DETECTIVE SANDRA McPHEE

Sitting in her car, Detective McPhee studied the list of the Azalea Court residents scribbled in her notebook.

#1 Eric Golden, Bea Kaufman, Marc, and Morgan

#2 Asher Blum, Iris Blum (Alexandra Blum)

#3 Evelyn Turner, Donald Turner

#4 Gandalf Simon, Jess Simon

#5 Family from Brooklyn moving in today, names?

#6 Arnold North, Aggie North

They had spoken with Mr. Blum, at least for the initial interview, and with Donnie Turner, Gandalf Simon, and Aggie North. The people moving in wouldn’t know anyone, and the patrol officer already checked out their house, but that left more than half of the residents still to be interviewed, plus the missing woman’s daughter. She reviewed the items on her mental to-do list as well: BOLO check, Silver Alert check, Elder Services check. The dog and handler were already out there sniffing around, and the drone team was waiting for her word. What was she missing?

It was her job to ask the questions and to listen—both to the answers and to what was not spoken. The neighbors appeared genuinely concerned about Mrs. Blum, even if a few of them might be too interested. But most missing person cases had someone like Evelyn, so eager to help that it triggered a little voice of suspicion.

This was the part of the job she liked best. Solving a puzzle, trying to figure out what was going on, and why. What made people do the things they did, even when they didn’t really mean to or regretted it immediately afterwards? The other law enforcement stuff, the occasional car chases, and the rare shoot-outs that some of her colleagues loved, those weren’t the important part. “You should have been a social worker, not a detective,” her wife liked to say. But this was the right job for her. Raw and often ugly, but real. Her skills in puzzle-solving and reading people made her good at it.

Some people discount gut instinct, but professionals often rely on the combination of experience, following protocols with careful attention to detail, and simple intuition. Her wife was a nurse and she had it too, that finely-tuned sense born from years of seeing how things can look easy and fine on the surface and then go terribly wrong.

At this point, there was no solid evidence to suggest that someone had harmed Mrs. Blum. No evidence to suggest anything other than an elderly woman wandering off. Her cop sense told her that something else was going on, but it was early days yet. The husband was at the top of her list, but there was nothing solid there either. Just a rather pathetic old man with a shock of white hair fringing a bald head. A despot who acted like he still ruled over the land, even though his kingdom was an empty shell.

Next, she had to talk to the daughter, Alexandra Blum. It must have been quite an experience, growing up with Dr. Blum for a father.