Fifteen
Harold tapped the cell phone and shook his head. Rubbed his eyes.
A list of phone numbers was written neatly on a pad of scratch paper beside him on the table—neatly for him anyway. The pad was a freebie from the hospital. He had a stack of them to use just for moments like this.
He shook his head again and combed fingers through his hair.
He used to be good at contacting people when he’d had the detective agency. Never hesitated—just dialed the number. Talked to many kinds of people: women and men who were influential or poverty-stricken, all cultures. Suspicious wives. Criminals. People hiding from life. Even people who had been given asylum. Interesting business.
He missed it. And yes, he had worked long hours. Lucille, his wife, had complained once-in-a-while, but for the
