The weather had been gravely ill for weeks. Today it had wrapped itself in a gloomy gray shroud and finally lay down to die. The icy rain seemed to have no end; the water that fell was slimy and cold, and it left an icy film on the buildings as it poured down. The wind howled through the dead avenues like a wounded thing, and the rain whipped relentlessly against black clouds that wheeled above like carrion birds, waiting for the inevitable.

This was summer's wretched ruin, and the first taste of a hard and premature winter. The winter weather had come howling into Birmingham the week before. Fall had been foregone; the leaves on the trees that were only just beginning to turn were encased with ice. It was only September, and the city's tired inhabitants were already longing for the swelter of the summer that lay just behind.

All down the windswept Interstates and through the slimy back streets, tired motorists struggled their way across Birmingham's broad back, trying desperately to get to work, to home, to the restaurant, to the bowling alley. Some might not live to see the gray day's end, some might break a leg or find true love, or might disappear into the premature birth of winter and never be seen again.

Roland turned up the collar on his long wool coat and considered these and other mysteries, as he stepped into the lobby of the Brooks building. The Brooks Building was an ancient brownstone office building, of which he was the only remaining tenant. It was nine stories of once splendid brick, left over from another time. His office was located on the third floor of this noble relic. Besides an aged janitor, and the occasional client, he was the only human being that troubled its halls.

The Brooks Building itself presided over the now mostly vacant Brooks Plaza; whatever bustle of business it had once housed was long in the past. Only one business in the plaza was still open, besides his own, Sally's Diner, across the street. The other buildings were vacant, sliding slowly into ruin. The cold wind raged and howled past their aging sides. A relentless blast of sleet slithered down the city streets, as it had for the last ten days. It was hard to believe that it was just early September.

"Is going to be long, cold winter, comrade." Roland joked to himself in his best fake Russian accent as he mounted the steps to his office. The vacancy of the other suites made the venerable building seem somehow even colder. He entered his dark, silent office. The cold from outside had permeated the old Brooks Building, but what else was new, Roland mused. In the outer office, the receptionist's empty desk silently reproached him.

Roland glanced at the desk and winced; he supposed that he should get rid of it. He was always promising himself that he would; he just never seemed to get around to it. Denise, his former secretary, had been married and moved away for a long time now. She had been a good secretary; but she had also been a friend. He had known her from his days as a cop. She was also one of the few who had stuck by him in the dark days that had come afterwards. Those were bad times indeed, when Roland had stuck his head in a bottle to hide from some of life's unpleasantness.

The desk was in some ways a reminder of those former times, and of his now departed friend. But the place would seem quieter and even more devoid of life, without at least this suggestion of another presence. But hiring another secretary was out of the question. He put the question from his mind, and rubbed his hands together.

He turned on the heat and went into the inner office, to make coffee while the temperature built up to an acceptable level. The aging radiator squealed as the steam built up inside and tried to escape. Outside answered with its own angry voices; icy water struck the pane; the wind growled threateningly outside. Down below, he saw a couple of cars toiling through the dark and rainy street.

Roland pushed the button and the coffee maker, and sat down and rubbed his hands, and placed his pager and cell phone on the desk. He pushed the button on the answering machine; no beeps answered him. No messages today. Roland was almost glad; not that he couldn't use the dough. You always could in his line of work. But a brief respite was welcome. He had run himself ragged, the last couple of weeks, looking for a deadbeat dad that didn't want to get found. Roland had finally found him, and the man had finally coughed up the money he owed, rather than face jail. They usually did. All in all, it had been an annoying waste of time. Cases like that usually was.

He rubbed his face. Then he got up, stretched, and put the tawdry little case from his mind. He was breaking one of his own cardinal rules. There was no use dwelling on a case after it was a done deal, and he had long since forbidden himself from doing so. The coffee maker bubbled its last, and Roland got up to make himself a cup. Just then, he heard a cautious footstep in the outer office. He looked at the time. 8:45 a.m.

Somebody's sure busting a gut to see me, this fine morning.

After a few seconds, the door to his office pushed timidly open. Through it came a big man, about six foot three, just a tad shorter than Roland. But Roland was dense and muscled, whereas the visitor was flabby, and sad. His face was pale, and a great drooping mustache swooned from either side of a long, pallid nose.

He looked a little like some ancient Cossack, straight from his manor upon the Steppes. He was dressed in a long leather coat with a fur collar; and on his head sat a large bear fur hat. His long white fingers wore several gold rings. In his right hand was a silver-tipped cane. His appearance imparted two things equally; wealth, and something else, a deep sorrow. He seemed to have a disturbing aura, a bit like madness. The expression on the man's face was one of infinite sadness, mixed with a deadly earnest.

His presence was somehow larger than life, and at the same time comical. There was a surreal quality in his appearance; too many strong ideas that did not mesh well. A soft, cultured voice issued forth from his great, impressive bulk.

"Mr. Roland Longville?" The idea of the Cossack instantly evaporated; Roland thought instead of a walrus; not the actual animal, but a character from a Lewis Carroll poem that he'd read as a boy.

"That's me."

"Mr. Longville, My name is Horace Champion." He said his own name with some significance. The name sounded familiar to Roland, as if there was a story attached to it, one that he knew. At the moment, he couldn't recall the details.

"Nice to meet you." The two big men shook hands. The pale man's hand was warm and sweaty, despite the cold outside.

"On the contrary. The pleasure is all mine. I assure you." Not quite sure what to make of the man yet, Roland indicated the coffee maker.

"Would you like some coffee by chance, Mr. Champion? I was just about to make myself a cup."

"Oh, that would be nice." The other man looked grateful and slightly embarrassed.

"I'm sorry to barge in. Your secretary wasn't in yet." Champion gestured back to the outer office.

Roland smiled to himself and turned his back to the man. He poured them both a cup.

"Do you take sugar, Mr. Champion?" He called over his shoulder.

"Oh, yes, three. And lots of cream."

When Roland turned back, he saw that Champion had removed the big fur hat and placed it in his lap. This revealed a head of bushy brown hair. The hair was rather like the hat. The man's eyes were shiny. Roland saw that there were deep circles under Champion's eyes, as though he cried often. Roland sat down, and slid Champion his coffee. He sipped experimentally on his own.

Champion took a noisy gulp, and sucked in the still frigid office air. "Ah, that's good. Thank you."

Roland nodded. The big man produced a monogrammed handkerchief and wiped at the corners of his eyes. Roland thought again of the Walrus.

Holding his pocket-handkerchief before his streaming eyes.

"Mr. Longville, I have a problem. There is nowhere else that I may turn. You, in short, are my last hope." He paused dramatically, as if searching for a reaction. Roland sat motionless, giving him nothing.

"It's my daughter, Mr. Longville," he paused to sob, and in a rather practiced manner, Roland thought, "...Georgia LeCroix Champion."

Roland sat back and regarded the ceiling for a moment. He realized now why Champion's name had seemed familiar. Champion, he was sure, had hoped that it would ring a bell. Champion was a member of Birmingham's smallest club. He was a billionaire, having made his money in by inheriting tens of millions and having a good enough business mind to make it grow larger still. The source of his immense wealth was a huge construction firm, which he had also inherited. Roland also knew the source of Horace Champion's sadness. Little Georgia Champion had gone missing two years before. Or had it been three?

The lurid story came rushing back to Roland; it had been the proverbial tabloid circus that everyone in the world heard about, whether they wanted to or not. The yellow journalists had stoked the flames of the public interest, and the story had run the circuit that such sad stories do. Then one day it had become an old topic. The public got bored with the lack of new developments, and so the jackals had run away, to focus their lurid attentions on some other human tragedy. In the end, it had become a joke, and then it had been forgotten.

Georgia Champion, the poor little rich girl. Roland was sure that there were still old tabloids in the outer office, with her picture emblazoned across their fading covers. Most of them featured crazed headlines, blaming the girl's disappearance on everything from Satanist death cults, to aliens from outer space. The headlines had grown increasingly bizarre as time had gone by; no real suspects had ever been announced, and Georgia was ever found, dead or alive. Eventually, the tragedy became comedy for most people, and they lost interest.

Georgia Champion's disappearance would never have attracted so much attention, of course, had her parents not been so wealthy. They were the Mountain Brook Champions, after all. Her father was a well-known construction magnate. That fact alone had kept the story in the news for a year. It had lingered in the tabloids six months more.

For all the media hoopla, though, the crime itself had been a genuine conundrum. The girl had disappeared from her parent's estate, an opulent 19th Century manor with a ten-foot privacy fence, as well as its own security force. She had been just nine years old. A lot of good minds had tried to crack the mechanics of just how the girl had been abducted, with no success.

These thoughts swirled through Roland's mind. Champion sat there, his great sad face patiently awaiting Roland's pronouncement. His lower lip trembled, as though he was fearful of what Roland might say.

"Mr. Champion, I am familiar with your case. I don't remember all of the details. But I believe that you are wrong about one thing. I'm not your last hope. The Birmingham Police are still actively pursuing this case--"

Champion held up a pale palm, and Roland checked himself, and fell silent so he could speak. Champion spoke on in his cultured, measured tone. But there was more than a little spite in his voice.

"Nothing. The Birmingham Police are doing nothing. I've been to them, believe me, many times. Even recently, I have consulted them. Their answer is always the same. I have also been to private agencies. I am referring to some of the largest firms, some of them the most reputable in the country, the world. The police I might say, are the same as these agencies, they want to placate me by sending me empty reports, or dash my hopes with repetitive and pointless interviews." He paused for a moment, checked his manicure, gave Roland a quick glance, and went on.

"I am no fool, Mr. Longville. What has happened here is easy to see. The police have given up on this case--on my case. As for the large private agencies, the situation is laughable. They simply want to take my money. No, I am done with them, done with them all. What is called for here is a goal-oriented person, an individual that will report to me personally. Someone who gets results. Someone like you."

Roland ignored the patronizing remark. "Mr. Champion. Despite what you may think, some of the larger detective agencies have some very highly trained personnel. I might also mention that they have considerable resources at their disposal."

Roland made a sweeping gesture, encompassing his office, and the mostly vacant Brooks Building. There was a slight pause while Champion appeared to consider this. The wind slammed against the panes, and the sleet made a nervous tic tic tic on the rattling glass.

"Mr. Longville, I am a very wealthy man."

"Yes, Mr. Champion. I know that you are."

"It so happens that you come very highly recommended. Very highly indeed. That is all the assurance that I require. As for resources, I will place at your disposal whatever you require to get results. I am also prepared to reward success handsomely. Very handsomely, Mr. Longville. For me, you see, this entire affair has gone beyond hiring someone and simply awaiting results. I'm looking for someone who is honest and knows, if you will excuse me, what the hell they are about, and the cost be damned." Again, Champion delivered his words with great drama, and paused as if to search Roland for some reaction.

Roland kept all emotion out of his face, unwilling to play Champion's game.

"It doesn't work that way, Mr. Champion. I work for set rates, not on a reward basis. I'm not a bounty hunter. Extra expense money would help any investigation, but let me be honest with you. The Birmingham Police still have someone assigned to this case, probably some of their best people. The police don't give up. If you haven't heard anything from them, it's because there are simply no new developments in the case. As for the private agencies you've been to, well, they probably weren't able to find anything that the police hadn't--" Roland stopped suddenly; Champion was counting out money, laying it on the desk. There was already a considerable stack of hundreds.

"Mr. Champion, sir, stop that. Put your money away. I can't accept this."

"This is just for your time, Mr. Longville. Please, let me talk, let me explain."

"You are talking to me, Mr. Champion. You can, all you want. That's free. Now please get your money off my desk." Champion flushed; hesitantly, he scraped up the bills and secreted them away in his coat. His manner immediately became apologetic again.

"Forgive me, Mr. Longville." Champion's voice immediately became a placating whine, as he took on an artless change of tack. "I know that I am in no position to demand anything. I am not trying to insult you, but I am at wit's end. You must try to understand. All that I ask is that you try. I'll pay well, and, I'd like you to know that I trust you. Please, please, I implore you, help us if you are able."

Roland saw that the big man's face was shiny with tears once again. He drew a heavy sigh, and let his fingers trace the scar that made a long comma from the corner of his left eye to the corner of his mouth. He did that compulsively, when he figured he was close to making a big mistake, like the one that had gotten him the scar.

He felt a stab of pain in that old wound. He was no super-hero; just a man, with a man's frailties, a man's mortality. He knew all too well that Champion, however pointless his case might seem, might mean his destruction. Too many "piece of cake" assignments had almost been the death of him. Any case he took might be the one that laid him low. He tempered his next words accordingly.

"If I agreed to do this, Mr. Champion, and please understand that I haven't, I'd need your cooperation, Mr. Champion. Your unqualified cooperation."

"Rest assured, Mr. Longville, about our cooperation. I assure you, you will have it. My wife and I--regrettably, Diana couldn't be here--we'll agree to almost anything. Something has to be done!" His last words were in a high, keening tone, and Roland had the sense of Champion saying them on a talk show, and the remark drawing a round of obligatory applause from the half-attentive audience.

Roland gritted his teeth. The man had obviously rehearsed his routine, but still, he seemed in earnest about his lack of confidence in the police and other agencies. Roland could guess whom the man had been to see; his ex-partner, Detective Lieutenant Lester Broom, of the North Precinct. Such unqualified praise for an ex-alcoholic, solo private eye, seldom came from other quarters.

"I have to say, Mr. Champion, I'm flattered by your apparent faith in me. But let me say something. I don't think I would be doing anyone any good for me to simply rehash this case. I don't think that you're facing the facts here. The reason that the police and the other private firms haven't found anything new is probably that there is nothing new to find."

Champion leaned forward, and for a moment his expression was free of all artifice. "But there has to be something, Mr. Longville. They have all missed something. My daughter is still missing."

Roland started to reply, but Champion interrupted, and there was no artifice in his voice, either.

"Mr. Longville, my daughter disappeared in the middle of her birthday party, and the only thing the police did was accuse us, my wife and I, of her murder. There are many who believe to this day that we are responsible. She was our only child, Mr. Longville. Our everything. Our world was taken from us. I want to know who did this thing to us. How on Earth it was done. And why to my family."

The bossy billionaire was suddenly gone. Sitting across from him now was a father who had lost his daughter, and everything else dear to him. The barrage of media images surrounding the case, and Champion's billions, suddenly fell away. He was able to glimpse Champion's naked despair, and he felt a pang of sympathy. Perhaps the man put on the big show to save his sanity.

"I'll have to think it over, Mr. Champion. I can't give you any guarantees. Maybe we could meet and discuss this, somewhere later?"

Champion quickly pushed an embossed card across the desk. It was printed on sepia tinted paper. Roland caught a whiff of his cologne. He half expected the card to be scented as well, and he suppressed the urge to sniff it.

"Excellent. This is my address. Come to my home. Show this card to the guard at the gate. Diane and I will be expecting you." Champion immediately re-inflated himself, and rose from his seat.

After more ebullient handshaking and a tearful goodbye, the strange, overwhelming man was gone. It was almost as though Roland had imagined him, except for the card. Roland indulged himself in another heavy sigh. It was difficult not to feel like a thief. The odds of turning up something new were vanishingly small.

For a moment, he had almost told Champion to get out of his office. He had considered telling the man that under no circumstances would he take the case. But something had changed his mind. What? He had changed his mind before, but it was usually because a client convinced him that their situation was different, that it wasn't going to be just another runaway daughter or deadbeat dad. This one didn't look that way.

Champion himself was pretty annoying. Roland supposed that what he found particularly grating was Champion's oily, yet persuasive technique. Though it was seemingly moronic and childish, he had to grudgingly admit that they had worked on him. The man was a brow-beater, but of a different order than Roland had ever encountered. What Champion couldn't get by tugging at your heartstrings, he would attempt to buy off with money.

Roland was angry with himself, too. He knew he would take the case. And he told himself this was a blunder, because it was a hopeless cause, more hopeless than any he'd ever seen. This one had been the center of a media tornado; the parents were at the pinnacle of Birmingham's polite society; and for a while, at least, had been suspects. The unrelenting tabloid coverage had destroyed their credibility in the community. Eventually, the police had cleared them as suspects. There had been a public apology; but no other suspects were ever produced.

He shrugged into his overcoat and went down to the street. His old brown Buick Regal was parked at the curb, and he got in and started it up. What dark figure had come into the moneyed, tiffany and teatime world that Georgia Champion called home? Who had come from the darkness and taken her, and vanished back into the impenetrable shadows from which it had come?

Anyone with a television set had heard the whole story a thousand times. It was a complex web of supposed leads. The trouble was that none of them led anywhere. The police had investigated frantically for months. In the end, they had found nothing. It had made the police force the butt of many harsh jokes. Cases like that get put away, and never see the light of day again.

Roland knew police work, well enough to understand that the Georgia Champion case wasn't at the top of anybody's crime docket, nowadays. He also knew that he would have to delve into a mountain of information, and there would be nothing that police hadn't already been over with a fine-tooth comb. Most of it would be redundant and pointless.

What could he hope to discover? There was always hope that some overworked detective had missed something, but the smart money was that the abductor had left nothing for anyone to find. It was, after all, like taking the Champion's money. He knew if he agreed to do it, he owed Champion results. Maybe he could at least fine the girl's body. If the result was ultimately nothing other than a body to bury, maybe he could at least give Champion the peace of mourning at her grave.

Roland could see how others might find it hard not to take advantage of the man. He was eager to pay anyone who could provide him with the briefest glimmer of hope, in a situation everyone else had given up on. He thought of Horace Champion, counting money out onto his desk, and grimaced. He looked at the address on the card Champion had given him, and started the car.

The case lay in the environs of the East Precinct. Unknown territory, Roland mused. Immutable laws had decreed that the case files from the Champion case were stored therein. Roland picked up the yellow pages from his desk. He'd been to the East Precinct, but it had been years before. He had worked almost exclusively out of the North Precinct. All of his police friends still worked there. There was no one at the East Precinct he would know.

"Well, time to make some new friends." He sighed to himself.