Fresno. Fresno? Nobody goes to Fresno, anymore

     Getting to Fresno on short notice is not easy. First I had to convince Tompkins that shelling out 3K for Lloyd and I to go was worth it. Either he really wants to solve this case, he was feeling particularly generous or I am extremely convincing.
     My vote is for one of the first two options.
     On a Delta plane that was sadly not delta-winged, we bopped from the LNK, over a couple hundred lakes to the Twin Cities, that from the air, look like conjoined twins. From there we waved at our houses as we backtracked to Salt Lake City, by one big lake, keeping a wary eye on the gulls as we landed. One final hop took us to Fresno, airport code FAT. That little tid-bit, according to Lloyd is either sadly accurate, or deliciously ironic, since Fresno has the highest diabetes rate in the country.
     We blazed out of the airport and ran smack into a sickening miasma of heat and despair. Rather than the beautiful vista of Yosemite, which you see on your way to baggage claim, you see a sprawling, decaying urban morass. It's like New Orleans without the charm, or the fun, or the history. I looked at Lloyd, he looked back at me with a look that read, 'you wanted to come here, bitch.'
     We grabbed the rental wheels and cranked the a/c in order to fight the heat and the weird smell that I can only compare to a port-a-john at a weekend long music festival.
     We found our accommodations, The Holiday Motel, on Golden Gate Boulevard. It looked like a nice place, if, by nice, you mean, homeless dudes shuffling around talking to Jesus about Hitler and working girls that have business cards with services offered and prices listed. I tried to prevent Lloyd from making too much eye-contact, but he was loving it.
     We got to the room and it was a good thing we had someplace to go. The holes in the wall and the bugs on the bed was unpleasant enough, but when the train rolled by, it was like being in Elwood's apartment in 'Blues Brothers'. I don't want to seem too harsh, but this place could be used to train special forces guys for how to survive in an urban environment on limited resources.
     "You know," I said to Lloyd, "we should probably just work out of the car. I don't want to leave anything here, and I didn't bring anything to play Fort Apache with if someone tries to pay us a visit."
     "Come on, I kind of like it," he said in a slightly defeated tone. "It's the kind of place that Charles Bukowski or Hunter S. Thompson would love...if they were broke...and unemployed...and freshly out of court-mandated rehab."
     "Tompkins made these reservations. I'll have to have a word with him when we get back."
     "What do you expect for 40 bucks a night, the Ritz."
     We went back to the car, shooing the working girls away, who scattered like starlings and called out to us in a polyglot of slang from around the world. Lloyd was beaming, it was like every seedy, pulp-fiction nightmare was springing to life, right in front of him. I know it's usually part and parcel with the gig, but it makes you appreciate how straight and dullsville Lincoln is.
     We set off for Ex-Stacy productions. Making our way through a town short on hope and long on despair. It was like driving across the front of an E-Z-Bake oven, but without the prospect of a tasty treat at the end.
     We headed across town, marveling at how quickly one could get a free windshield cleaning...at every stop light. Bums and low-lifes milled together on the campus, trying to look like students. Lloyd said those were the students.
     As we blazed past Bulldog Stadium Lloyd began to open up about the game. The game that we would maybe get to watch at some gulp & puke near the hotel. "You know," he said, gazing thoughtfully at the stadium, "That place only holds 41,000. It'll be like playing at Kansas State or Iowa State, back in the day. There are lots of Nebraskans in California, I wouldn't be surprised to see us pull a Northwestern or Notre Dame and take over the joint."
     "You feeling better about the team, than last week?" I asked.
     "It's weird, but getting RG4 back will make a huge impact. He's just a giant, disruptive force, that elevates the effectiveness of the rest of the line. The linebackers disappointed me, a bit, but I still think they are trying to get comfortable with their new roles after Rose got hurt. The backfield played all right, giving up one big play that led to a spark for the Cowboys, but overall they did ok."
     We were passing through a part of town that reminded me of Gaza, but without the charm, or local color. Bizarres rather than bazaars lined the streets. The locals seemed to shuffle along in a post-apocalyptic stupor, I half expected them to start groaning, 'braiiins'.
        "I think they'll be ok," he continued. The offense struggled to find a rhythm, last week, and some poor execution of third downs really stymied the offense. I think McNeese State might have actually had a more talented defense than Fresno. Both USC and Utah basically scored at will, I don't know if our offense is as good as that, but if the o-line is angry and embarrassed about last week, we could b in for a real show of smash-mouth football."
     Ex-Stacy was looming, according to the little voice on the dashboard, the vista had changed, a bit, it started to feel a little bit more like post-war Europe, but I was still a little wary of what I could get for a Hershey bar and a pair of nylons.
     "All things considered, the teams, the late start, the crowd, the fact that Derek Carr is starting up-state, all of it, what do you think?"
     Lloyd pondered for a moment as pawn shops, payday advance dives and adult toy stores ultra-glided past the windows. "Our offense is better than their defense, especially after getting slapped in the face, last week. Our defense is better, than their offense, but I don't know how much better, I'm thinking they will score a couple of times. Special teams is probably a wash, with Pierson-El still figuring things out. The environment and crowd will not be much of a factor. These guys have experience playing in stadiums that hold over twice as many people as this place does. I'm not worried about intimidation."
     "So, give me your final score prediction, and does Ameer get back on track?"
     "I don't want to get overconfident, but I think we will drop 42 on them, they just look sloppy and slow. I don't think we'll shut them out, but I think it might be a run away and hide game, jump out to a big lead, then run the ball so we can get the hell out of Dodge. 28-10, at the half, 42-17 final. Ameer gets his 100, but so does Imani, and Newby gets, close."
     I nodded in general agreement as we pulled into the parking lot, of a post-post-modern office building, all glass and concrete. The sun reflected off the windows and I was hoping it didn't laser-ize the rental ride. The sign out front included several concerns, including 'Ex-Stacy Productions'.
     We bopped into the blessedly cool air.

Heading back to Cali

     Lloyd hadn't talked to me for a couple of days. He doesn't mind being wrong, now and then, but to be really wrong perturbs him, some. He gets pissed off if you try to make light of it.
     I had been trying to cheer him up after McNeese State had refused to go quietly into the early afternoon. I tried the usual angles of, "Hey, a win is a win, right?" and "2-0 is a damn sight better than 1-1 and being the punchline of the week." What really set him off, for whatever reason, was when I said to him, "This team isn't as bad as the team that nearly lost to McNeese State, and they aren't as good as the team that crushed Florida Atlantic."
     I really don't know what button I had pushed, but it set him charging out of the office.
     I still didn't have a feel for Jamie's husband. He had been busy turning small bundles of money into bigger bundles of money in the shape of dirt for almost 20 years, now. He had gotten into the real estate gig, shortly after college and had angled toward the commercial side from the get-go. Matching clients with their rental space and outlet areas had grown into lining up investors into sinking cash into parcels of land for mini-malls, franchisees,  and car dealerships.
     He had a long-term plan, too. He would take any extra cash and buy up parcels of land outside of town along the major arterial roads. When possible, he would expand to land adjacent and wait. Like a spider, he was reward for his patience when the big-box stores started arriving. He tripled, and quadrupled his investments. There were some that said his value was in the millions, and it showed.
     He drove around town in a tricked out Caddy Escalade (hybrid, of course), Armani suits, Rolex watch, Aviator sunglasses. He was a key donor in local politics, and was occasionally rumored to be in the mix for several offices. I didn't think he'd take they pay cut to sit on the City Council.
     At the time of Jamie's disappearance, though, he wasn't the man-about-town, he was, now. He was becoming the guy the firm would bring in to close a tricky deal. The guy who seemed to know what the other person was thinking, and instinctively hinge the negotiations around that.
     As good as he was at figuring out his clients, he seemed to have a blind spot regarding Jamie. In the reports taken from the friends she went out with on the night of her disappearance, there seemed to be problems bubbling up with the Brewers. Jamie complained that they never spent any time together, that he was too focused on work. She wanted to start a family, but he wasn't ready, yet. One report, from a friend named Stacy Thurston, suggested that Mr. Brewer was stepping out, but when pressed, clammed up on the name. There was something about Ms. Thurston's report that chewed at me. The other ones all seemed to be alike, but hers stood out. The suggestion of an affair didn't surprise me. That only one of the six women that went out that night made that connection prickled at the edge of my skin. It was like something that you keep glimpsing out of the corner of your eye and when you look at it, head-on, it's gone.
     I started digging. Stacy had gone to school with Jamie, and had started making a bit of a name for herself, appearing in local theater and T.V. ads after graduating from college. She stayed in Lincoln for about a year after Jamie's disappearance. and had lit-out west to chase the stars and her dreams. About five years later, she drops out of sight completely. Almost completely. He mom told me that she will still get an occasional call, or a letter, but they are always short on duration and detail.
     I looked her up on IMDB, and found nothing. Even after I ran the name her mom said was on her SAG card, Robin Thrush, I only found a few appearances as walk-on roles in soaps and direct to video low-budget dreck.
     I was just about to give up on the lead when I happened to see the one of the DVDs being tortured on the rack at Hy Vee. 'Zombie Cheerleaders of Massacre High', in which Stacy played Jenny #3. I plunked down the 5 bucks necessary to release it from its discount purgatory. The kid behind the counter gave me the fish-eye. "Don't judge," I admonished.
     I didn't even want or need to watch the movie. I just wanted the contact information for the production company.
     I called Tent City Productions and talked to a secretary. Before she could cut me off with the usual nonsense about protecting the talent and all that, I jumped straight to the game. "Hi I'm Vic, Vic Marrow, from over at Twilight Casting and If you could just let me have the name or number of Robin Thrush's agent, we've got a project we'd love to offer her, a part that she is just perfect for, we think it would be the launch of a whole new career..." Do it all in one breath before a person's brain can catch up to their ears.
     "Hold on a minute," Julie the laconic secretary said. "Did you say 'Robin Thrush'?"
     "Yes. That was the credit in Zombie Cheerleaders."
     "Which one was she?"
     "The prom queen that got trapped in the bathroom. Tried to fight her way out with her plastic scepter."
    "Oh, yeah. she had a pretty good look. Her agent listed here Tony Marchetti--"
    "Great," I schmoozed. "If you could just give me his number."
    "Won't do you any good. He's doing a stretch in Q."
    "San Quentin? What did he do, kill somebody?" I asked, feeling my stealthy, sneaky plan unravelling.
     "Not sure. It had something to do with drugs, though. Either distributing or trafficking or whatever they call it. Anyway, he's inside. You can call there if you want to talk to him."
     Cute. "No, that won't do me a lot of good, now." I called the hail Mary play. "If she's unrepresented, maybe you could, you know, give me her contact information, if it's not too much trouble."
     "We both know that it would be unethical and illegal for me to do that," she said, still bored. "What I can do is this, since you seem to want to help the kid out."
     Kid? This secretary was all of 25 years old, and I was looking for a lady who had appeared in a schlock movie years ago for a company that I was surprised to still be in business.
     "What I can do is this. I heard that she and some of the other cast had moved up to the Valley and started working up there."
     "Oh," I said, suddenly realizing the implication of this new info. "So, she is now in the Adult Entertainment Industry?"
     "Ya, that's what I just said."
     "Thanks, anyway," I said and hung up.
     This brought a whole new dynamic. I had to break the jam if I wanted to progress. I dialed up Lloyd. It went straight to voicemail.
     "Lloyd, man. I'm sorry bout my cracks about your Husker predictions. I know you take it very seriously and I hurt your feelings," I said in my really, I'm trying very hard to be sincere voice."
     "Ive got a lead, but Ive hit a brick wall. I've been trying to track down Stacy/Robin Thrush and the last bit of info I got was that she had gotten into performing in the Adult Entertainment industry. So I'm stuck, I doubt if I'll be able to weasel any info about and actress from any of those companies."
     I hung up and started pawing through the other files. Maybe One of the other friends was still around. I was beginning to get a headache, and beginning to wonder if all this hassle was really worth it. The tiny oppressed sliver of my conscience and my bank account agreed that one must press on.
     I got a text from Lloyd. "Looking in wrong place," it read. At least he didn't blow me off.
     "What do you mean?"
     He sent me a link to XBIZ, the trade paper of the Adult Entertainment Industry. There, on a feature article, was a picture of an older, more secure Stacy Thrush. She wasn't a performer, anymore. She had started a company called Ex-Stacy Productions, some years ago. Ex-Stacy made films for women, by women, a novel idea at the time. She had done quite well for herself, and her headquarters was in Fresno, California.
     I texted Lloyd back. "2 things. Thanks. Road trip?"
     "K," he buzzed back.

     I sat up in the chair, a little. "How do you know her, Lloyd?" I asked, trying to sound calm. If true, It would be a wild coincidence.
     "Years ago, I worked at Lincoln-El. I'd need to take a look at that picture of her, to be sure, but what you've described so far, sounds like a girl that I saw there, a few times. I could be wrong. There were lots of people there."
     "What did you do, there?" I asked, a bit surprised that Lloyd had worked there. When I really thought about it though, there was a lot about Lloyd that I didn't know.
     "Oh, you know, a little of this, a little of that. Mainly I designed circuit boards...and did some assembling...and you know, independent quality inspection." He sounded like he was answering the question but avoiding an answer.
     "It's okey, Lloyd," I said evenly. "I don't really care about what you might have done 20 years ago. I'm just interested in anything you might know about this girl. Come on over and look at the picture and tell me if you think it's her."
    "Come over?" Lloyd scoffed. "What for? Take a picture of the photo with you phone and send it to me."
     I shook me head at myself for not thinking of that, Did as Lloyd asked and hit the send button.
     After a couple of minutes, Lloyd's voice chimed back. "Good job, Sam Spade, now if we can just drag you kicking into the 21st Century --"
     "Knock it off, Lloyd," I sighed. "Do you know her, or not?"
     After a few more moments, Lloyd came back. "Actually, yes." I used to see her around, but I can only think of a couple of times that I talked to her. Well, one time that I talked to her, and one time where she listened in, while I got talked to."
     I grabbed  pen and pad, ready to take notes. "Okey, details, Lloyd, details"
     "The one time, I was outside at lunch. Weird, I know. You know how I feel about the sun. Anyway, I saw her hanging around the smoker's area, and she looked like she was crying, or had been anyway. Against my usual instinct, I asked her if she was all right. She nodded and dismissed me and said everything was ok. Trying to be funny, I said, "Oh, that's right. Crying is usually the socially demonstrable indicator of everything being all right."
     I knew he couldn't see me, but I was shaking my head.
     "Anyway, I don't know if it was my tone of voice, or what, but she looked at me like I had just dropped her kitten in a wood chipper, flicked her cigarette at me and stormed off."
     I was trying not to smile as I imagined the scene. Lloyd had the social skills of gorilla at a garden party, and I was  not surprised that it wasn't a recent development.
     "Tell me about the other time."
     "Oh, that," he said, a bit distantly. "Yeah, she was the witness at my exit interview."
     "Go on," I prodded.
     "Well, imagine you have a brilliant idea. Imagine this idea would turn the company you work for, from a small, but growing, local business into a heavy hitter that could go toe-to-toe with Raytheon."
     "Sounds brilliant," I said, getting more and more intrigued.
     "Imagine that this brilliant idea can be made, from parts you have just lying around the shop."
     "Getting better."
     "Imagine presenting your brilliant idea to everyone up the chain of command and getting stuffed at every turn."
     "That would be frustrating."
     "Imagine taking your own initiative, and creating a working prototype of your brilliant revolutionary idea."
     "That should convince anyone."
     "Now, imagine being called into the HR office, with your supervisor, the HR director and a member of her staff, security outside the door, and hearing the words, 'misappropriation of company property', 'termination' and 'federal charges'."
     "What the Hell, man?" I asked really trying not to laugh. I knew Lloyd to be brilliant, but not to engage in anything criminal. "What did you make?"
     "Let's just put it this way, you know the radar systems they put on cars so you don't back over Billy's bike, or don't created a second door in your garage?"
     "Yes", I said, dying of anticipation.
     "They are manufactured at L-EL. My design was the genesis of it. Not what I wanted to do with it, but pretty odd how they appreciated my work."
     "What were you going to do with it?"
     "Seeker head for hand-held, anti-personnel missile," he said, matter-of-factly.
     To be honest, I wasn't surprised.
     "Very important question, Lloyd. At this meeting where she was present, did you say or do anything that could be, you know, interpreted as a threat or anything?"
     "I don't think so. Not to her, anyway. She just sat there, looking uncomfortable, but I think was her discomfort, not mine."
     "Okey, come on over and look through these files, with me. See if that sparks any other memories that could lend some background."
     I tried to get started on the husband, Rick's file, but didn't get any further than finding out that he was the rainmaker for Land-Grant Real Estate developers. He had been at it for over five years and had landed some big-time deals. He wasn't a member of the million-dollar club, but he was close.
     Lloyd half-crashed, half-slammed through the door. His usual entrance. He carefully closed the door, looking slightly embarrassed, as if that had never happened before.
     "Glad you made it," I said. "Now, lets get into --"
     "I've got to tell you about the Cowboys," he blurted.
     "What cowboys?" I asked, a little perplexed by his sudden change of tack. I shouldn't have been, but I was.
     "McNeese State. Duh," he said, looking at me as if I were the slow kid who had pasted his hands together...again.
     "Oh. Right." I sat back down and chambered a round from the desk bottle. Once Lloyd gets fixated on football, he rolls. Ask him a simple, one line question, and he'll give a 20-minute dissertation if you don't reign him in. "Break it down."
     Lloyd went into his zone. He got that far-away look like he was communing with the Oracle of South Bend. If his voice had changed, I would have hit him. "I can't decide if this game is going to be a bigger blow-out than last week, or slightly smaller."
     "Firm commitment, there, Lloyd."
     "They are the 7th-ranked team in the FCS. I just can't figure out if that makes them better than FAU or not. Either way, this is one of those games where there really is no benefit to Nebraska."
     "A win is a win, right?"
     "Yes. And no. Everyone expects Nebraska to win by a large margin, so if it is close or if they pull off a Appalachian State-Michigan scenario, it's like losing two games."
     "So, what's going to happen?" I asked, hoping he would finish up so we could get back to business.
     "It will be a blow-out. There. I decided. McNeese state has a terrible defense, they have trouble stopping FCS opponents. This is also their first game and the Huskers have a ton of confidence. I'm thinking that Ameer will have another 200-yard day. I think the coaches will want to work on Tommy getting better at checking down his pass options. He'll only throw deep if Kenny or Jordan are so wide open that I could throw the ball to them using three tries to get the ball there."
     "That would be a sight," I laughed.
     "Their offense will actually be pretty good. I'm betting they get to the end-zone a couple of times, possibly both in the first half. Will cause some concern when the ticker scrolls by with Nebraska 21-McNeese State 14."
     "That would cause some concern."
     "Randy Gregory being out will not be that big of a deal. Jack Gangwish will start in his place, but I don't think hell be going up against a high draft pick left tackle."
     "Can we go two games in a row without a turnover?"
     "I'd like to say yes, but the odds tell me, no. It might be something silly like a muffed punt, or it will be late in the game when the back-ups are in, but there will be one."
     "Hit me with a final score. I need to add to my stash. I added 90 bucks last week and I need to make it grow."
     "There is no Vegas line, so you'll have to connect with one of the O-Street bookies," Lloyd said, with a slight hint of disdain in his voice.
     "Duly, noted," I said. "What is your prediction, for entertainment purposes only."
     "The two drives that were field goals, last week, are touchdowns, this week. 63 for Nebraska. McNeese State has a decent offense, and will make things interesting for a while. Final score, 63-20."
     "Thanks for the knowledge, Lloyd. Now, lets get down to business and see if we cant figure out what happened to the lovely miss Jamie, and why Tompkins cares so much."

     I got back to the office and signed for the boxes of evidence. Two boxes. Not much when you think about it. Two boxes that was all that was left of a person's life. I lifted off the lid of the first box and eighteen year old dust wafted into my office where it sought out places to alight that had been cleaned only slightly more recently.
     I decided that I wanted to get to know as much about Jamie as I could. It seemed like it would be a good idea to try to get inside the head of the one who went 'poof' and was gone, rather than chase competing theories as to who wanted to make her go 'poof'. The cops always looked at everything as if it were a crime, which is good, it's their job. Sometimes they run into something that is not a crime and they end up driving themselves up a wall trying to figure out a motive. Motive is incidental and only really necessary to help juries and TV audiences understand.
     I found the file I was looking for and eased back into my chair. I put my feet on the desk and had the desk bottle cocked and loaded. No reason to unload a few rounds, yet, but the day was young.
     Jamie Brewer, at the time of her disappearance was a twenty-five year old,  working in the Human Resources department at a place called Lincoln L-ectronics. She was working on an MBA from the U., and she had started making her way up the ladder, pretty well. They had listed her income, and after adjusting it for 1997 dollars, it seemed like she was doing pretty well. Not enough to turn heads, but enough to make people go, 'hmm, nice gig'.
     I pulled the canvass photo. Big smile; bright, blue eyes; hair that was a bit long and a bit big, she hadn't been quite ready to let the look go. She was pretty. I used to wonder why the photos that were used when searching for missing persons were always of this sort. Happy, smiling, vivacious, a picture taken at a happy moment, or on a day that could make the short lists of Best Days of My Life lists. I knew, now, why people did it. They gave the picture that reflected the missing person at their best, hoping that somehow a charm would get imprinted on the picture and that would help call the person home. Pictures of the person when they were angry, lonely and afraid would be much more helpful, since that's usually the state of mind of who was being sought. But you don't take pictures of those moments.
     I stared at the photo a bit longer. I could see her in HR. She had the look of someone who could interview a prospective employee, put them at ease, and tease out those vital bits of information that people try so had to keep to themselves, but really cant help but share. Why they left their last job, really. What attracted you to this firm, really? Are you really as good as your resume claims you are.
     I don't know what I was basing that on. She was attractive, slim without being skinny, clear, fresh complexion. The clothes in the picture didn't tell me too much. Slacks and blouse, colors complimentary, glass of wine in hand at some gathering that looked more celebratory than obligatory.
     I dug deeper into the file. She had graduated in 1990 from Lincoln East. Good student, but not outstanding. Involved in several clubs and sports. Future Business Leaders of America, French Club, Young Republicans, volleyball, track & field, Fellowship of Christian Athletes. Participation in all of them, but not really outstanding in any of them, except for the FBLA. In that one, she had served as treasurer, vice-president and then, in her senior year, president of the club.
     Moving on to her University days, the pattern continued. Business major, A's in all her business classes, but she either didn't work as hard or didn't care as much about the other classes that make one a well-rounded individual in a liberal arts setting. B's and a few C's in the Arts & Science classes.  She had joined the Tri-Delts and I couldn't help but think of the old Saturday Night Live bit, 'Delta Delta Delta and I help ya help ya help ya?'
     1994 rolled around and Jamie graduated, B.A. in Business Admin. She got the gig at Lincoln L-ectronics and went back to the U. to get her MBA in 1996. The other key moment of 'This Is Her Life' happened in '94, as well, when she married Rick Brewer.
     I sat back for a moment before delving into Rick's file. Nothing in Jamie's background seemed to jump out at me. Good, steady gig. No criminal complaints. Nothing in the financials jumped out at me. I was just getting ready to open up the folder when the phone rang. It was Lloyd.
     "Lloyd, my man, what's going on?"
     "I don't want to seem like I'm bragging, but was I right, or was I right?"
     "About what?", I asked, knowing quite well, what he was talking about.
     "The game, man. The game. I just about nailed it," he said, almost animatedly, which for Lloyd was close to gibbering insanely.
    "What are you talking about?", I asked skeptically. "You were off by a total of 16 points. Yeah, they covered the spread, and you were right about Ameer, but you were way off on the kicking game."
     Lloyd scoffed, "I was right about Armstrong rushing for one and passing for two touchdowns."
     But you said Ameer would score twice, and one of Tommy's TD passes would be to Kenny Bell."
     "Fine," he snapped back. "I guess I wasn't as close as I thought."
     "Settle down, man, I was just flipping you some crap." Sometimes Lloyd got a little too much steam built up. "Tell me about your overall impressions. Good game, bad game, what?"
     "Probably the most complete season opener since Bo got here. The Offense played well, the defense played well, the special teams played well...enough."
     "Yeah, Kenny muffing that punt and still no return game is a bit bothersome."
     "The defense, with Randy Gregory out with his knee, did very well, after Flat's opening drive."
     "That opening drive didn't really bother me. Offense running plays the defense had never seen, with no tendencies to go on. Let's just say that I was more impressed with how the defense adjusted, more than I was concerned about that first drive."
     "A couple of turnovers would have been nice. Roach dropped a sure pick-six, and there was that one fumble that no-one could get a handle on. Speaking of turnovers, though, did you know that this was the first game, for Nebraska, without a turnover since the 2012 opener?"
     "I had heard that," I said. "Tommy tried to, twice, and one turned out to be one of the coolest receptions I've ever seen."
     "Westerkamp's behind-the-back grab," Lloyd asked, almost enthusiastically. "The pass, that was nearly intercepted by the defender, the ball deflected down and behind him, on a trajectory behind Westerkamp, when he reached behind himself, with both hands, stopped the balls momentum with his right hand, secured it with his left, slightly above butt level, and still had the presence of mind to double-tap his feet before going out of bounds. That one?"
     "Sounds about right," I said. "Hey, I know you called for something other than to talk football. What's up?"
     "Oh, yeah, that," he said, as if remembering he needed to take some books back to the library. "You know, your missing person, Jamie Brewer?"
    "Yeah. What about her?"
    "I think I know her."

     "Twenty-two and a half seems a bit of a reach," I scoffed. "The o-line needs to mesh and develop chemistry. Tommy needs to make the team his, and doesn't have the 'explosiveness' of Martinez, well, Martinez before his knee/toe/head injury slowed him down."
     Lloyd looked at me, strangely. "Martinez never had a head injury."
     "I know. It would have been nice to blame some of his decision making on one, though."
     "Let it go, man. T-Magic era died a lonely death in Minnesota, last year. It's Tommy Time."
     I shook my head at Lloyd.
     "Tommy Armstrong, Hero of the High Plains."
     "Keep working on it, man, something will come to you."
     Lloyd drifted for a bit, before resuming his analysis. "The running game will be awesome. The depth is amazing. Imagine having to chase Ameer Abdullah around. Once he needs a rest, Imani Cross comes in, and he's good enough to start on your team. Then Terrell Newby appears, and he's just biding his time to get to be the guy that  could start for your team. Fresh legs, all day long."
     "As long as the o-line is opening the holes for them," I pointed out.
     "Ameer will finish with 200 yards rushing, against the FLAt Owls."
     "Flat Owls?"
     "FLorida Atlantic."
     "Got it. Cute. How about the receiving corps?"
     "Kenny Bell is prepping his highlight reel for draft day, next year. Jamal Turner and Jordan Westerkamp will be viable downfield threats. We just need a big, go-to receiver to do what Quincy Enunwa did, last year. Cethan Carter needs to make the jump from talented freshman to reliable seem target, at tight end."
     I nodded. None of this was really new, but I liked to get Lloyd fired up. He was easier to work with, and didn't need to be prodded into action when he had his groove on. "What can we expect from the defense?"
     "Besides Randy Gregory looking like some mad scientist's attempt at making Frankenend? Combine Broderick Thomas' length and Grant Wistrom's motor and you get RG4. Brace yourself, he will get drafted, first or second round."
     "That's a bold statement."
     Lloyd just nodded, but with a look that said, 'get real, he's going to cash in'. The rest of the d-line will benefit if the Owls try to double team Gregory. Vincent Valentine almost demands a double team. They will bring pressure all day long, without getting beyond their vanilla scheme."

     "How about against the run?"

     The line will do a great drop cleaning up blockers, Santos, Banderas and Anderson are all good, not LaVonte David good, but good enough to fly around and make stops, they all grew up a lot, last year."

     "How about the final line of defense? If Johnson gets time and can get the ball airborne, will he have open receivers?"

     "If you had asked me before fall camp, I would say that the defensive backs were a solid bunch, that no-one would have to worry about. Then the injuries hit. Mitchell didn't get any taller, and Davie needs to show he can replace SJB and that's a tall order. I'm fine with Cooper, but Gerry at safety makes me a bit nervous, he switched to the position because he was undersized at linebacker. Cockrell is wowing everyone at nickel, so the big question is getting depth. They wont have a problem, this week, but a good receiving corps could stretch them."

     "Okey, so what is your final score prediction and how many touchdowns will Ameer end up with?"

     Lloyd closed his eyes and did that thing where he watched his numbers dance to music only he could hear. "45-13, maybe 20, either way, Huskers cover. Ameer will have two rushing touchdowns. Tommy will run for one and throw two, one to Kenny Bell."

     "That's getting pretty specific."

     "You want specific? The kickers will go a combined 1-for-3 on field goal attempts."

     "If you nail that prediction, I will buy you a glass of that Pappy Van Winkle Special Reserve." I hoped I had enough cash to cover that, since Lloyd was probably right.

     Realizing that I had been ignoring Tompkins, I made my way back over to him before the steam started seeping from his ears. "Sorry about that," I lied. "Lloyd tends to ramble a bit, when provoked."

     Jim looked at his watch. "I have to get going. I will have the files delivered to your office and you will sign for them. You do have a secure place to store them, don't you?"

     "Sure," I said. "I've got an extra large cookie jar with only a couple of oreos in it. Should be plenty of room and no one would ever think to look there."

     "Don't be a smart-ass, Sam," he snapped.

     "Don't treat me like some rookie that doesn't know what he's doing. Some files for a cold case that no-one but you gives a crap about should attract as much attention as a Shakespeare lecture at a monster truck rally. As long as you are being on the level, we're as Jake as Geddis in Chinatown."

     Tompkins stood up, tried to loom, his jaw clenched just a bit too much. "I need your full attention on this, if you treat all your clients like this, it's a wonder you're still in business."

    I nodded gravely, "You might just be on to something, there, detective."

     He turned on his heel and was through the door.

     I hope he didn't expect me to start digging until about 5:30 or so.

 

                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.

Husk-husk 2014

Husk-husk and on the QB 2014

     We've been lucky, this summer. Normally summer around here is like waking up with a big dog lying on your chest, panting in your face. No matter where you went, or what you did, the stink of dog-breath followed you around. Your clothes stuck to every part of you and taking a shower just swapped out one feeling of wet for another.

     This year there had only been about a week of that kind of weather. The rest of the time was a much more manageable kind of mutt, like a friendly collie, or loyal labrador, but it was still the dog days for a reason.

     I was sitting in Jake's, a local concern that was part cigar bar, part Mos Eisley Cantina. One of my friends had dubbed it the Bastion of Freedom. In this fortress of liberty, I was reading the local fishwrap, drinking Devil's Cut, and fumigating the room with a churchill. The content of the sports page held my attention while I flirted with spontaneous combustion. Fall camp for the Huskers was nearing an end, and after an early spate of injuries, it looked like the depth chart was taking shape as the team prepared to face Florida Atlantic.

     The usual excitement is in the air, a young gunslinger named Tommy Armstrong had gained valuable experience the year before and now had a firm handle on the team. The running backs are a talented, deep group, led by All-American candidate Ameer Abdullah, that will bring wave after wave of pressure on a defense. Kenny Bell and the receivers are probably the best collection of talent that the Huskers have ever had, as a unit. Jake Cotton and O-line is as big, foul tempered, nasty and deeper than any unit coach Pelini has had, here.

     On defense, Randy Gregory spearheads a defensive line that looks like it can disrupt any offensive attack. The linebackers are a fast, versatile bunch. Josh Banderas needs to get on his bike, or anyone else's for that matter, and help the younglings build some depth. Josh Mitchell and the defensive backs are talented and have quite a bit of experience, but injuries have eaten into their depth, too. There is a motto of a very good pro team, 'Next Man Up', that these young guys need to embrace.

     The Special Teams have raised some concern. The punting duties look to be ok, but a kick returner who can return the ball more than a couple of yards at a pop and a place kicker of reliability needs to emerge.

     Such was the state of my reverie when it was interrupted by the gruff authoritarian voice of Jim Tompkins. "Sam", he said, or rather barked.

     I sat up, inhaled a long draw from the cigar and let the smoke escape like a corrupt warden. "Jim, old boy. Or should I say, 'Captain of Detectives Tompkins'? What brings you all the way down to my humble home away from home?"

     He slid into the booth across from me. "Can it, Sam. It's what, ten blocks from the station, and it's not like you're a hard guy to track down, lately," he rasped with a voice that had seen more than its fair share of 15 rounds with The Menthol Kid.

     "So, business has been a little slow," I shrugged, kind of lamely, "You don't have to be mean about it, Mon Capitan."

     "Business is slow, eh? How would you like to pick up some cash, then?"

     My ears perked up, but my spidey senses were tingling a bit. A big shot in the local Fuzz was coming to me with a gig, something was up. "Sooo, you know I can't work active criminal cases," I said. I took another long draw from the cigar. "I can't imagine you being involved in anything that would make the boys in Internal Affairs want to poke around in your underwear drawer. So, what gives, am I going to be deputized or is this a civil matter for the friend of a friend?"

     "It's somewhere in between all that," he sighed. He leaned forward , put his hands on the table, somehow looking both smaller and broader at the same time. "It's a missing person case that has gone cold. We've pretty much signed off on it, unless said person turns up dead, which makes it an open case, again. Right now, all we have is a case of woman who was last seen having a wild time in a bar, downtown. She didn't come home the next day, or the day after that. Her husband filed a report, we ran him through wringer, gave him the complete workover and he never broke. He had an airtight alibi and no discernible motive."

     "There's always a motive," I interrupted.

     "I said, 'discernible'", he shot back. Anyway, she has been missing since 1997. I was first to interview  the husband, and first to consider him as a suspect. The higher ups have given me the no-go on taking one last look at it before it goes to the tombs."

     I gave Jim a good long stare. He was too straight a shooter to try to B.S. me. A nearly 20 year-old case with a woman who more than likely just buggered off for a new life because the old one didn't fit, anymore. "Talk dollars to me, baby, I need to replenish my humidor."