The Case Against Randolph Dixon-Hertz - Entry 1

Under-the-table government contracts bring as many headaches as they do fat pockets, and after three months of covert Lawson Detective Agency © Brand Governmentally-Approved Sleuthing, the effort became absurdly and incoherently reminiscent of repeatedly pulling a thorn from a lion’s paw whilst adorned with a ruby-studded, diamond-spackled gold crown. During the ride home from places-unknown, brazen with fistfulls of cash, I imagined my independently-operated Detective Agency cracking the Big Time; utter abominations of Lawson Detective Agency © Brand billboards showcasing, among other things, our phone number...and our pledge to keep our case-rates at a miniscule ten-bucks per.

But then, all memory returned.

It was then, as snippets of three-month-old conversations bled back into my consciousness, that the beacon-like past-discussions sign-posted my awareness directly into that time in which I last looked upon my forever-burgeoning Detective Agency.

It was then that I remembered that I had left Randy in charge.

My body went cold; the cold sweat pooling in my shirt-collar was exponentially colder than my already too-cold skin, and I went into mild-shock: I could, conceivably, return to find that my whole enterprise had been converted into a coffee-bar...not such a crime, at first glance, but increasingly horrifying enough to warrant despairing mutters all the way into Hammertown, as I slunk into my seat with all the certainty of a tiger-cub eyeing a raw pound of zebra-meat across a gully with nothing more than a frayed-rope strung up for access.

A strange calm surrounded me as I returned to find my Detective Agency bathed in the twirling lights of six squad cars; umpteen glances upward provided the serenity of knowing that, at the very least, smoke wasn’t billowing from the rooftop. Yet.

I got out just as Randy was being led out into a squad car, hands, indeed, cuffed. He winked at me, even forcing a smile before his head was "inadvertently" bounced off the hard-paneling above the backseat doorway like a four-square ball off of a two-tiered fort.

I answered a few questions abruptly, and hastened my way inside to find...nothing. Everything was still there, mind you, but there were no outside indicators of foul play, and by the time I rushed back outside, the last of the squad cars was crashing its back-end on the too-high Lawson Detective Agency © Brand driveway.

There was reason behind the driveway’s peculiar construction, just as there was a reason Randy was relinquished of his freedom and bashed into the back of a squad car - unfortunately, I only knew one of those reasons, and I had a feeling that I was going to miss a significant amount of proposed-vacation time to ascertain the other.

Entry 2