They'll Come to You

There is something, Ben decided as he pedaled around the block, decidedly unprofessional about a detective on a bicycle. He flicked the bell, pulled around a car (noting the plates, just in case), and turned toward home. It was particularly demoralizing when one was surveilling a building that was inhabited by no one but an unsavory collection of rodents, and as far as he could tell, of interest to no one but his client and the man he’d been hired to find.

But so were the joys of snooping through a city’s garbage in the new millennium. Belleville was growing, and the Big Leaguers were so active in their chosen city that every lady with a good pair of nylons felt entitled to Rescue By Cape. And ladies in nylons were his speciality, damn it!

So Ben took the bus, or the train, or his trusty Schwinn. He made it work, but this case was one big dead end.

Of course, it’s always possible to speak too soon, he mused, slowing as he approached his office. Someone had left a very bloody mess on his doorstep.

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