Outside, the sky clotted up with intensity and prepared for another rainsquall. I steered the wauto toward the downtown Memphis regulator headquarters according to coordinates supplied by the local internet website. It wasn't far from Henry's and I hadn't heard from the mayor. Not that I was going to wait until she had time to brief Captain Hanson on what to say and what not to say.

It still bugged me that she knew where we stayed the night. Our arrival was supposed to be a surprise, something to keep everyone guessing. Yet Christensen knew, even down to the room number. I wondered if Jane had told her.

But Jane said she hadn't told her and for now I'd have to believe that.

The Memphis Regulator headquarters occupied a square section of the street. Only two stories high, it was wider than it was high. Built from brick and century old windows, it seemed more ready for a historical christening than it did a place of violation fighting.

A paved lot held designated spaces for visitors and I set down the craft there and got out.

The 350 remained locked in the glovebox and my pug was shoved under the front driver's seat. I didn't want them to know I'd come to Memphis armed. Entering regulator headquarters with weapons  wouldn't put them in the best of moods, so I checked my internal honey balance. I could get through a little session of Q and A with the captain.

Wearing my best it's-your-lucky-day-smile I passed through the two metal detectors and the security regulators, right on up to the desk clerk.

The desk clerk's name was Herman and he appeared to be really bored.

"Yeah?" he asked, his eyes trailing the latest ring of prostitutes back to the booking desks. 

I could almost see the drool dripping out of his mouth.

"I'm here to see Captain Hanson," I said, my eyes not following the prostitutes, but trying to get the desk clerk's attention. I increased the wattage of my smile to it's your- incredibly-lucky-day smile. I wore my sky blue sweater and jeans with boots. Nothing screamed private inspector, but still I was a citizen, even a second rate one. He wasn’t even interested in the streaks of crusty scabs that streaked across my face, nor the now greenish bruise smeared on my cheek.

The place bustled with activity. Regs shoved people through crowded hallways to destinations unknown and to discuss situations that many would later regret.

"Who’s askin'?" the pale, scrawny desk clerk asked lazily. His brow furrowed as he caught a male, about fifteen years old sprint through the metal detectors toward the exit—and freedom. "Hey! Stop!"

He rose out of his chair quite slowly to scream at the escaping youth, but the security regs apprehended the boy before he escaped. The youngster moved with such speed and agility, even I was impressed. Immediately, the boy was cuffed, shackled and led back down the hallway from which he'd come. Except this time he had an escort.

"Keep an eye on him this time!" shouted the desk clerk, as he lowered himself back into his seat.

The escorting reg flipped him off and snatched the boy along.

The desk clerk's eyes moved back to me and he said, "What you want?"

"Captain Hanson," I replied coolly. Obviously this clerk had attention deficit disorder for everything that moved, shouted or groaned in the lobby caught his attention. No other part of his body moved except his eyes and they were everywhere and on everything.

Honey supply was now at seventy-five percent, my internal censor warned.

"The captain is busy," he said effortlessly, not even bothering to pretend to check with Captain Hanson. The large telemonitor screen to his right showed row after row of logged arrests. It flickered and updated itself every few minutes.

I gave him my smile again, but his attention waned.

Honey supply at fifty percent and dropping.

Clearing my throat, I said, "I am here about Amanda Christensen."

The desk clerk's mouth opened into a wide yawn and he said, "Sure you are. Reporters have to wait for an official press conference…"

Honey supply at twenty-five percent and definitely in the red. Future outburst and curse words, possibly violence were on the horizon.

Mr. Personality here was ruining my chance to get through this without resorting to anti-social and disruptive behavior.

I wanted to see Hanson and soon. To do that, I would have to get past Herman.

"Okay, fine. Here's the deal. You have about three seconds to take me back to Captain Hanson or I'll break your face," I said calmly. I didn't raise my voice, but my irritation seeped into my message and the undercurrent of anger at last caught Mr. Personality's attention.

"Are you threatening a regulator, lady?" he spat and then released a huge guffaw. "Ain't that right pretty? Silly woman…break my face…sure…Looks like somebody already put ya in ya place once…"

"One," I said, counting mustn't be his forte. "Two."

That wiped the smile off his face and he looked me in the eyes. Something there must have startled him because he said, "I'll see if he's in."

"Thank you," I said as I swallowed the word, three.

He picked up his ear piece and slung it over his ear. The microphone jutted out and down along his jaw line. I knew the range between mouth and eyes didn’t matter so much because the microphone was super sensitive.

"Captain Hanson."

His telemonitor flashed, but never showed the captain's face.

"There's a woman here named," he stopped and turned back to me. "Your name?"

"Cybil Lewis," I said slowly, my hands still folded in front of me as I leaned my elbows on the counter. I hadn't raised any suspicious glances from the surrounding regulators. My body language conveyed civility. Inside my irritation pressed against my fabric of restraint.

"Cybil Lewis. Says she knows something about the mayor's missing brat, uh, kid," the desk clerk whispered, but it didn't sound anything like a whisper. I'm sure folks down all three hallways heard. A model of discretion, this one.

He kept his head diverted away from me and when he ended the call, he swiveled around and said, "He will see you now."

I nodded. “Where is his office?”

He pointed in the direction of the stairs. "Go up to the second floor, make a left at the top and head down until you see his nameplate," the desk clerk said, his voice shaky, his eyes still not focused on me. "Here's a visitor's badge."

He handed me a plastic badge with the word "visitor" on it. The frayed edges and scratched surface testified to its use. It must be the only one they had.

I slipped it into my pocket and elbowed my way through the throng of people to the stairs. Taking them one at a time, for there was no room to move faster, I thought about what I would say to the captain. How would he feel about the mayor bringing in a private inspector to do what he had apparently failed to do? My toes would be more than a little sore if the situation was reversed. Not to mention, I had dealings with regulators in the past. They always seemed to have an overdeveloped sense of right and wrong. For them, the world came down to black and white. Right and wrong.

For me, the world came down to multiple shades of gray.

That kind of ethic is what got me kicked out of the army in the first place.

But that’s another story.

The doors labeled as Captain Hanson's were broad and wide indicating a large office indeed. I took in a deep breath, still unsure of what kind of jerk resided on the other side. If his desk clerk was any indication of the type of people he hired as regulators, than he must be a complete idiot.

The doors slid back and I stepped into a polished office of silver-tone and black.  Wall to wall gray carpet, shiny silver-tone desk and gleaming black desk accessories and computer, gave the office a clinical, cold feel. His decorator must have been into contrast.

From behind the long, but slim desk, a man rose from his chair like a king rising up from a throne with the knowledge that he alone ruled with absolute power.

"Ms. Lewis, I presume," he said, his voice strong and soothing at the same time.

"Yes," I said, struck nearly speechless by his handsome face. I expected a red-faced bubba with an overlapping stomach, limited education, and dirty fingernails.

"I'm Captain Hanson," he announced, his smile wide and his handshake solid. Manicured nails and soft fingers brushed mine as he let go. "Sorry about the incident down at the desk clerk’s station. Herman is, can I say, slow."

I nodded and glanced around the capacious office decorated with minimalist in mind. The room contained his desk, a lamp and a telemonitor. Captain Hanson did not appear to be a pack rat or a collector of things. Except his left wall bore plaques and awards he'd been granted on one side, but the adjacent wall contained pressed leaves in wax paper that had been framed.  The collection covered more wall space than did his awards.

Obviously a man of substance and knowledge or one who wanted others to think so. What a bold statement of vegetation in a regulator captain's office…it was quite peaceful, the opposite of the violence involved in tracking down and arresting violators. No press releases or electronic clippings of current or solved cases, nothing that would distinguish his office from say a lawyer or an accountant.

Off to the right of his desk, beneath the collection of leaves, were a table and two wrought iron chairs with black cushions. The set would be better suited for an outdoor café, not the meeting table in a regulator office. Perhaps his decorator was female.

His eyes lingered on my damaged face, but he didn’t comment.

I did say he was smart, right?

"Please, sit, Ms. Lewis," he said as he invited me over to the table. His voice conjured goose bumps across my skin and my hand tingled where his had covered mine. Definitely not a good sign. The tingling indicated my attraction level. I must keep focused on the task of questioning him, not of bedding him. Come on, Cybil, hold it together for five seconds!

Captain Hanson stepped over to the table with such grace that it made Mayor Christensen's movement look like a bull thrashing around in a glass shop. His shoes were standard regulator issued and he was clean-shaven. The aftershave was spicy and still somewhat refreshing. He wore a turquoise sweater and black dress pants. The blue in his sweater highlighted his crisp, cerulean eyes. Turquoise must be the Memphis Regulators' official color. I thought back to Mayor Christensen's visit to D.C. and her entourage of well-dressed thugs.

Like a true southern gentleman, he stood until I sat and then took the seat across from me at the circular bistro set.

"Okay, now I know who you are. Your face was plastered all over the news files some two years ago. When Mayor Christensen mentioned your name, it had a funny familiarity, yet I couldn’t connect your face to your name."

I blushed! Me, the usually boastful and rightly so, was stunned into blushing.

"Well, yeah, but I had lots of help," I said quietly.

He shook his head, his salt and pepper hair not losing its style. Cut short and feathered back, the style wasn't new, but it framed his face well and brought out his strong chin. "Don't be modest. You caught Governor Price. Never really cared for him, personally, but he was the boss."

I laughed.

Not only was he not a dim-witted, bumbling regulator, he was charming and likeable.

He grinned and the bastard had two dimples.

You know my affinity for dimples.

"You obviously got my files on Amanda Christensen," he said. "What do you think?"

"I still don't feel like I know her," I said, as I willed myself to stay on track. Yes, I was aware that he was picking my brain, but if this was going to work at all, I had to pretend to give him information first. Or else he’d never recipercate…quid pro quo in action.

"What can you tell me about her that wasn't in the files you sent to me?"

His blue eyes carefully watched me. His manicured fingers drummed on the table and he ran his hand through his hair. It fell right back into place as if it had never been disturbed. In thought he folded his large, blunt fingers on his desk as if the drumming hadn’t solved his dilemma.

Older than me by at least fifteen years, I easily found him good-looking, which I usually didn't do with men nearly two decades older than me. Slight muscular build, small waist, and large hands, he must workout despite his age. Perhaps he was overtly vain and spent every waking hour when not at work, trying to starve off the aging process, like the leaves that still looked fresh, green, alive—youthful. 

"Amanda Christensen's file, the real file, takes more memory than I had to send to you," he said, his voice suddenly somber, but still pleasant. "She was a wild child. We brought her home many times and I'll be honest here, we didn't take her disappearance too seriously because she had run off before."

"She had?" I said, more than a little shocked by this tidbit, though not floored. I had suspected that the Memphis Regs didn’t take the girl’s disappearance as well seriously as they should have. Regulators. And Trey wondered why I despised them so. Their work was careless, sloppy and in most cases, totally ineffective.

"Where she'd go the last time you guys brought her home?"

"To her boyfriend's house where she'd stay for days while his parents were away," Captain Hanson said, his voice grave "The mayor would call us, all in an uproar. We'd go there, tell Amanda to go home, and, if need be, cuff and drag her back to the mayor's mansion."

"She isn't with the boyfriend this time," I said as I watched Captain Hanson's eyes.

"Unfortunately, no, Miss Lewis," he said, his eyes clicked with mine. "I have no idea where she is. I've had men all over this once they checked with the boyfriend's house and discovered she wasn't there."

"Ransom?" I asked, already knowing the answer. No, Amanda’s disappearance had been going on for too long to be ransom. Usually kidnappers wanted their money fast. Four weeks was too long to wait.

He shook his head no.

"Tell me more about the boyfriend," I said, my mind wandering back to what I recalled from the file, which wasn’t much. I’d been given a sketch of him…birthday, age, race, nothing more.

Picking Captain Hanson's brain wasn't the purpose of my visit. But, sometimes you had to eat humble pie to get what you wanted. The cigarette in my satchel belonged to someone and I needed to know whom. But not before I stroked a little ego.

"Ah, Nathan Martindale," he said, now a smile on his face. It exposed teeth, but it was hardly kind. "I don't know much about him… know his parents were a creepy lot…"

Something in the captain's tone gave me pause. It was a slight hesitation as if he didn't quite know what he was going to tell me. Almost a stutter, like the lie was on the tip of his tongue and he didn't want to say it.

"You never thought to check him out, since, uh, your regs were at his home a lot?" I said, watching the captain's face. A thin layer of sweat had emerged onto his brow, but he still seemed collected and cool. The perspiration could’ve been a trick of the overhead lights.

"Well, his parents weren't worth the money paid to the hospitals for their births," he said slowly, and oh, so carefully. "They were constantly in and out of the cradle…"

"I see," I said and I really did see. The Memphis regs didn't take Amanda's disappearance seriously and despite what he said, he still didn't.  Not really. His eyes kept scanning the table, except when he spoke to me, and then his eyes burrowed into mine.

Captain Hanson was lying to me.

But why?

"Anyway, tell me what you need, Ms. Lewis," he said, calmly switching back to me with a small grin of relief. "The mayor said you'd be contacting me, but I had no idea it would be in person. Not that I’m not glad to having met you in the living, breathing, lovely flesh."

Somehow his words didn't quite ring true to me, this last part. The earlier stuff seemed like half-truths, but this last sentence was directly bogus—except for his flattery. He knew I'd come and he knew what to tell me when I did arrived.

Or it could be that I was naturally suspicious of everyone?

"There is one thing. I wanted to ask if I could have the full support of the Memphis regulators," I said, using my poor-woman-in-distress act. “While here in the quad working my case. This should be a partnership between us.”

"Sure," he said, a tiny bit of twang slipping into his speech. Up until now, he’d succeeded in keeping it out. "What can we do for you?"

"I need this scanned," I said, taking out the discarded cigarette.

It was my only clue, but I couldn't think of a better way to get to the regulators' scanners except to ask. Although Captain Hanson wasn't showing all his face cards, I had only one and I had to play it.

"Not a problem, Miss Lewis. Any of my staff will assist you in whatever you need while here in Memphis. With any luck, we will bring Amanda home."

With that he stood and we shook hands again. He waltzed back to his desk and made an announcement over the complex's audio system that I was assisting with an important case and every regulator was to give me aid if I needed it.

"Now, to get down to the lab, go back past Herman and around to the far right hallway. Follow the signs down into the basement where the violation scene techs are located," he said, his eyes looking right through me. He seemed anxious for me to go.

I took the stairs back down to the first floor, passed the desk clerk and around to the far right hallway, which was painted a pale yellow. As I walked, I recalled my days as a private in the army. The men in my division often referred to me as "nut buster" because of my inability to follow directions barked at me by a higher ranking official. Even back then, I had a tendancy to question. Once the drill sergeant and others realized that I could take any punishment they dished out, they started to punish the troops in my platoon, thus the busting of other privates' nuts.

I rose haphazardly up the ranks and the further I got, the more bullshit I had to wade through. Some of it came from women, other times it came from men, but all of it wasn't worth the tag line printed on tee shirts.

After a nice, casual workout a la bedroom with the commanding officer after breakfast, which later became a sexual harassment charge, I resigned from the district’s army with an honorable discharge. I had to wrangle the honorable part by showing digital pictures of the commanding officer sexually harassing me.

Amazing the things one thinks about when around a bunch of people in uniforms.

I reached the lab section of headquarters nestled down in the basement, a long, rectangular room that ran the width of the building. Here, scientists tried to help regulators solve violation efforts and piece together evidence to convict the guilty and to exonerate the victims of wrong place wrong time.

I approached a bubbly blonde whose name tag read Buffy. Great and I couldn’t keep the bad blonde jokes out of my brain.  No other scientists appeared to be in yet. She wore a white lab coat and her shiny ringlets up in a bun. A few curls escaped to surround her face like baby’sbreath and she smiled as soon as I approached.

But the smile could’ve been for the regulator beside her. I couldn’t really tell.

Standing a little ways behind her was a standard issued regulator. He stood erect, his eyes directed ahead at Buffy's computer screen. He wore a turquoise shirt and black slacks and hiking boots. His skinny arms folded across his chest and his legs stood apart. His starched, straight, uniform made my back hurt it was so damn perfect.

"Buffy, can you scan this and tell me whose prints are on it?" he asked, his voice full of the commanding tone that reminded me of nails on chalkboards.

"Yes, Derrick, but--"

“Regulator Jameson, " he said, his tanned face a blank visage of stone, “Surely you can remember that.”

"…give me a few hours. I've got other cases to do first," she said with a smile, ignoring his interruption and his harsh tone. She shot the same sincere smile as if he had proposed.

Regulator Jameson reeked of that fresh-from-the-academy-hard-as-nails attitude that I absolutely detested in regulators, especially rookies. It’s what most often got them killed in the line of duty, but it could also help them fly up through the ranks…all the way to captain. Hanson had some residual of this on his personality; over time it had probably been honed to be less intrusive.

This wasn't a good sign for me. I wanted to get the scan and get out of there.

"I want it in an hour," he demanded, his voice amazingly militant. His tanned face stood out against his uniform.

Where would you get a tan like that in the middle of March? Tanning bed? Fake tan in a can? Miami?

Buffy stared back at him and then moved her bright green eyes to me. "Not until you tell me who this is," she snapped back at him. It wasn't malicious, but friendly, like a polite tap, not a hard whipping.

Startled, Jameson blinked and glanced over at me. "Who are you?"

"I'm Cybil Lewis," I said as I extended my hand, brushing past Jameson and forcing him to step back out of the limelight. Now that I was in Memphis, I felt free to toss the mayor's name around. It could open doors, sure, but I knew that it could also close some as well. I was guessing that here at regulator headquarters, it would open them.

"I'm here on behalf of Mayor Christensen."

"Oh yeah. You're the one Captain Hanson said to assist with whatever you need," he said, his eyes gleaming with entertainment or malice. He turned to Buffy and said in a snide voice, "She is here on behalf of Mayor Christensen." 

I could see the urge to smile. The corners of his mouth moved in the direction of a grin, but not completely.

Warning bells sounded in my head, but I ignored them. I focused only on getting the prints and possible DNA from this cigarette. So what the guy was an ass? I met several of those a day.

Buffy's eyes widened in awe. "You're Cybil Lewis!"  She squealed like a teenager at a concert and I smirked.

I didn’t get that from females too often.

"You-you ousted Governor Price not too long ago with that excellent detecting of his plans to take over the Southwest Territories," Buffy rambled on, drawing a long, hard stare from Regulator Jameson. He went so far as to shush her, but she ignored him.

"Yeah, but it happened a while ago. That’s not what brings me down here today. Could you run this through the scanner?" I asked, trying to steer her back to the task at hand. Celebrity didn’t really work for me. My ego was large enough as it was.

"Absolutely!" she said and took the plastic container from my hand. With her latex covered hands, she lifted the lid. Next, she took a pair of tweezers and lifted the cigarette from its case and sniffed. "Smells like rain."

I nodded, not wanting to give anything away and very aware of Jameson hovering over my shoulder. He didn't seem to be familiar with the Change case or my involvement in the violation charges against former Governor Price, but then he was really young.

And he wasn't happy that Buffy was dropping everything, including his prints, to look at my cigarette.

Jameson wasn't busy on the street or doing any investigation work because he stood at Buffy's station for a good twenty minutes, watching her work. Perhaps he didn’t trust her to do a good job. I had the feeling that he was hanging around to see my results. I didn’t know why I felt this way. Just my gut speaking.

Buffy placed the cigarette onto a sleek scanner behind her after she had separated the outer edge where the person’s lip sucked nicotine. The scanner rested along the edge of her desk, surrounded by framed photographs and clocks. A baby blue butterfly clock that read the time as nine-thirty with its mechanical hands, while another square butterfly clock the color of taupe gave the time as ten o'clock.

The flash of red light drew my attention back to the scanner as the laser beam drifted over the cigarette.

I waited.

Jameson waited with his arms folded across his chest.

Buffy hummed a tune to herself.

Finally, her computer screen flickered.

"Well, here's the good news," Buffy said around a wad of bright pink gum. "There are fingerprints on the cigarette."

"The bad news?" I asked, already not liking this.

"They’re classified," she said with a sigh. "Somebody doesn't want us to know who this guy or gal is. It could be anyone. At this point, there’s no way for me to tell."

“DNA from the saliva? Male or female, can you at least give me that?”

Something, I needed something. Wonderful. Although the prints were classified, I knew that meant only one thing. Territories Alliance or regulator. It could be a T.A. agent was following me. No doubt in hopes that I would lead him to Trey. Or it could be the Memphis regulators spying on me for Mayor Christensen.

Buffy swerved partially around in her chair, allowing to me get a good look at her profile.

"Here, one second.” She clicked a few buttons on her touch screen, nails causing the plasma to ripple as she skipped across message windows, and then waited.

The computer bell rang and Buffy clicked on the highlighted box. It enlarged to fill the screen with a report. “The person is definitely male, but I can’t give you any more than that. It’s red flagged and tapped up tight—classified.”

I stood there staring at the file as if willing it to give me more.

“Listen, I've got work to do. Anything else?" Buffy asked.

As before it didn't sound rude or crass. Something about her voice made it amusing, even nice. Perhaps it was her smiling face that took the edge off her words.

"Thank you," I said as I turned to leave. I walked a few paces and looked back to the pair.

Jameson lingered around to discuss something with Buffy. He had his hand wrapped around her wrist and appeared to be jerking her arm as if to emphasize a point. Her clear complexion grew slightly pink, but she shook her head no to whatever he was saying to her.

I thought to go back and set Regulator Jameson straight about putting his hands on women, but instead I found my way back to the front. I'd gotten what I came here for.

"Ms. Lewis!" someone shouted as I passed the desk clerk.

Hearing my name bellowed out across the room made my stomach tighten. It couldn't be good, that much was for sure. This day, like the ones before, was sinking into bad luck like a person who'd broken a mirror.

"Yeah," I said as I stopped before the security trunks

Herman, the desk clerk, gestured for me to come over to him. Half an hour ago, he didn't even look me in the face or acknowledge my presence except for grunts.

Now he wanted to talk?

I shoved my way through the packed intersection of the lobby up to his desk.

"Yeah."

"Call came in for you," he said as he handed me the earpiece and turned the telemonitor around for me to watch the picture. He clicked on the message and turned his attention to watching the prostitutes waiting outside the booking room. Must have been a raid or something where so many were scooped up at once. Why stay and peddle your wares here when they could do it freely in the Northwest Territories?

Jane's face popped on screen. "This call is for Cybil Lewis. Meet me at the rental room by eleven; I've got something you should see. End call."

Straight to the point. I glanced down at my watch, ten minutes after ten.

"Thanks," I said as I handed back the earpiece to Herman, the bored watcher.

He mumbled something I couldn't quite catch.

I wandered out of headquarters knowing only a little more than I did before.

Perhaps Jane had better luck with the boyfriend.