DETECTIVE McPHEE

She knew that her intuitive methods were sometimes the butt of jokes back at the station, but who cared as long as she got results? Still, she was a bit embarrassed about sitting on the front porch of Number Two Azalea Court, in one of the twin pink Adirondack rocking chairs, contemplating an imaginary conversation with the missing woman.

She looked at the list in her notebook. There had been no answer when she knocked again on Number Six. From her porch seat she had a good view of that front door in case the owners returned or tried to sneak out. She didn’t think there was anything to the hoodie report, but she prided herself in being thorough and following up on all leads.

With each passing hour, finding the missing woman alive and unharmed got less likely. By all reports Iris Blum had been a competent elderly woman, even if her husband’s diagnosis of dementia was correct. She probably didn’t deserve to end a long life like this. Damn, here she was, thinking of Mrs. Blum in that pesky past tense. You slipped into it so easily, and it never failed to undo the people left behind after an accident. Or whatever this was.

She wasn’t ready to give up on Mrs. Blum, not yet. She would conjure her up, picture the woman right next to her, in the matching pink rocker. The missing woman would be wearing a blue hooded jacket zipped tight against the November morning chill.

“Good morning, Iris,” McPhee said quietly. “May I call you Iris?”

“Certainly, dear.”

“We’re doing everything we can to help you.”

“Thank you. I do appreciate your efforts.”

“Is there anything you’d like to share with me? Off the record? Any clues to help me find you?”

Imaginary Iris half-smiled. “What if I don’t want to be found? Will you still help me?”

McPhee sat up straight. What if, indeed?