The Upside of Death

“If you combine a psychic, a couple of ghosts, a medium, a reporter and lots of bad guys, you get… a most entertaining and enjoyable tale.”
“The dialogue is darkly witty and hums like power lines.”

Chapter 1

The best thing about a spirit guide is he warns you when your future turns ugly. The worst? Sometimes he doesn’t. Keera remembered that the moment the front door opened by itself.
A large man grabbed her hand—keys still in it—and yanked her inside like a paper doll.
“Welcome home,” he said, his accent thick and slurry. Eastern European.
Russian, maybe. His pale blue eyes drilled into hers with a carnal gleam. An animal. He kicked the door shut and dragged her into the living room. Her heart thumped, frantic enough to fracture a rib.
Two other men waited there, dressed like him—jeans, black leather.
“Miss Keera Miles,” one said. Shoulder-length black hair, about her height.
The Animal dropped her hand. Longhair took it, kissed it. Old-world courtesy, fake as a plastic tiara. His hand was fleshy and limp.
Keera stayed silent. Her mind spun when it needed to stay sharp. Who are these people? she asked Bardo silently. What do they want?
They want you. You’re valuable to them, her spirit guide replied, his tone almost scolding. She should have stayed alert. Should have used her instincts.
A third man stood by the window. Blond, thin, watchful. He said nothing. His eyes slipped away from contact.
Keera turned back to the Animal—over two hundred pounds, most of it upper body, and no hair in sight. He stood a clenched fist over six feet. She knew instantly—he was the danger. It came to her like a radio signal: clear and loud.
She scanned the room slowly, pretending calm she didn’t feel. She wasn’t scared. She was petrified.
The men had made themselves comfortable. Three carry-on bags on the floor. Scuff marks on the mahogany coffee table. Two bottles of Stolichnaya vodka on the mantel. Her shot glasses—souvenirs from a long-ago Russian field trip—were now in full use.
“Please,” said Longhair, touching her arm and gesturing to the couch.
The Animal moved to the mantel and unscrewed a bottle. The tinny splash of vodka added a new fear: they were drinking on the job. She lowered her handbag and briefcase by her feet and sat.
“Allow me to introduce ourselves,” Longhair said. “We’re your caregivers for the next few days.” His voice gravelly, his manner unhurried.
She took in every detail, filing it away for the police—if there was a later. Right now, her instincts had shut down.
The blond man downed a shot in one gulp.
The Animal’s gaze raked over her before settling on her chest. She folded her arms, then thought better of it and clasped her hands in her lap. Thank God she’d worn a denim jacket over her summer dress.
“How did you get in here?” Her voice came out squeaky. “I’m calling the police if you don’t leave.”
“You won’t call anyone,” Longhair said.
“How did you open the locks? Who are you, and what do you want?”
“Locks? Household locks?” He shrugged. “What man can make, man can unmake.”
“Are you Russian mafia? I don’t run a business. I have no profits to skim. I’m a lecturer in anthropology. You’ve got the wrong person.”
He smiled—unbothered, amused.
“Mafia is an Italian word, a great Russian once said. Does it matter what we are? You’re coming with us. We’ll be your constant companions for a while.”
You are valuable to them, Bardo had said. It had passed over her then. Now it slammed into place like a trap.
“You’re kidnapping me?” No. Impossible. That wasn’t her life. This was madness, some elaborate prank. Except it wasn’t, it was real. And Bardo had confirmed it. She was supposed to meet Zach. If she didn’t call him, he’d come by—too late. Her psychic sense was all static now, but one message came through clearly: they were leaving. Soon.
“Kidnap?” Longhair said. “More of a compulsory home stay with new friends. May I have your bag
“You’re robbing me first?”
“We don’t deal in bags. I need your ID. Mistakes are common in this line of work.”
“You’re insane. The Department of Anthropology won’t pay ransom for a junior staff member.”
“We’re not asking them. Your bag, please.”
She started to open it, but he took it, flipped open the flap, turned it over, and dumped the contents on the coffee table.
“You bastard.” Rage surged at the violation.
The Animal set down his glass and stepped toward her, but Longhair raised a hand.
“Ostav’ee,” he said in Russian.
Keera’s Russian was basic, but she understood. Leave her. The Animal hesitated, then returned to his drink. Longhair turned back to her. “You’re in no position to speak rudely.”
He sifted through the mess—receipts, business cards, lipstick, moisturizer, tissues, phone, some coins, and her father’s old wallet. He switched off the phone and pocketed it. Then emptied the wallet. Credit cards. A hundred dollars. Driver’s license. More business cards. He picked up the license and compared the photo to her face.
“You photograph beautifully,” he said. “Such an excellent likeness.” He drained his vodka. “When this is over, I can offer you a modeling job. No dancing required. Very good money.”
She said nothing.
Longhair’s leather jacket creaked as he reached for her satchel. He pulled out notepads, student assignments, and a voice recorder. Pink Post-Its fluttered off the folders.
“You should be more organized,” he muttered.
He glanced at the blond man, who walked across the room and picked up a long green canvas bag from near the bay windows. She hadn’t noticed it until now. The late sunlight caught it perfectly. It was long enough to fit a large child.
Or her.
Longhair stood. The Animal moved behind her. She heard the bottle cap again—another round of drinks?
No. A glass was shoved at her. “Drink,” the Animal said.
Keera shook her head. He gripped it in one hand, holding it steady like a bronze bust.
Longhair spoke. “You will drink, one way or another. It’s easier if you do it voluntarily. It’s not poison. It will help you sleep. You need sleep.”
She took the glass. The smell was chemical, bitter. She raised it for a sip, but the Animal tilted her hand and forced the liquid down her throat.
It seared like paint.
He took the empty glass and pulled her backward, pressing on her head again. She resisted, but her strength was gone.
Dimly, she saw the blond unzip the canvas bag.
The Animal said something in Russian.
She understood instantly.
“I’m having this one,” he said.

◆◆◆

The phone in Vronsky’s jacket trilled.
“You got her?” a voice asked—Texas vowels, broad and drawled. “We have,” Vronsky said, pressing the phone close under his hair. “You’ll have the file soon.”
Silence.
He continued, “No problems at this time.”
“The Tuesday a.m. deadline isn’t moveable.”
“You’ll get video tonight. As arranged.”
“I’m waiting.”
The call ended.
Semyon and Yuri were in the other room with the girl. Vronsky moved quickly to join them. He didn’t trust Semyon around women—especially helpless ones.
She lay unconscious on the motel bed, limbs splayed.
Semyon, still watching her, said, “She has tasty bufera. Some of the best I’ve seen.”
Yuri clucked his tongue. “She needs to stay untouched.”
“She excites me.”
Semyon’s talent for terrifying hostages had value. His impulse to sample female ones was a problem. In the past, it had been manageable. Now, he wore an air of entitlement, like he deserved fringe benefits.
Vronsky wasn’t confident the girl would come through unscathed. He’d try to restrain Semyon, but if things went wrong—well, not all kidnappings ended cleanly. That was the nature of the job.
“Put the chains and tape on before she wakes,” he said.
Semyon looped dog chains around the bed legs, brought the ends to her wrists, spread her arms, and fastened them with nylon ties. A six-inch strip of duct tape sealed her mouth. He worked with grim efficiency.
Her dress had ridden up. Yuri tugged the hem down.
“You scared of seeing something exciting?” Semyon said.
Vronsky stepped in, throwing an arm around his shoulder. “Let’s talk in the other room. She might be faking, might understand.”
“What does it matter?” Semyon muttered but let himself be led away.
“Once we’re done here,” he added, “we scoot home. No one touches us.”
Vronsky shut the door behind them.
So far, so smooth.
They’d been hired in Moscow by a man calling himself Mr. Robert—vetted by trusted contacts, confirmed as a genuine client, not FSB or police.
The job was simple: snatch the girl, film her, hold her a few days, release her.
Vronsky’s background checks revealed Mr. Robert’s real identity: Bobby Flint, majority shareholder of Flint Oil Services—an independent contractor tied to major oil and gas companies. Based in Houston. Drilling contracts worldwide.
“He didn’t explain the situation,” Vronsky had told the others. “But it’s clear he’s applying pressure on someone. It’s not about money—he wants the girl released after. So he must have leverage to stop anyone from going to the FBI.”
Which meant no deaths. Deaths made things messier. And Semyon Grigori Nikitin was a walking complication.
A boulder of a man, he’d perfected the art of terror during Soviet campaigns in Afghanistan. When a village needed pacifying, they sent in Semyon’s unit. Survivors were too traumatized to describe what happened.
Rape was a favorite tool. Mutilation, a message.
“This is how we remember our enemies,” Semyon once announced to a crowd of horrified villagers. He tied an old man to one tank tread, a boy to the other. Signaled the commander to drive. The shrieks of Afghan women rising over the grind of metal stayed with Vronsky forever.
Two lives crushed in seconds. That had been Semyon’s proudest moment.
Vronsky knew this—he was his commander for three years.
Flint had paid $250,000 upfront. Provided photos and tracking data. The rest of the $1 million would come after proof of captivity was delivered via video.
They’d watched the girl for two days. She followed a pattern: left home at 8 a.m., returned late afternoon. One night, a man dropped her off around ten—boyfriend or regular date. They kissed at the door. She went in alone. The man drove off in an old Mustang.
Vronsky decided they’d break in and wait. If the boyfriend came in too—he didn’t look like a threat.
“This contact,” Yuri had said, “he must have good connections. It took him one day to get keys to her house. Why use us if he has top-level access?”
Yuri Maksim Buteyko, ex-FSB and administrator for the job, always wanted to know more than necessary.
“Businessmen and politicians take risks,” Vronsky replied. “So they avoid official channels. All he needs is a crew who can kidnap quietly. That’s what we offer.”
Yuri had big dreams. Wanted to run his own crew someday. Vronsky knew it wouldn’t happen.
Sure, Yuri had good U.S. connections. Smart, too. But not rat smart. Not the kind of cunning needed to survive in their world.
His background was soft. Well-placed parents got him a cushy FSB post. He’d never clawed for survival. The privileged never do.
He also spent too much time in front of mirrors. Vronsky wondered what that said about him.
“You think we’ll be done by Tuesday?” Yuri asked.
He liked order. Schedules. Checklists.
Vronsky had put him in charge of logistics—knew he’d be efficient, even if whiny.
“If we don’t have order,” Yuri liked to say, “chaos will reign.”
He said a lot of rubbish like that.
He hadn’t been the first choice for this op. But better men weren’t available.
“I said we deliver the video before Tuesday,” Vronsky replied. “What happens after, we wait to hear. A decision is being made that day.”
“What kind of decision?”
“Our man’s involved in a gas deal here. Big money. He’ll need a top-level signature. That’s what the girl’s about. He didn’t share documents, but I get the picture.”
“How long will it take? I need to book flights.”
“Probably a few days after Tuesday. I negotiated for a fast job, not a drawn-out hostage drama. We send the video, then wait for the release signal. That’s all I know.”
Vronsky poured vodka into tumblers and passed them around.
“Nazdrovie,” he said. “To health.”
“Nazdrovie,” the others echoed, and drained their glasses.
“A few days,” Semyon said. “Enough time to know her thoroughly.”
“Let’s not have a messy situation,” Yuri said. “Keep it clean. Clinical.”
“Forget the girl,” Vronsky told Semyon. “Think of the money.”
“Our money?” Semyon said, voice sour. “When I think of it, I think of one thing: you get most of it.”

CHAPTER 2

Zachary Bones pushed through the 14th-floor entrance of the Chicago Post and nodded at the two women on reception. Mid-afternoon. Eight hours to deadline. The place crackled with nervous energy.
Faces were taut with tension. Staffers who once sauntered now strode, conferring in clipped tones, heads close.
Not him.
He had no story for this edition—or the next. His last big piece, an exposé on cops pocketing pimps’ earnings instead of arresting them, had earned him some breathing space. A grudging nod from the City Editor. If left alone, he might just land another hit.
Corruption, incompetence, plain stupidity—Zach skewered local officials for all of it. The result? Several departments hated him. He didn’t mind. In a masochistic way, he enjoyed it.
“I worry about you,” Keera had said once. “You take on dangerous people.”
He’d laughed. “Me? I had a peaceful life until I met you. A few angry politicians calling the editor—that was the worst of it. Then you drag me out of my body to some terrifying place where I nearly get stabbed six ways before breakfast. I still don’t know if that was a dream or not. I just know it worries me you could talk me into it again.”
“That was a special case.”
The day they met. She’d told him time travel was possible—if you left your body. He’d humored her. Then he found himself in a Sioux camp, two centuries in the past. Helping her recover a Sacred Stone. Falling for her. Making it back to sanity—and grateful just to know her.
“I know you think psychics and mediums are fringe wackos,” she’d said. “It surprises me we’re still together. Must be hard reconciling your beliefs with your actions.”
Her stare had been unreadable, unsettling. Was she questioning his commitment? Joking?
She was the most perfect creature he’d ever seen. Mind sharpened by elite education, body Photoshopped by God. He’d adored her from day one. Every minute since only deepened his awe.
“I respect your abilities,” he’d said. “It’s just… what you do is illogical. It doesn’t fit with any rational view of the world. I can’t wrap my head around how you accept the dead and the living just hanging out together.”
“You get it,” she said, smiling. “You just won’t admit it. People might talk, yes?”
“You don’t exactly ring your bell about it either. ‘A career to protect,’ you said.”
“A girl’s got to eat, Zach. The dead don’t hand out food parcels.”
He hadn’t pointed out that her father—an oil exec—had set her up with a trust fund worth millions. She didn’t need to work. Anthropology research was her pastime. She wasn’t one to idle in luxury, but she could have if she wanted. Unlike him.
He’d grown up with radical-left parents in a cramped one-bedroom flat. Every penny he had, he’d earned. Then spent.
They were nothing alike, in background or temperament. He couldn’t figure out why she stayed with him.
Now, he pulled out his phone and dialed her. No answer. A recorded message: The number you are calling is out of range or switched off.
Keera never turned her phone off. Never forgot to charge it.
He tried her landline. It rang, and rang, and rang. She must still be in a meeting or something.
They both had the next day off—Friday. Planned to kick-start the long weekend with a late lunch. He hoped she wasn’t bringing work home.
Twenty minutes later, still no response. He set the phone down, hit the power button on his computer. He couldn’t concentrate until she called, but pretending to work beat doing nothing.
“Hey,” he said to Howard, who sat next to him. “Anything exciting from City Hall today? Or just the usual furtive pocket-lining?”
Howard Hossack. New to the section. Crisp hair, Ralph Lauren wardrobe, a knack for writing clean, publishable copy. Destined to be a political columnist, probably. Nobody chose words more carefully.
He covered local government, like Zach. But while Zach got scoops from insiders, Howard rewrote press releases into readable prose.
“They’ve allocated extra money to clean up graffiti in playgrounds,” Howard said, eyes on his screen, fingers flying.
“The mayor’s against kids expressing themselves?” Zach asked. “Who got the contract?”
“Press release doesn’t say.”
“Funny, that. Let me know when they announce it. I’ll check if the company’s tied to whoever approved the deal.”
Howard looked up. “No faith in government? Just because a million bucks pops up for a non-issue project, you think it’s shady?”
“I’d need to stop thinking to believe otherwise.”
Zach drained his lukewarm latte, tossed the cup in the bin, and eyed the stack of cuttings on his desk. Some had notes scribbled across them—Edwina Moss’s handwriting. “Mrs. Ed” to the team. Meticulous, picky even. They’d worked together at CityScape, a Chicago entertainment mag that died under the weight of internet competition. Both were fired the same day by a luckless new owner who had to shut the place within a year.
Zach had landed at the Post—and, to his dismay, so had Edwina. She became his editor again.
Oddly, she seemed to have left old grudges behind. Misfortune, it turned out, was a great equalizer.
He considered calling Keera again, resisted, then caved. Same message. Tried her landline. Endless ringing. Again, nothing.
He dropped the phone in his pocket, leaned back. Howard noticed.
“Something wrong? You look unsettled.”
“Trying to reach a friend. It’s taking a while.”
Zach skimmed his inbox. A message from Lyndon, a college buddy now in London as a merchant banker—the same guy who cost him ten grand with a bad horse tip. But over time, better tips followed. Losses turned into gains. The winnings sat in a UK bookie’s account, tricky to transfer without raising IRS flags.
Lyndon had a solution: an offshore account in the Bahamas.
“It’s yours for a thousand bucks,” he’d said. “I’ll send the number and password. Perfect place to park your winnings.”
Zach wired the money. Now he had a secret account in paradise.
He called Keera again. Same result.
Something began to gnaw inside.
They’d agreed not to live together, and it worked—for the most part. He stayed over on weekends. He wanted more. She’d said, “I want to always be glad to see you. I don’t want to get used to having you around.”
She was right.
He spent weeknights at his place. She spent hers researching—astral travel, she called it. Said her guide Bardo showed her things, took her places. He didn’t understand it, didn’t want to. She said it would take forever to explain. He was fine with that.
“I don’t get it all yet either,” she’d added. “I’m being taught things that still don’t make sense.”
They never would to him.
He checked the time. He could sit and wait—or do something.
With no story in the next issue, production staff didn’t need him. He decided to drive to her place.
“Gotta go,” he said to Howard, standing and shutting his computer.
“You just got here,” Howard said, still typing. “Well, I expect you’ll return.”
“Course I will. I work here. But right now, I need to find someone.”
“Don’t we all?” Howard waved a lazy goodbye.
Zach pulled up near Keera’s vintage townhouse and bounded up the front steps.
He opened the door and knew instantly the place was empty. Her presence, so tangible to him even when he couldn’t see her in the next room, was missing.
“Keera?” he called. “Keera?”
No answer.
Then he saw it.
Through the living room doorway, on the coffee table, her handbag, open with the content scattered over the coffee table.
His alarm doubled, then trebled.
Two bottles of vodka on the mantel. Three shot glasses—two on the mantel, one on the coffee table—plus a tumbler.
Stolichnaya.
Keera didn’t drink hard liquor. Maybe wine, occasionally.
No sign she had expected guests. Which meant—maybe—they weren’t expected.
And no woman left home without her handbag. Not willingly. Not like this.
Zach knelt. Examined the glasses. A trace of liquid remained—clear, sharp-scented. Vodka. But the tumbler smelled bitter. Not alcohol for pleasure. Something else.
He searched the house anyway, but found nothing to settle him. No sign of forced entry. No Keera.
Panic pressed in.
He called her department at the University of Chicago.
“Department of Anthropology,” a woman said.
“Hi, can you put me through to Ms Miles?”
“She’s gone for the day.”
“What time did she leave?”
“I can’t share that.”
“I’m her partner. She’s missing. This is not normal.”
A pause.
“I’m sorry, sir. Perhaps you should call the police.”
“Fine. If she returns, please tell her Zach Bones called.”
He gave his number and hung up.
The police. What could he tell them?
My girlfriend hasn’t called me? Left her purse behind?
The fridge held two Heinekens. He drank one, then the other. Tried her phone again. Still off.
Her laptop was on the kitchen table. He logged in.
Internet working. Gmail opened automatically.
Recent emails—mundane. A few from students, a couple between them. No red flags.
He closed the laptop.
He called the closest hospital.
“My friend hasn’t come home. Any accidents involving a Keera Miles?”
No admissions under that name, sir. Tried three more. Nothing.
Upstairs, her robe lay on the bed. His side untouched, waiting for the weekend.
He stared at the bed, hoping for inspiration. Nothing came.
Only the idea he didn’t want.
He left the house.
And drove straight to the local precinct—the worst place to ask for help.

CHAPTER 3

The chink-chink of chains registered first. A white ceiling swam into view, then veered sideways. Keera blinked. The ceiling stayed where it was.
She moved her arm. Her wrists jerked against restraints. Chains. Tape over her mouth—sticky, claustrophobic. She turned her head left, then right. Staked out like a trophy. Tried to sit up. Chains yanked her back. The room swayed. She shut her eyes until the spinning stopped.
Her throat was dry, her tongue thick. Those Russians. Those bastards. That drink.
A motel. Cheap prints on the wall. Beige everything. Generic furniture. She craned her head and spotted the embossed information folder on the bedside table. Yep—motel. No visible address. Not that it would help. They hadn’t blindfolded her, so they didn’t care if she knew where she was.
Did that mean they didn’t expect her to live? She pushed the thought aside. They said a few days. And then?
Why am I here? she asked Bardo.
No reply.
She was never sure when he would answer. But now? Now he was silent?
Her early years were guided by others—strange presences who appeared when she was just a girl, when she first started seeing the dead and receiving visions she couldn’t explain. Later, when she learned to manage those gifts, Bardo had appeared.
“You’re it? My new guide?” she’d said, stunned to find a rotund monk sitting on her couch, his bowl haircut lopsided, his robe stained with food.
“This was my outward form in my past life,” he’d said with a slow smile. “I kept the look. I can stay immaterial, if you prefer.”
“It’s okay. I can live with this.”
Bardo made it clear she wasn’t his first choice to guide. He’d heard talk. She was difficult, headstrong even, but he had no option and could she be a little more cooperative with him, please?
“I have my own life to lead,” she told him once.
“Of course,” he’d nodded. “I’m only here to help.” Most of the time. Except now.
I’m tired. Drugged. I need help. Please, Bardo. Say something.
Silence.
A meaningful silence. His way of saying: You have what you need. She listened. No footsteps. No chains on the door. The men must be in other rooms. Her watch was missing. Weak daylight filtered through the curtains. Late afternoon, maybe. Zach would be looking for her. Talking to the police. But it wouldn’t be long enough for them to call her missing. Another twenty-four hours, maybe. And her father? He had the money and the influence to mobilize a search. But he didn’t even know she was missing. Zach didn’t have a contact number for him. She hadn’t told her father about Zach. Still, Zach was relentless. Tenacious. He’d dig until he got results. Until then, she had only herself. Her one advantage: the ability to leave her body. Few mediums could do it at will. For her, it started at puberty. Bardo helped. Took her to places beyond imagining. By her twenties, she could travel anywhere she could think of. No luggage. No body. Now she had to go. She relaxed. The drug fuzz still clung to her, but maybe not enough to stop her. She waited for the in-between moment—that thin slip between waking and sleeping, when the sense of body vanishes. That’s when the consciousness lifts.
She waited. Tried not to doze.
Nothing.
Then, a whoosh. She was out. Floating. Ceiling inches from her face.
She drifted through the wall. Felt the layers: paint, plaster, wood. Entered the main room.
Three men chewed pizza. Two empty boxes on the table. One slice left in a third.
“She’ll be awake soon,” the Animal said.
“I’ll have a look.”
“Leave her, Semyon,” said the long-haired one, still chewing. “Don’t scare her. I don’t want her jumpy.”
“I’ll go,” the thin man said, rising.
“Fine. But, Yuri, don’t touch her. These types hate it.”
“I’m not a groper like him,” Yuri said.
Semyon laughed. “Sure you’re not still a virgin, Buteyko?”
Earlier, they’d spoken English. Enough Russian between them that she could grasp. But now—in this form—she understood everything. Even what they didn’t say. Their emotions coiled around them, visible like auras. They were working together, but not close.
She floated behind Yuri as he stepped into her room. He bent over her.
Please don’t touch me.
If he touched her, she’d snap back into her body. Maybe for good if they pumped her with more drugs.
He picked up the motel brochure from the bedside table and left.
She followed.
“Who left this beside her?” he asked, waving the folder.
Vronsky took it. “Was she still asleep?”
Yuri nodded. “Lucky for us.”
He glanced at Semyon, who shrugged. “I was carrying the bitch. I can’t do all the housework.”
“Never mind,” Vronsky said, clearly eager to avoid conflict. “No harm done.”
He took the last slice of pizza.
“If she’s not awake in half an hour, we start anyway. Once the video’s sent, we wait for the word to release her.”
“When does he pay?” Semyon asked.
“Not until the money’s in my account. That much, Mister Texas Oil agreed.”
“What if he doesn’t pay?”
“Then we kill the girl. Then find and kill him.”
But Vronsky was distracted. A flicker of something else. She caught the image: a young man. His son, maybe. He was worried. Deeply. And he kept that worry hidden from the others.
She felt the tug. The pull back to her body. It never could be ignored.
She jerked awake. Her throat burned.
But now she had something. Names. And a reason.
Her father.

◆◆◆

A solitary butterball in uniform eyed Zach as he stepped up to the precinct counter. A tired couple sat nearby, hollowed out by waiting, drained of expectations.
“Zachary Bones. Chicago Post. I want to report a missing person.”
The cop stared for thirty seconds, then: “Zachary Bones?”
He nodded.
“From the Chicago Post?”
“What is this, a hearing test?”
The cop leaned back and shouted, “Hey Sarge! There’s a guy here you should meet. Zachary Bones.”
A pinched face poked around the corner, followed by a uniform draped over a bony frame. The man glided up until his face was inches from Zach’s.
“You the guy who wrote that shit about the 19th?”
“The ones shaking down hookers and pimps? Disgrace to the badge? Yeah. That was me.”
Six months old, that story. But cops had long memories.
“You ruined some good men. Your name still comes up.”
“Anyone pass a hat for me? Buy me something nice?”
“What crap are you pulling now?”
“Missing person.”
“Not you, apparently. What a pity.” Sarge waved to the desk cop who strolled over with a notebook
“Name of the missing person?” he asked.
“Keera Miles.”
Desk Cop scribbled. “Miles like highways? K-E-I-R-A?”
“Two Es. No I.”
Scribble. Scratch.
“Relation?” Sarge asked. 
“She’s a friend.”
Sarge lit up. “So your girlfriend dumped you, and you want us to find her?”
“She was due to meet me. Didn’t call. Didn’t show. Her phone’s off. Her handbag’s still at home. Contents scattered. I have strong reasons to believe something’s happened to her.”
“Maybe she just ran. From you.”
Zach said, “I’m reporting a possible kidnapping and you’re making a joke of it?”
The Sarge grunted at the desk guy. “Norman still around?”
“Yeah.”
“Give him this worm.”
Desk Guy picked up the phone. “Norman? Sarge wants you.”
Moments later, Norman strolled out. Street clothes. Squared frame. The department’s middle ground between emaciated and inflated.
“Detective Norman Horn, sir. How can I help you?”
Zach needed cooperation from this guy, and he was being offered a fresh start. He surpassed the inner rancor Sarge had activated and repeated his story. 
Horn nodded. “Most of these cases sort themselves out. Adults disappear all the time. Did you two have a fight?”
“No.”
“Let’s see if she shows up tonight. Call around. Maybe she’s with friends. If not, we’ll knock on some doors tomorrow.”
Plodding procedure. Keera could be dead and buried before they completed the first piece of paperwork.
Then Horn added, “Those cops you busted? They weren’t evil. Just tempted. Could happen to anyone. Even you.”
“Sure.”
Horn let it drop. Pulled out a tin can.
“Want to donate to the Police Orphans Fund?”
A dollar-store can covered in dollar signs.
Zach peeled a bill from his pocket and dropped it in.
“Thanks. Appreciate your help.”
“Wow. A whole dollar,” Desk Guy said as Zach walked out.
If Horn replied, the door closed before Zach heard it.

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