Sawyer Desmond, Case 1: The Damsels of Distress

A tentative knock interrupts your last swig of cold, burnt coffee and your third reading of yesterday’s funnies. As your mouth begins to form the words “Come in,” she opens the door and steps inside. Her tan swagger coat is spattered with rain, her young face with tears and mascara. You’ve always had a soft place in your heart for a damsel in distress. Especially a red-headed damsel with an expensive-looking handbag. “I’m sorry for barging in,” she says, not looking up. “My name is Ruth Farmer. I need you to locate my fiancé. I haven’t seen him or heard from him in two days.” She sniffs, reaching into her brushed leather bag with a gloved hand. “I can pay.” “And I can be paid,” you say before you can stop yourself. This is no time for wisecracks. You hand her your handkerchief and motion for her to have a seat. “Let me just get my notebook, and then you can tell me all about it from the beginning…”