It wasn't until weeks later that I realized it’d been a clever ploy, a ruse for Tamara to meet me as she did. What a sucker I’d been to fall for her.Ah, 20/20 hindsight, such a splendid gift to possess.

I'd driven up from my hometown of Pelham, Virginia to Middleburg. My employer, Robert Gatlin, had summoned me. He was a billionaire lawyer up for any lost cause, especially one packing any potential for high visibility. For him, that would translate into anything from vamping on Court TV or a photo op beaming smiles in The Washington Post. In that respect, Gatlin and I were polar opposites -- I’d abhor viewing my mugshot in any damn newspaper. We remained, nevertheless, on congenial terms.

That afternoon, Middleburg’s beautiful people turned out in stunning force. They sauntered up and down the gold brick sidewalks windowshopping and tel ling big lies. Braking at a free space behind a plumber’s panel truck, I parallel parked. Sort of. My Prizm’s front end jutted into the street but not
enough to earn a ticket. I got out. When I breathed deep, the fresh air ru
shing in brought a potent fragrance -- lush lilacs mixed with hyacinths.

Brisk strides, I was late, took me by an alfresco cafe behind a low wrought
iron railing. My wandering eyes landed on a raffish smile glimmering acros
s a lady’s sunny features. She'd caught me staring and to pretend otherwise
was flat out silly.

"You wear a most sheepish look," she informed me.

I didn't want to admit my rudeness so I went with my long suit -- honest ch
arm. "How could I resist drinking in these wonderful vistas?"

"Fresh." Her flirtatious laugh put me more at ease.

Wheat blonde hair complimented her gentian blue eyes. She sported an oval o
pal cameo, a nice touch, at her blouse’s top button. Though enthroned behin
d a small round glass-topped table, she failed to hide her ski slope curves
. All told, the lady was one of those blonde, blue-eyed goddesses our socie
ty worships. If she were ever kidnapped, all of America would follow her ca
se unfolding in the media.

"You certainly are sure of yourself," she said. "My name is Tamara. Guess w
hat happened as you stalked up just now? I dropped my earring. It's expensi
ve jade, too. It’s the mate to this one." A demure green earring lay in her
slender open palm.

"I'm Frank Johnson," I said as concern clouded my brow. "If you're holding
me responsible for loosing it, then I feel compelled to aid in your search.
"

"You are a chivalrous gentleman," she said.

We pulled away the wrought iron chairs from her table and bent over to insp
ect the brick paver floor. After a brief minute, my eyes again strayed to h
er bare tanned knees. The hem to her herringbone tweed skirt rode up a long
inch above her athletic mid-thigh also cinnamon brown. If Tamara was aware
of that slight transgression, she didn't let on to it.


Breathing in, I smelled a light musky cologne surely applied to her wrists
until gaping up I saw the real source. Red hyacinths bloomed inside the cop
per planters bordering the cafe's rectangular court. Turning, her elbow acc
identally nudged my ribs and we laughed while apologizing. Our thorough sea
rch, however, was in vain. That green earring was lost to the ages.

"Never mind," she told me, waving a dismissive hand. "I was hardly fond of
this pair. They were a gift from an old boyfriend. Too bad Todd was yoked a
nd elected to remain that way. His wife’s loss, not mine. By chance, are yo
u married, Frank?"

"Once," I said. "That was enough to break me of the habit."

"Interesting. What do you do for a living?" she asked.

I hesitated. It was tough and maddening employed as a cliché. Telling anybo
dy I worked as a PI solicited sighs and eye rolls. No trade has been more d
one to death in movies and novels. Yet I’d say our stories are no more mind
less than sitcoms, rap videos, Xbox, Realty TV, or WWF. Someday the pendulu
m will swing the other way. We'll be tomorrow's heroes again. I'm very hope
ful about it. How could I feel elsewise? Anyway, I told her.

"A genuine detective?" she said, mustard-flecked eyes greatening in mock as
tonishment. "Are you any good at it?"

"If you're seeking a reference," I said, "contact Mr. Gatlin. He's my big b
oss these days. In fact, I was on my way to see him when I bumped into you.
" I slipped her my business card. "His phone number is scribbled on the bac
k."

"Sorry. I didn't mean to detain you," she said.

"It can keep, whatever Gatlin has in mind. Listen. After I've finished humo
ring him, maybe we can go grab some dinner later on."

"Yes, I think I'd like that," said Tamara. "Here's my card. Call me."

Looking down to study it as I moved down the sidewalk, I despaired. Tamara
was also an attorney.

* * *

"She's one foxy dame, eh?" were Gatlin's first baritone words upon my cross
ing the threshold into his office.

"Who is?" I asked intentionally oblique.


"Tamara Jones. I watched you wooing her through my window."

My impassive facade belied the indignant anger blasting through my blood. "
You've nothing better to do than spy on me?"

Gatlin tilted his heavy girth back in the executive chair. "Man, don't get
sore," he said. "It was by pure chance I happened to gaze out. You were fiv
e minutes late and I'd grown restless."

"All right. Why did you ring me up?"

"Just wondered how you were getting along," said Gatlin.

"Bullshit," I said.

"All right, you see right through me. The truth is I've got a minor problem
-- "

Again I snorted but without the expletive.

" -- with a close friend of mine. He's a circuit judge based in Culpeper Co
unty. His Honor Octavious Dante. Heard of him?"

"No. The only Dante I know about is the poet."

"You read poetry, huh? Most excellent. Well, Judge Dante has a daughter. Qu
it your leering, Frank. Eleanor is a sweet kid. Salt of the earth -- "

"-- apple of her daddy's eye, a little princess," I said. "Yeah, yeah. Move
it along. What about Eleanor?"

"She's missing," said Gatlin. "After leaving for school, Eleanor never made
it to her destination and no one has seen or heard from her since Saturday
. Today is Wednesday. Her folks naturally are worried sick."

"A wayward lass? That’s a police matter," I said. "Never a Frank Johnson ma
tter. Plus which, my track record for missing persons is abysmal."

"How do you mean?" asked Gatlin. "You're batting a thousand."

"Yeah except they've all been dead once I show up. I'm a poison worse than
kryptonite. No, you’d do better bringing in the cops. They’ve got more reso
urces."

"What's wrong, Frank? I know that tone. Why is your time suddenly so precio
us? Oh no -- don’t tell me. You've fallen head over heels for Miss Tamara J
ones. May God Almighty have mercy on your soul, sir."

I brushed my hands in a curt motion. "I met her five minutes ago. We said h
ello. Is that okay with you?"

Smiling, Gatlin tented his stout fingers. "I'll be your best man."

"Go pound sand," I said. "If it’ll pry you off my back, I’ll listen. Go ahe
ad. Spill the particulars on Judge Dante's errant daughter."

"Certainly. Pull up a chair. A drink? No. Well, I'll induce. Seriously, Fra
nk I think this girl’s case will break your ugly streak of finding corpses.
"

"For Eleanor Dante's sake, let’s hope so."

* * *

Against her daddy's fervent wishes, Eleanor Dante opted to attend not an Iv
y League university like Princeton or Yale which he could well afford. Inst
ead, she commuted to Ralph Butcher University in Fairfield, Virginia. The i
n-state school spared the Judge from having to pony up big tuition payments
yet he thought his daughter could do a lot better than RBU. Like many youn
g impressionable girls, she decided to declare her major in English. She cu
ltivated aspirations, Gatlin had mentioned to me, of writing novels.

"You mean like Charles Williams’ books?" I’d asked.

"No, not your 1950s pulp writers," said Gatlin. "More along the lines of Ph
ilip Roth, Thomas Pynchon, and Jonathan Franzen."


"Who?"

"You’re the smart detective," he said. "Go explore them for yourself."

"Not necessary," I said. "My own full stable of writers keeps me happy."

Gatlin titled an eyebrow at me. "Frank, you’re a hopeless Neanderthal. Tota
lly."

On a rainy day, one week after Eleanor's apparent falling off the face of t
he earth, I drove up I-66 North and took the Fairfax County Parkway over to
Sackett Road. At its intersection with Gooney Bridge Road, I came to the R
BU campus over on the left across from the University Mall Shopping Center.
High-tension lines hung from giant steel Legos towers paralleled it.

Nothing against those who claim the university for their alma mater but RBU
to my eyes was big and ugly. For a start, it was ninety- percent pavement
and filled to overflowing with beat up cars. After tooling around for more
than fifteen minutes, I finally waited as a lady backed out of a slot, then
eased into the void. As I climbed out, a girl in a cranberry red jumper hu
rrying by took pity on me.

"You'll get ticketed."

"Huh?"

"Security will write you up," she said. "You don't have a parking decal in
your rear windshield."

"But I'm a visitor, not a student," I said. "Just here for the morning."

"It doesn’t matter. You'll still need a special permit," she explained. "Th
e Security Office is in the crackerbox brick building down a ways from the
Butcher Center."

"Thanks but I'll take my chances where I am."

"It’s your neck, mister." Stalking away on shapely legs, she grumbled worse
than I did.

Locating the English Department was no easy task. After stopping three time
s and asking for directions, I entered the Roman Building. While climbing t
he four flights of steps lit only by skylights, I passed a squad of bushy-h
aired academics identified by their donnish countenances and velvet elbow p
atches ironed on snuff-colored tweed jackets. Their conversation snippets s
wirled around what was the best brand of bagels. I laughed. So much for lea
rned discourse.

The secretary in the department suite informed me that Eleanor Dante's coun
selor was a Dr. Trax. When the old reliable Johnson charm had failed, I buz
zed her my license issued by the official folks in Richmond. I half-expecte
d her to snicker but it loosened her tongue. As I stepped out of the suite
door to follow her directions to Dr. Trax's office, I noted from the edge o
f my eye her picking up the telephone to warn him.

A PI was on the warpath. Man your battlestations.

As it turned out, Dr. Trax was a munchkin with a profusion of chalk white h
air. Even his chair I was invited to occupy with my backside was small and
uncomfortable.

"A PI?" He knitted his eyebrows into a longish caterpillar. "I didn't know
they existed in this day and age."

"No?" My voice expressed mild surprise. "Well, well. Learn something new ev
eryday. I wear a trench coat, smoke cheap Turkish cigarettes, and wipe my a
ss with a derringer. The last thing I do for excitement. You just never kno
w when it might go off."

"You're also a smart ass," said Dr. Trax.

"Guilty. I'm here looking for Eleanor Dante, one of your students. She’s in
trouble."

His reaction really did surprise me. "Yes, Eleanor is also a mature young l
ady. Her activities outside of a college education do not concern me in the
least."

Seeing red, I drilled my eyes into his rheumy ones. "How about this? How ab
out if I take my smart ass fist and knock out your teeth with it?"

He shivered a bit. "What is it you need from me, sir?" he asked in a stiff
manner.

"What is your relationship with the Dante girl?" I asked.

"The English Department Chairperson assigned her to me," he said after a me
lodramatic sigh. "Like one of forty students, she is free to seek me out fo
r academic advice. I help set her curriculum, recommend classes, and that r
igamorale. Nothing more." Did I detect a subtle leer shadow his usually ser
ene eyes?

I did. A hot wire lit up my spinal cord. Women, I believed, called it an in
tuition. Maybe I was pulling it out of thin air but first impressions rated
high in my book. "Bullshit," I said. "Your reaction just now was overplaye
d, doctor. You know something."

His chair raked back with a scrape on the tile floor. Trembling, Trax point
ed to the door. "Get out of my office, you goon with a badge. Or I'll notif
y Campus Police to kick you to the curb."

Reaching across his desk, I slammed him back down in the chair. "Don't both
er, prof. I'll find my way out."

* * *


"Is that all you got?" Exasperation ruled Gatlin’s voice. "One of Eleanor’s
horny English professors might have tried to get into her pants? Keep it r
eal, Frank."

My white knuckles squeezed down on the cell phone. "His disingenuous expres
sion and uptight body english gave him away when I mentioned Eleanor Dante’
s name. He's our man, sure as shooting."

Ponderous breathing filled the silence. "Frank, a girl's life is at stake h
ere. Time is tight. How sure is your gut on this one?"

"Let me put it like this: have I ever been mistaken about one of these miss
ing persons? I’m batting a thousand, right?"


"Don’t think even that. Eleanor is okay. All right, all right. Stay glued t
o this professor’s ass. Don't let him out of your sight."

"No problem," I replied. "He’s running scared. You can bank on it."

"There’s been more excitement," said Gatlin. "Guess who dropped by my offic
e early this morning to chat it up? None other than our Tamara Jones."

"I bet you gossiped your little hearts out about me. Well, we screwed our b
rains out if you must know."

"Tamara didn't speak on that," Gatlin said with dry sarcasm. "She did quiz
me if we were having any luck at all locating the Dante girl."

"How does Tamara know about that?"

"Through pillow talk with a gregarious PI?"

"No sir, Mr. Gatlin. That dog don't hunt. I never breathed a word about it
to her."

Gatlin did a reflexive "hmmm." "I’m a big believer in coincidences, Frank.
Once in a great while two seemingly random events suggest a pattern. Someth
ing occurs to me. What do Tamara Jones and your Dr. Trax have in common?"

I ran with the scary thought. "A more than casual interest in Eleanor Dante
."

"Precisely."

* * *


It was a miserable, frenetic next ten days. I kept a torrid sexual affair w
ith Tamara cooking at night and a hard eye on Dr. Trax by day. Neither of t
hem crossed paths. Ever. Despite my tempestuous nights spent in Tamara's bo
udoir, I managed to never nap on my stakeouts of Dr. Trax. Speeding my ass
off on Dexedrine was a terrific help, too.

Finally, Gatlin made the decision to pull the plug. Nothing new had turned
up about Eleanor Dante. The cops were as baffled as we were. The Dantes, bo
th well into their sixties, teetered on the verge of loosing it. Glad to cu
t Tamara free, I broke the news to her that night over a lobster dinner at
a seafood house.

"I don't want to see you anymore," I said, refusing to meet her prickly sta
re.

"Why is that, Frank?" she asked. "Our sex isn't kinky enough?"

"No-no. I have my reasons. Let's leave things at that."

"Frank, you're a lousy liar and an even lousier detective. I've known from
the beginning what you've been up to during daytime hours, shadowing Doctor
Trax."

I launched a counterattack. "So: you know Trax? What have you two got going
? "

"We’re friends," she said.

"I’ll make life miserable hounding you both."


In a thick voice, she slurred: "Good bye, Frank." Her fair features purpled
into knots of deep-set rage. Oh yeah. I’d struck a ripe raw nerve. Of cour
se, I pressed my advantage. One more sharp nudge, one more good goad would
break her. I was that confident. Or that reckless.

"Where is Eleanor?" I asked, pointblank.

Her wild-eyed gaze tore into me. Blue eyes become a mad woman. "You're the
hot shit detective. You tell me. Ha. Ha."

"You never put together the ransom note, never called the Dantes. The kidna
pping went sour," I rattled on. "Why? Well, if I know Trax, he boinked the
younger package -- "

"Shut up, you."

"You resented it," I said. "But Trax wouldn’t, couldn’t stop himself. You f
ought. Somehow I screwed up and missed your communications."

"Trax is a worm," said Tamara, a little too loud. Other diners stared over
at us. "I loathe the dirt he crawls on."

Triumphant, I played my ace. "You tell me now where Eleanor Dante and Trax
are and I’ll go bring them in. In exchange, you walk through that door free
as a bird. Deal?"

"Fine," she said. "Jail the conniving bastard. He lives in Burke. 10820 New
man Place. The girl is in the basement, still alive as of this afternoon."

"Take a hike, babe," I said. "Before I change my mind."

Tamara, dabbing a napkin over her painted lips, stood up and gave me her co
ld back. She moved out of the restaurant with a regal strut. I didn't bothe
r to watch her.