we write up a missing person report. He's ranting and raving about how we've wasted valuable time and all that. The desk Sergeant, a great, big, old-school bull copper had to come in and settle him down."

            I looked up and my friend, Lloyd, was sitting at the bar. Lloyd does that, he shows up at places, he might have been there for hours, but you don't ever seem to notice him until he wants to be noticed. I stopped Jim, mid-story. "I need to go consult with my 'operative' for a moment. Grab a drink, put it on my tab --"

            "Where it will be billed as an 'expense'," Jim growled.

            "See.  We already read each other."

            Lloyd was fiddling with one of his many electronic devices. "Lloyd, man, I've got a gig, if you're interested," I said as I eased myself into one of the high-backed chairs along the bar.

            "I don't know," came the unexpected reply. "I am getting all set for my analytics, this season. The depth chart just came out. The first game is this weekend. There are some really good games on a tough schedule."

            "Relax. Have a drink. You know I wouldn't disrupt your 'data analysis' unless it was important. It's a paying gig."

            He shifted his gaze and looked at me. Wait. No. He looked toward me. His watery eyes seemed to stare through me. This look of his could be really unsettling. Sometimes it appeared as if he were seeing something just beyond the visible spectrum. Other times it looked like he didn't care about anything. The blank stare of someone who just doesn't give a shit about anything, including life, itself.  

            "Okey," he said. "I can go all in this week, and maybe next week. I'm really not expecting much of a hassle, this week. This is one of those games that Nebraska should win, it's just a question of, 'by how much'. I fully expect Ameer Abdullah to have close to 200 yards, rushing. It will be a vanilla game on both sides of the ball. Line 'em up and pound them, don't reveal too much to future opponents. Tommy Armstrong needs to show that he has progressed since last year. No bad interceptions."

            I nodded at him as he paused for a sip of water.

            "The defense needs to show that they haven't slipped, too far, from the end of last year. The interior line should be able to get some reps for the newer players in order to build depth. The linebackers and secondary will be challenged. Johnson, the Owls' quarterback is big and mobile, he'll make the defense cover the whole field."

            "So, after the game, you want to help me out? I have sweet, sweet cash for you."

            "The line is -22.5 for the Huskers. Take the points. Yes, I'm in, " he said, his gaze returning to our plane.