If one case wasn’t hard enough, two was sure to put him in his grave.
Logan shut the door, shrugged off his coat, then walked around the large machine under the dust sheet. The previous owner – a carpenter, he assumed – had left it here to make the dismal scene even worse. It wasn’t a big place, but the rent was cheap. It was really what he’d expected for such a price: creaking floorboards, windowsills caked in mold, and an awful smell he couldn’t get rid of. None of that mattered to him. Not for as long as he buried himself in work. And boy, did he bury.
All four walls of the claustrophobic living room were covered in police photos and case notes. An old friend in the Chicago PD was to thank for that, slowly dripping information into his hands whenever he coughed up some dough. It was enough to get by on, and despite his friend’s insistence that Logan could never close these cases alone, it didn’t stop him from trying. If anything, it only spurred him on.
But for all the cases that came and went, there was one case he could never let go of. One man he could never catch. All the other people he’d apprehended over the past few years were merely things to pass the time – justice to be served. For as long as “the big one” covered his wall, Logan would never know peace or satisfaction. He would know only pain.
Opting to skip dinner, he fetched a cold beer from the fridge and stood in front of his cases. It took everything he had not to look at “the big one,” which he only managed by focusing on little Kerry Henris. How was he supposed to save her? Dead or alive, how could he even find her? Chicago was a big city, and there wasn’t even anything to suggest she was still there.
“I’ll get to you somehow,” he mumbled, staring at the picture of the redhead. “Don’t worry, Kerry. Whatever it takes, I’m going to find you and get you home, safe and—”
Sound. Sharp, piercing sound. The shrill ring of his telephone startled him. Logan took a sip of his beer and reached for the handset, ripping it from its cradle. One more sip, then Logan wiped his mouth with his sleeve and spoke.
“Logan Fox” was all he said.
“I just got a tip about a young redhead,” came the female voice, stern and informative. “It’s not a pretty sight, either. It definitely feels like him.”
“Shit. Where?”
“Burnham Park. Chicago’s finest are on the scene.”
The woman was a reporter with whom he used to share information. Their relationship had always been very give-and-take, but it hadn’t been give for a number of years. Not since he had dropped the job to become a private eye.
Logan hung up the phone and turned to stare at the photo on the wall. Kerry Henris was a cute girl. In the photo, she was scooped up into her boyfriend’s arms with a wide grin stretching apart her perfect cheekbones. She looked happy, with her whole life ahead of her.
That was the thought that made him shiver as he headed for the door.