My suspect had changed his modus operandi. The playing field broadened.

I hadn’t walked onto a college campus in twenty-two years. An anxious knot rode in the pit of my stomach with each solid footfall in my search for building 3, room 223. Up the stairs, around two corners, and beyond a wall of vending machines, I found the computer lab. With the exception of two females sitting near the back door, the room contained men wearing mix matched clothing and haircuts that didn’t match the shapes of their heads.

The get-away weekend near the small town on the Washington border, a surprise from Grant, promised a relaxing escape from city life. The mountaintop lodge amenities included a spa, hot tub, pool, masseuse, eighteen hole golf course, trails for walking and biking, and excellent seafood.

Grant led Kayla into the lofty room off the lobby. The massive stone fireplace lined with big wooden rocking chairs, and a gorgeous view of Gold’s River across the room, with another row of rockers, breathed relaxation into every inch of the generous space. Grant spread a hopeful smile onto his face and encouraged Kayla to nestle into a rocker by the fireplace. She didn’t argue.

The dress fit too tight and left no void to offer Julie a sufficient whisper of breath to be drawn in or out. Granted the corset and faint bustle slenderized her waistline, but she had grown accustom to the necessity to breathe on a regular basis. Yet, this important fact had escaped the attention of the saleswoman who had helped stuff her into the gown and fastened the long row of pearl buttons running full length down her back.

Once again Jack squinted and studied the map that had been delivered thirty minutes earlier. He shook his head. What were the clues trying to convey and where would they lead him? What importance significance did the jumbled letters B Y U R hold? And why was 5:45 P.M. written across the center of the map? Was each clue significant or were some nugatory?

Stepping away from his desk, Jack glanced at his watch. 5:40 P.M. Adrenaline built and pulsed through him. At 5:41 P.M. he pushed a hand through his thinning hair, wiped at the cold sweat forming on his upper lip, and turned his back on the map to study the skyline from his office on the nineteenth floor. Nervously, he glanced at his watch again. 5:43 P.M. The lights of the city twinkled against the purple sky. Suddenly, at precisely 5:45 P.M. his eyes locked onto the red light flashing on the peak of the Tallsman Bridge. It always held a solid beacon of light for aircraft and ships. Why was it now flashing?

At the park, detective Drake Benton scanned the grounds through narrowed eyes. Clusters of people spread themselves across the grassy setting. Heads shook, and whispered voices rippled through the warm air as he watched small gatherings mingle and reshuffle into new clusters. It didn’t take any detective work to know that word of the murder had already spread through the town.

He narrowed his focus to a small group under the red, white, and blue streamers hanging from the square platform. They stood in a tight knot with heads bowed, as though in prayer. Two of the heads, one in grey curls, the other in shoulder length brown waves held his attention. Mother and daughter. Helen Ward and Julie Simpson whom he’d met earlier at the scene of the crime. He kept his eyes on them until they separated and he had to make a choice who to follow. It wasn’t a hard decision as he watched Julie’s slim form take steps to a table piled with pamphlets.

An inky black stygian cloud lurked at the bottom of the Pond. In what was an otherwise immaculate and breathtaking garden, the Pond loomed ominously, defying the imported Japanese gardener to dare attempt to beautify it. Six years Mr. Norinaga had toiled, sculpting beauty from what was once a wilderness of forgotten dreams and lost hope. Not once had he disturbed the Pond, respecting it's presence and it's aura of foreboding.

The room was a mess; papers were strewn about in a careless manner, books were piled and stacked anywhere, some still open their spine breaking under the pressure being exerted upon it. Laundry was flung around the room as if they were decorations, paying homage to some abstract painter. The room was a mess, and that was the problem. The room was always a mess, and now the occupant of that room, one Nivley Hockerbock, was hysterical about a missing object of great importance.