Chapter28
1702 Words
“No. Not really. She did great once she relaxed and focused on her schoolwork,” Tiffeny reported. “Did you know she gets rigid and mindlessly doodles?”
“Yeah, she does that,” I noted. “I don’t understand why. Her teacher mentioned she does it in class, but I don’t know.”
“Maybe it’s her nervous tick,” Tiffeny tried reassuring me. “I’m sure she'll do better once she has a routine."
“Yeah.” I paused. “Maybe. We have a routine now, but I’m worried it may get messed up once I head back to work.”
Luna Tiffeny got up from her seat and helped gather Jewel’s belongings. The evening sun highlighted the loose curls of her light brown hair. They fell gracefully around her face, causing her beautiful, but sad, honey-brown eyes to pierce into my soul. I can easily get lost in them. How does she have that effect on me? I’m certain she’s not my mate.
“Would you need someone to pick her up from school when you return to work?” she asked, interrupting my thoughts.
“Yeah, eventually,” I admitted. “Are you offering to watch her, besides tutoring?”
“Yes, Sergeant, I am.” A small smile graced her beautiful face. I need to find that asshole alpha of hers. It hurts me to see her looking so sad.
“Okay, then meet me at the school’s office on Monday, and I’ll add you to her paperwork.”
“I’ll be there.”
March 25th, 10:08 AM, Wolfdale City University, Edward J. Vanguard Communication Building
So, for the past two weeks, Jewel, Luna Tiffeny, and I have begun a new routine together. I dropped my little gem off at school, and Ms. Lowell picked her up. During Jewel’s last week of community service, Tiffeny stayed there with her. Jewel has paid her debt to society, as the saying goes. And I’m happy to report that my daughter’s grades have slowly improved. Thank the Moon, Luna Tiffeny had a positive effect on my daughter. Perhaps all she needed was another female in her life.
Pardon my rant. I’m just getting everyone up to speed here. Back to the story…
The irritating hum from the fluorescent lights added to our anticipation of watching Cerber-nerd (Raymond) install a tracking program to The Howler’s computer system. Its primary job is to lock on the secretive IP address that places the weird advertisements. It’s the best lead we have at this moment. Hanna hasn’t gotten back to us yet on the files.
“Do you think it’ll work?” Ryan Mitchell, the Student Editor-in-Chief, nervously asked. He paced, chewing on a fingernail while never taking his eyes off our cyber-tech minion.
“We won’t know for sure until it presents itself,” Raymond stated.
“And no one knows when that may be,” Ryan balked, plopping into his chair. He removed his glasses to rub his face. He cleaned his spectacles and put them on. Ryan let out a nervous sigh. “I hate this,” he whined.
“You hate what, exactly?” I inquired, leaning against one of the desks.
“This supposed lead you have, and I can’t report on it,” he replied. “And also that The Howler could be partially responsible for the missing students.”
“How long have you been the Student Editor-in-Chief?” George asked, nervously walking around. His eyes landed on the old teletypewriter.
“This is my second semester as the student editor,” he stated.
“So, not that long, then?” George continued. “Just going by your remembrance board, students had gone missing long before you became editor. It’s not your fault.”
“How is placing an ad in The Howler any different from sticking the same ad on either a telephone pole or a bulletin board? Are the pole and board responsible for who answers the ads?” I added, attempting to make a point.
“No, I guess not,” Ryan answered. He leaned into his chair. “Thanks…but I still feel somewhat responsible.”
“Well, the first step in being a leader is learning to take responsibility,” I advised him.
“Sounds like someone I know,” George inserted. I threw him a side glare.
“Yeah, and that’s why you’re the lead detective on this case, Officer Harper,” I reminded him.
“You’re all heart, Sergeant,” George stated sarcastically.
The sound of a muffled snicker came from Ryan Mitchell’s direction. Our banter must have amused him.
“Mr. Cornell, do they always act like that?” he asked the forensic minion.
And with an emotionless look and a deadpan voice, he replied, “Worse.”
George, Ryan and I couldn’t contain ourselves and busted out laughing. Cerber-nerd nailed the comedic timing. He stood there grinning with the biggest smile. However, Ryan’s female colleagues only shook their heads and muttered among themselves, “Boys are weird.”
Once our laughter died down, George found himself at the old teletypewriter.
“I thought you didn’t use this anymore,” George directed his statement to Ryan Mitchell.
“We don’t,” he replied. “It’s been unplugged and disconnected for decades. Why are you asking?”
“There are letters printed on the paper left in it,” George replied.
“That can’t be right!” Ryan exclaimed, jumping out of his chair. He, Raymond, and I rushed to where the old machine sat. We stood there, staring dumbfoundedly at it. The letters DAN OS AM B R UL stared right back at us.
“Suspicious,” Ryan mused.
Suspicious indeed.
“Do you think it’s an old World War Two code that needs to be broken?” Ryan uttered.
He's always looking for a story.
“No. The model for this specific teletypewriter is from the early 1960s,” Raymond corrected the eager storyhawk. “It would be too new for your assumptions.”
“Dammit! I thought I had a unique story lead,” Ryan grumbled.
“Sorry. They can’t all be winners,” I muttered. “Welcome to our world.”
“Huh, what?” Ryan asked.
“Nothing… forget about it,” I muttered. “Would someone play a practical joke on you guys?”
“No joke could be played, Sergeant,” Cerber-nerd inserted. “The dust on the machine shows that it has not been tampered with for many years. Theoretically speaking, it would be impossible for the machine to work. The mechanical workings would be gummed up.”
“Ha! Your guy just busted your lead, Sergeant,” Ryan chuckled. “But you already knew that was a far-fetched theory, didn’t you?”
“Maybe…”
“Well, I’m stumped. If it couldn’t happen practically then—” Ryan spoke his thoughts.
“Then it could be a sign from beyond the grave,” Amanda, a student reporter, joked, interrupting him.
“Ha-ha,” The Howler’s Student Editor-in-Chief sarcastically laughed.
However, George and I gave each other a meaningful look. We know that theory isn’t too far out there. But who would send it and why?
“Sergeant, Detective,” Raymond announced. “I am going out to the van to complete the connection. This current discussion is beyond my pay grade.”
Eh, I can’t blame him. He probably still has trouble processing the idea of working with werewolves.
“Would you mind if we take the paper?” George asked Ryan. “I’m curious as to what it spells out.”
“Let me get permission from my professor first,” he replied, reaching for the phone.
A few minutes later, Ryan received the okay for George’s request. The only requirement was that Ryan had to be the one to retrieve the item from the machine. You can’t blame the school for that either. That teletypewriter is their ancient relic. The student editor nervously fumbled with the knobs to move the printer paper up and out of the machine. Raymond was correct in saying that the mechanisms would be gummed up. He dug out a can of cleaner and another can of lubricant from his backpack. Ryan worked quickly on getting the knobs to turn. We held our breaths, watching him work.
Sweat beads formed on his brow as he slowly turned the knobs to release the paper. Only they still refused to budge. After giving them another spray of lubricant, the machine gave up the requested paper. He was surprised to discover the paper had perforations.
“Finally,” Ryan sighed, handing the paper over to George.
“Thanks, and sorry. I didn’t think it would be that much of a problem,” my partner apologized.
“Even though it was stressful, it was fun working on it,” the student editor stated, beaming with pride.
“Good thing you had those cans of cleaner handy,” I observed.
“Yeah, I’d never thought my bike maintenance equipment would come in handy for something else,” he snickered.
Sometime later…
12:02 PM, 2652 Franklin Heights, Swann Brothers Sandwich Shop
The sandwich shop was located in a former delicatessen. Smells of freshly baked bread greeted each patron entering the shop, as did the bell hanging above the door. Cured meats, cheeses, and various toppings were on display inside the glass coolers of the sandwich shop. Off to the side were some small tables and chairs. George and I found ourselves in a long line waiting to order. Our shoes stuck to the sticky floor, making each step forward interesting.
Roughly about ten minutes later, George and I sat at one table. Our sandwich wraps and chip bags opened and spread out before us. George took a sip of his soda when his pocket vibrated. He snuck in a bite before pulling his phone out.
“Hello,” he mumbled, answering with a mouth full.
My mouth hung open to take a bite from my hoagie, but the look on George’s face stopped me from continuing.
“Frankie…what’s wrong?” George asked, panicking at the urgent call.
Well… There goes lunch.
- Writer
