Chapter Thirty-Eight
Declan
“Hello, my name’s Declan,” I say when someone answers the phone at the sheriff’s office. “I need to report a missing woman. It’s my girlfriend, Daphne Brooks.”
“Okay sir, hold on a moment,” she responds. “Can you give me your name again, along with your address and telephone number? I can send a detective over to speak with you.”
“Absolutely,” I reply, almost relieved to hear someone willing to help.
“My name’s Declan Angus Roberts.” I continue, providing my address, phone number, even the color of my garage door, complete with a description of the pathetic, used-to-be basketball hoop hanging from the roof, and instructions to ring the doorbell rather than knock.
“Thank you, sir,” the receptionist says. “I’m confident one of our units will be there. Someone should arrive within the next hour. Is there anything else I can help you with?” I can’t help but think she’s treating my report like an order at a fast-food counter, but perhaps I’m overreacting.
Fifty-nine and a half minutes pass without any sign of a traveler in the neighborhood when a stereotypical cruiser turns the corner at the end of the street.
However, the car isn’t marked like an average police car.
This particular vehicle bears no marks at all, which is as telling as it’s opposite.
It’s midnight-blue with no hubcaps or flashing-light fixtures.
The unmarked car pulls up to the sidewalk at the foot of my driveway and I barge out of the house to meet whoever’s driving.
The door opens and out steps a man. Short.
No more than five feet three inches tall.
Yet, he’s built like a professional weightlifter with muscles on top of muscles.
His head is shaved as smooth as a chrome ball bearing, and his navy-blue fatigues cling to his chest, arms and thighs.
“Are you Mr. Roberts?” he asks while removing his aviators and glancing at the name jotted on his small notepad.
“I am,” I rise from my chair to greet him. “And you are?”
“Detective Nathaniel Pratt, sir,” he replies. “I’m with the sheriff’s office. Did you call in a concern about a—let me see —” He scans his pad closely. “Oh, a missing woman?”
“Yes, sir,” I say, grateful for his arrival. “Thanks so much for coming. It’s been like pulling teeth to get anyone to help me.”
“My girlfriend, sir,” I explain. “Her name’s Daphne Brooks.” I watch as he jots down both her name and our relationship.
“Okay,” he says. “And can you describe her to me—her age, hair color, eye color, things of that nature?”
“Of course,” I reply. “She’s twenty-one years old. Five-nine. Reddish blonde hair. And blue eyes. She’s slender.”
“And how long has she been missing, sir?” the detective asks with a doubtful tone.
“Well,” I say, “it has been about six months now.” The detective stops writing mid-sentence and looks up at me.
“Excuse me, sir?” he interjects with disbelief in his voice. “Did you just say she’s been missing for six months, sir?”
“I did, yes,” I confirm. “Six months, almost to the day.”
“Is it possible she just doesn’t want to see you, Mr. Roberts?”
“Not at all, Mr. Pratt,” I protest.
“Really?” he says with a trace of levity. “And why’s that?”
“Well, Detective,” I begin. “One night we went out, as we often did, and at the end of the night, just as usual, we planned our next date for the following evening. We kissed. We were happy. But she never showed.”
“And what about this,” the detective says, glancing back at his notepad. “Daphne? Her friends or family have any idea what happened to her?”
“I’m not sure,” I answer. “I’ve never met any of them.”
The detective opens his mouth to speak, but I cut in before my words can trip him up. I sense, as everyone else who’s heard my story has, he thinks I’m playing games.
“How long had you and Daphne been dating?” he asks, checking his notes.
“This is probably where I lose you, Detective,” I say sheepishly. “We had been dating for the last four years before she went missing.” Detective Pratt rolls his eyes, closes his notepad, unclicks his pen, and fixes his gaze on me.
“Sir, are you feeling okay?” he asks. “Are you on any kind of medications, prescribed or otherwise?”
“What?” I blurt, taken aback. “No, I’m fine, Detective. I’m not making this up. I went door-to-door throughout Legacy looking for her, and nobody knew who she was or where I could find any help.”
“Legacy, you say?” the detective replies, feigning belief. “What part?”
“All of it,” I exclaim. “I knocked on every door in Legacy over the last six months, which is why it took me so long to call the police.”
“Ever consider the possibility that she’s not missing, sir?” Detective Pratt asks, plainly unimpressed.
It’s not long before Detective Nathaniel Pratt goes through the motions to end our initial conversation. He hands me his business card. Tells me he’ll look into it. That he’ll get back to me if there are any other questions or developments.
After a week of hearing nothing, I decided to reach back out.
“This is Detective Pratt,” says the steroid-bound freak of an officer on the other end of the phone.
“Hi detective, it’s Declan Roberts. We spoke a week ago.”
“Right,” says the detective. “You’re worried about your missing girlfriend.”
“That’s correct,” I say. “I’m just calling to see what, if anything, you’ve learned?”
“Actually,” the detective’s voice catches my interest. “There was one close, but not really.”
“What do you mean by close?” I ask.