Chapter 1

My name is Sam Chandler, and I am a private investigator. Now, I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, "Great, another cheesy P.I. story. Cheeky P.I. with money problems at odds with the local law enforcement, saves the day, and catches the killer." Well, have I got news for you! The jury is out on saving the day, and I definitely did not catch the killer. Additionally, if the cops caught wind of what I have been doing and questioned me, they would have me locked up in a padded room for the next 20 years.

But let's back up, and I will tell you how it all began. I have spent the better part of 15 years working first as an apprentice and eventually a full-fledged P.I. in my Aunt Helen's Private Detective Agency in Houston, TX. Helen Van Houser made a name for herself as a P.I. with quite a few high-profile cases involving the sex trafficking of women and children over the years. I joined her agency at 18 years of age as an apprentice. Back then, I was mostly making copies and running for coffee. But as the years progressed, I learned the ins and outs of detective work.

At 28 years old, I passed my P.I. Licensing exam in Texas and Oklahoma. And for the next few years, I was your run-of-the-mill P.I., chasing down cheating spouses, finding runaway kids, and once, I even got a cat out of a tree. That really pissed off the fire department. Something about poaching their territory. Everything was great, work was steady, and life was good until Aunt Helen decided to retire. The conversation went something like this:

Helen: "Sam, I have something I want to talk to you about."

Me: "Dearest Aunt Helen, whatever could be so important?"

Helen: "Sam, it is time that I ruined your carefully crafted life and dump a truckload of responsibilities into your lap."

Me: "Dearest Aunt Helen, what in the world are you talking about?"

Helen: "Sam, I have become old and useless, and I am going to retire. You're a big boy now and need to step up and take the reins of the agency."

Okay, maybe it didn't go exactly like that, but you get the point. If I remember correctly, there was a lot more profanity and raised voices. Needless to say, this was a big step that I was not ready for. But I put my big boy pants on and changed the sign on the door.

                              Obscura Consultants

                                Senior Investigator

                                                Sam Chandler

I was now the Big Cheese, and I had no idea what to do next. I had spent the last 15 years getting assignments. I never had to, you know, find a client. Aunt Helen was no help either. She just kept pointing out that I should have taken more of an interest in the business side of things.

Let me say this. I am a great detective. I can track like a bloodhound and follow a trail of clues like Sherlock Holmes. But I hate... hate paperwork. So, advertising, bookkeeping, and taxes were going to be a real problem.

I spent the next week trying to figure out how I was going to keep the clients rolling in until one night, right before I was ready to pack it in for the day, an angel walked in the door.

She stood tall, her statuesque frame just a breath away from six feet. Her hair cascaded down her back in a river of fiery red, each wave catching the light like dancing flames. As striking as her hair was, it was her eyes that truly captivated. A piercing, electric blue, they shimmered with an ocean's worth of depth and possibility, as if a single glance could convey a thousand unspoken secrets.

Her figure was that of a seasoned athlete, perhaps a swimmer, with long, toned limbs and curves that flowed like water over stone. She moved with a fluidity and grace that seemed almost ethereal. Her attire - a pair of light grey yoga pants that hugged her curves like a second skin and an athletic tank top with the word "Angel" emblazoned across the front in a flowing script - only served to accentuate her fit physique and otherworldly allure.

She exuded an aura of strength and serenity in equal measure, as if she were a divine messenger stepped down from on high, equally at home in the heavens or walking amongst mere mortals. Her very presence commanded attention, drawing the eye and quickening the pulse, yet there was a warmth and approachability to her that made one feel instantly at ease in her company. She was, in a word, mesmerizing.

I cataloged all of this information in a glance, because... hello, detective! And then I kept looking for a few more seconds... and then a few more after that. Finally, I engaged my mouth and stuttered, "Hel-Hello, Miss. What can I do you... err, do for you?"

Only then did her eyes move to meet mine. She stared at me for what felt like an eternity and finally asked, "Can I speak to Helen Van Houser, please?"

"I am sorry, miss," I replied rather sheepishly, "Helen has retired, but I am her nephew and the Senior Investigator. How may I be of assistance?"

Again, she just stared at me. Those electric blue eyes that looked as if they could see into my soul. Her face expressionless and analytical. By now, my shock had worn off, and I had myself back under control. I stared back with a serene and confident look on my face and waited.

After a few moments, she nodded slightly, crossed the room, and took the seat across from my desk.

I started, "So, miss..."

"Angel," she responded curtly.

"Miss Angel?" I asked, glancing at the word printed across her tank top.

She sighed, her piercing blue eyes fixing me with a look of exasperation. "Just Angel is fine."

I cleared my throat, feeling a bit awkward under her intense gaze. "Right, Angel. How can I help you today?"

She leaned forward, her red hair falling in waves around her face. "There's a woman who's gone missing. Vanished without a trace."

"I see. And you want me to find her?"

Angel nodded. "The police won't look for her. But I know she needs help."

I raised an eyebrow. "The police won't investigate? Why not?"

She hesitated, her gaze flickering away for a moment. "Let's just say they have their reasons. But that's not important right now. What matters is finding her."

"Okay," I said slowly, pulling out a notepad. "Can you tell me more about when and where she disappeared? And what's the missing woman's name?"

"Her name is Cassandra Leigh. She's 28, about 5'6", with short black hair and green eyes. Last Saturday night, around 11 PM, she was last seen leaving her apartment on the corner of 5th and Main. No one has heard from her since."

I jotted down the details, my mind already starting to churn with possibilities. "And how do you know all this? Are you a friend of hers?"

Angel's expression turned guarded. "I have my sources. That's all you need to know."

I studied her for a moment, taking in the determined set of her jaw and the fierce intensity in her eyes. She clearly cared about finding Cassandra, but she was also holding something back.

"All right," I said finally. "I'll take the case. My standard fee is $1,200 per day plus expenses. I'll need a retainer to get started."

Angel waved her hand dismissively. "Money is no object. Whatever it takes to find her." She reached into her purse and pulled out a thick envelope, placing it on my desk. "This should cover your retainer and then some."

I picked up the envelope, feeling the weight of the bills inside. "I appreciate your confidence in me, but I do have to ask - why me? I'm relatively unproven compared to other detectives in the city."

She paused, looking back at me with a curious smile. "Your aunt has quite the reputation. In my experience, the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. If you're half as good as she was, then I know you'll find Cassandra."

With that, she turned and strode out of my office, her athletic figure disappearing through the doorway. I leaned back in my chair, the envelope of cash in one hand and my notepad full of questions in the other. It seemed I had my work cut out for me, but I was determined to prove that Angel's faith in me wasn't misplaced.

With Angel's mysterious envelope securely tucked away in a hidden safe behind a false panel in my office cupboard, I grabbed my trusty go bag and headed out the door. The bag, a black tactical 3-day pack, had been my constant companion on countless investigations. Its contents were meticulously chosen, each item serving a crucial purpose in my line of work.

Inside the bag's organized compartments, I had my reliable Nikon high-definition camera, ready to capture any piece of evidence that might crack a case wide open. Alongside it, a voice recorder sat primed for any impromptu interviews or to document my own observations. Extra pens and notepads were neatly stacked, waiting to be filled with the intricate details of the investigation.

A pack of disposable gloves was always on hand, essential for preserving the integrity of any potential evidence. My trusty Gerber multitool, a versatile companion, was nestled in its designated pocket, ready to tackle any unexpected challenges that might arise.

For those instances when finesse was required over force, my lockpick gun was discreetly tucked away. While not strictly legal, it had proven invaluable in accessing crucial information during past cases.

And then, of course, there was my SIG Sauer P226, a formidable 9-millimeter pistol. Along with two spare magazines and a box of ammunition, it provided an extra layer of security in the unpredictable world of private investigation. Though I always hoped I wouldn't need to use it, its presence was a reassuring weight against my side.

With my go bag slung over my shoulder, I stepped out into the city, ready to unravel the mystery of Cassandra Leigh's disappearance and discover the truth behind Angel's cryptic visit.

As I pulled up to the corner of 5th and Main, I found myself in a neighborhood that exuded an air of quiet sophistication. The streets were lined with well-maintained sidewalks, adorned with evenly spaced trees that provided a canopy of shade. The area had an undeniable charm, striking a balance between upscale living and a welcoming, community-oriented atmosphere.

The apartment buildings in the area were a mix of modern and traditional architecture, with most standing at a modest four to six stories tall. The facades were tastefully designed, featuring a combination of brick, stone, and glass elements. Each building had its own unique character, yet they all seamlessly blended together to create a cohesive and appealing aesthetic.

As I stepped out of my car, I noticed the meticulously landscaped grounds surrounding the buildings. Lush green grass, neatly trimmed hedges, and colorful flower beds added a touch of natural beauty to the urban setting. A few residents were out and about, some walking their dogs, others carrying groceries or briefcases, likely returning home from work.

The vehicles parked along the street and in the nearby parking lots were mostly mid-range luxury cars, such as Audi A4s, BMW 3 Series, and Lexus ES models. These cars signaled the financial stability and success of the residents without being overly ostentatious.

Glancing at the street signs, I noted that the area had a well-organized layout. The buildings were numbered logically, making it easy to navigate and find specific addresses. The streets were clean and well-lit, with modern street lamps adorning the sidewalks, providing a sense of safety and security.

As I approached the apartment building where Cassandra Leigh resided, I took in the entrance area. The building had a welcoming, yet secure, front entry with a buzzer system and a small lobby visible through the glass doors. A few potted plants flanked the entrance, adding a touch of greenery and warmth.

Overall, the corner of 5th and Main represented an ideal living space for successful middle managers and young professionals. It offered a perfect balance of comfort, convenience, and style, without the extravagance or pretense often associated with high-end executive living. The area seemed to foster a sense of community and belonging, making it an attractive place to call home for those who had achieved a certain level of career success.

As I surveyed the secure entrance of Cassandra Leigh's apartment building, I knew I had to find a way inside without drawing attention to myself or my true purpose. Revealing my identity as a private investigator at this stage could potentially compromise the investigation, especially since I was had not begun piecing together the puzzle of Cassandra's disappearance.

I glanced around, taking note of the residents coming and going. A young woman, dressed in business attire and carrying a laptop bag, approached the building. Seizing the opportunity, I stepped forward, holding the door open for her with a friendly smile. "After you," I offered politely.

The woman smiled back, nodding in appreciation as she entered the building. I followed closely behind, casually striking up a conversation. "I'm here to visit a friend," I mentioned, keeping my tone light and friendly. "But I can't seem to remember which apartment number she gave me. I don't suppose you know if a Cassandra Leigh lives in this building?"

The woman paused for a moment, considering my question. "Cassandra Leigh... Oh, yes! I think she lives on the third floor. I've seen her a few times in the elevator."

I feigned a look of realization, snapping my fingers. "Third floor, that's right! I must've gotten the numbers mixed up. Thanks for the help."

With a parting smile, I made my way towards the elevators, taking note of the floor layout on the directory. As I stepped into the elevator, I quickly glanced at the directory, confirming that Cassandra Leigh's apartment was indeed 3C. Before the elevator doors closed, I had a sudden realization. "Oh, I forgot to check my friend's mail," I said to the woman who had helped me earlier. "I promised I'd bring up any packages. I'll just run over to the mailboxes real quick."

The woman smiled understandingly as I stepped back out of the elevator. "No problem. Take your time."

I made my way to the mailroom, located a discreet distance from the lobby. Once inside, I scanned the rows of mailboxes until I found the one labeled "3C." Next to the apartment number was a single name: "C. Leigh." The absence of any other names suggested that Cassandra likely lived alone.

To further confirm my suspicion, I discreetly examined the contents of her mailbox through the small glass window. Inside, I spotted a few envelopes and a magazine, all addressed solely to Cassandra Leigh. This additional evidence supported the notion that she was the sole occupant of apartment 3C.

Satisfied with my findings, I made my way back to the elevator, giving the helpful woman a grateful nod as I passed her in the lobby. As I rode the elevator up to the third floor, I mentally prepared myself for the next phase of the investigation.

Once on the third floor, I casually walked down the hallway, keeping an eye out for any signs of activity. As I approached apartment 3C, I glanced around the hallway once more, ensuring no one was in sight. Reaching into my go bag, I retrieved my lockpick gun, a discreet and efficient tool for gaining entry without leaving any obvious signs of forced entry.

With a quick and practiced motion, I manipulated the lock, feeling the satisfying click as the door unlocked.

The investigation had officially begun, and I was determined to uncover the truth, one clue at a time.