Dear friends and family,
It has been a very difficult and trying week for me. Life is full of lessons, and this time I was taken back to an emotional place, a lesson I imagined completed, that took me completely by surprise. I slipped into a depression I hadn’t felt in many years. I could go on and on into the story and psychology of it all, but maybe this sums it up - one of Neale Donald Walsh’s daily reminders that I usually just delete:
On this day of your life, dear friend, I believe God wants you to know...
...that "Why is this happening?" is the most useless
question in the Universe.
The only really profitable question is, "What?" As in,
"What do I choose now?" This question empowers.
The "why" question simply perplexes, and rarely
satisfies even when it gets a good answer.
So don't try to "figure it out." Stop it. Just focus on
what you now wish to create. Keep moving forward.
There's nothing behind you that can possibly serve
you better than your highest thoughts about tomorrow.
So I am emerging from this "disturbing to me" event with two thoughts in mind: 1. Don’t be distracted by the glittery "off purpose" illusions on your path, and 2. Whether you do or not, bow in thanks and continue on.
Today I am more confident in my chosen path and have renewed my dedication to my life purpose. What do I wish to create? I am focused on bringing to myself the support, the help, the way and means of getting my novel Shambala - The Path to Paradise out to the world, to experience, as soon as possible, my joy in response to the joy of hundreds, thousand and even millions of readers who have been moved and inspired by this wonderful story. Here is my latest query letter.
With Love, David Dakan Allison
David Dakan Allison
Chiang Mai, Thailand
daviddakanallison@gmail.com Skype: dakan47
September 12, 2012
Dear (the support, the help, the way and means to getting my novel out to the world)
Shambala--The Path to Paradise is a surprise; a mystery adventure love story; five hundred pages of refreshingly special contemporary fiction, which invites the reader to come along on a mystical journey to exotic places, both real and imaginary. That journey, blooming within the novel, is a peerless treat—one in which any reader with an imagination, a desire to find their own path to paradise, will savor. After two years of writing and seven drafts, it is ready for final in-house editing and publishing. By inviting in a character from a previously written novel, a new adaptation, the second book in a series, longs to be written. I am a full-time writer--Shambala is my 5th novel.
“What are you doing?” the old book seller grumbled, pushing the clutter of books aside, isolating the crude copy of Shambala--The Path to Paradise from the other perfect bindings. “Books like this have no business yellowing in copy paper binders.” He picked up the manuscript and tossed it at the author. “Do something with it! You need to get it out to the world. It has a destiny.” ”A destiny?” the author questioned. “What destiny?” The wise old man’s caterpillar eyebrows met, a slight smile then frown of confidence precluding any doubt. “To be a best seller, of course. Now go away and make it happen.” (not from my novel)
I’m an artist, a writer with many stories to tell, with that focus--to make it happen. The time has come to seek the best Literary Agency possible, a team that has the where-with-all to find a publishing house that will place this book where it belongs--front and center in airport bookstores all over the world; in the hands of millions of readers--hardback, perfect bound, ebook, audio, and yes Hollywood would love it--video.
Shambala is written in three parts. The Mystery: four dementia patients are missing from a gated home in Portland, Oregon. A retiring police detective captain and his rookie assistant go there to investigate. An intriguing and compelling possible double homicide story unfolds. The Adventure: the detectives, now a week behind, follow the trail of the (dementia free) old folks to Kyoto, Japan and on to Mandalay, Burma. The Path: separately the old folks and the detectives are guided by immortal masters to Mt. Kailash in western Tibet, and Khawa Karpo, north of Burma, the most sacred mountains in the world, 1000 miles apart. Will they meet on the path to paradise?
Shambala takes the characters and reader on a plausible, yet magical journey to the faraway regions of Tibet, where ancient teachings and quantum possibilities merge--all wrapped around a highly inspirational and very satisfying love story.
The genre is one of mystery, adventure and romance, with a metaphysical twist--like a heartsicle suddenly appearing in the hand of a circus magician, a rare and simple pleasure, one you will have to read to experience.
btw, I just sent a querie letter to another agency that specializes in African-American works. This is what I wrote: Although I'm not African-American, two of the main characters in this novel are. Jimmy Meriweather is the retiring police captain in the Portland (Oregon) Police Bureau, also a Zen Master and Aikido sensei. Howard Johnson (really Reginald St. Clair) was a poor Mississippi farmer before being rescued from that life to become the top organic farm executive for the largest natural foods company in the world -- Shambala Natural Foods. There is a history in the novel where Robert St. Clair, the billionaire owner of Shambala Foods, recalls his 18th and 19th century family history as Louisiana slave owners, and goes back to find any black relatives of former slaves who took the St. Clair family name. After befriending Reginald, and finding out that he was still hiding from a trumped-up murder charge in Monroe, Louisiana in 1952 (thus the murder mystery aspect of this novel) the two men decide to give him the name of the motel they are staying at. In present time 80 year old Robert takes his best friend Howard out of the old folks home, along with two elderly women (the love story) and they all head off on a journey to paradise. Jimmy and his beautiful part Black/Latino/American Indian assistant Taylor Banks - now because of two alleged Howard murders - follow them.
Sincerely, David Dakan Allison
Here are the first three chapters of sixty two:
1
Raking his garden--
a sparrow glides by--
the forgotten past.
After nearly forty-five years of police work, Captain Jimmy Meriweather was six months shy of retirement. Sitting on his futon, he looked around his office, remembering how it used to be before he finally turned the mess of banged-up police furnishings into his personal Zen retreat. Gone were his framed diplomas and certificates, the twelve most wanted posters, the beyond repair pressboard shelves stacked with decades of case files--paper references to another era, the classroom sized green chalkboard scribbled with names, clues and guesses, lines leading to Scotch-taped photos of people and places, scribbled names on yellow Post-its--and its companion cork-board, cluttered with push-pinned memos, notes and mostly ignored inter-office such and such that went into the trash at the end of the month.
That was all gone--over thirty years of Jimmy Meriweather’s police history now rested in peace, in a dark corner of the bureau’s archive basement.
Jimmy smiled and looked at the street and office windows covered with noren curtains. Shakuhachi flute music filled the darkened space, contrasting the world outside his door, the crazy chaos of a metropolitan police bureau in full swing. Relaxed in his serene ambiance, he eyed his shiny black marble-top desk, barren except for a centrally placed eighteen-inch silver reclining Buddha, softly illuminated by the glow of an over-hanging white paper-ball lamp. Behind the front door-facing desk an ancient samurai sword rested on its black lacquer display. The one shelf of the black bookcase held just five books, guarded by two fierce-looking celadon dragons: The Art of War by Lao Tzu; A Book of Five Rings by Miyamoto Musashi; The Way of Zen by Osho; The Essence of Aikido: Spiritual Teachings of Morihei Ueshiba; and a tattered Many Gods, One Heart by Lama Chogyal Da. Within the covers of these books was just about all Jimmy needed to know, or so he thought.
He looked across the room to a white silk kimono which hung from a horizontal bamboo pole. It was embroidered with a green-eyed red dragon, dominating the right-to-the-entrance-door wall. He then glanced at the white rice paper lamp to his right--painted with the black kanji for honor, and the one to his left, painted with surrender. They sat on shiny black end tables, guarding Jimmy’s favorite resting place, the white futon couch.
It was almost eleven o’clock on a Thursday morning; he had nothing more pressing to do for the rest of the day besides listening to flute music and sipping green jasmine tea. Jimmy had already retired in his mind and, although his body showed up for work everyday, his spirit for police work was long gone. He had proved his worth after decades of exemplary service; so the Chief tolerated his captain’s daylong retreats in seclusion. They had agreed. No new assignments. Period. No new partners or further captain responsibilities. A senior officer had already been promoted to take his place, freeing Jimmy to ride out his time with no questions asked.
But that’s not what happened--the Chief broke his word.
A new crop of rookies had just graduated from the Police Academy, and among them was an attractive woman named Taylor Banks. All of the graduates were given street assignments with a senior officer. But not her. She was immediately made a detective, and assigned to partner with the bureau’s second most senior police officer, Captain Jimmy Meriweather.
h
Four months later:
On their one-block walk for morning coffee, Jimmy’s most noticeable vice, Taylor Banks stopped and commanded her partner’s attention, “Why is this happening to me, Jimmy?” The sky was full with gray and a drizzle of rain bounced off the black umbrella they shared.
He lowered his eyes and half-smiled. “There are no external happenings, Banks. A mind can never accurately rearrange an illusion,” he answered in his usual cryptic manner, politely humoring his young partner. He stood erect, in excellent health for a sixty-four year old man, his solid chest and flat belly were unusual for a man his age.
She wasn’t supposed to be in his world; he had challenged her placement. A heated discussion with the Chief ended with an agreement--he would do little more than babysit the rookie detective. She would be given occasional simple missing person assignments under his supervision. Upon Jimmy’s insistence, no homicide investigations whatsoever would cross his desk. For the past four months all had gone according to plan.
Taylor was not the sort of woman who needed babysitting. She was high wired, strong willed and anxious to get down and dirty with police work. Although Jimmy had little reason to doubt her detective potential, training her was not part of the deal, even though she had a Master’s degree in Behavioral Science, had graduated near the top of her police academy class and came from a high profile family--her father the commanding general of the Oregon National Guard. He turned a deaf ear to her pleadings and demands, and kept thinking that today she would be reassigned. The “today” had stretched into months.
Since she had repeatedly and unsuccessfully appealed to her Captain, the first and only African-American to receive that rank in the history of the Portland Police Bureau, thinking he would support her claims of female-rights discrimination, she complained to whomever else would listen. Her bitching’s and moaning’s were eventually known by everyone in the bureau, and resented. She was too new to be complaining at all. The self-generated spot-light created rumors; questioning why she had made full detective right out of the gate; everyone presuming because her Army general father was buddies with Portland’s mayor. These rumors exaggerated the facts, and although Jimmy had no interest in them--the facts or the rumors, they began to disturb his Zen nature.
He patiently listened to her requests to be placed in homicide, and wished her well. Such rookie placements were rare, but not unheard of. The persisting rumors painted her as under-qualified, arrogant and presumptuous, qualified for a street beat and nothing else. Jimmy agreed--she was all those things--but he was not one to join in the gossip or other negative office chatter. He disagreed with her insistence that she was born to be a detective and was ready for murder. To him, nobody should be ready for murder, or the least bit interested in it. Most of all he didn’t want to become attached to her, or anyone in the bureau for that matter--he wanted the days to pass quickly, without any new distractions. He planned to retire with a clean slate.
“Come on, Jimmy, you know what I’m talking about.” The words slid out from perfect red lips, which accented a handsome yet beautiful face, one neatly arranged and exotically tanned, but hardened in a way that would take more than a few hours on the couch to analyze. “It’s been weeks since that kid took off in his father’s Porsche. I spend my days sitting outside your office staring into space. I’ve done my office socializing. There’s no one here worth talking to . . . I swear . . . one more game of computer solitaire and I’ll go postal.”
“A bit dramatic. Postal after only four months?” Jimmy paused as they stood in line. “Practice patience . . . it’s not very long till I retire.”
“But it’s not right, Jimmy. I don’t think I can handle another eight weeks of this. Make that two venti vanilla lattes,” she said to the girl behind the counter. ‘You’re buying today, Jimmy.”
He nodded, handing the gal a ten dollar bill. “You’re young, Taylor. What’s two months? Relax. Keep the change.”
“I can’t relax. I’ve always wanted to be a detective and solve murders. How can you tell me to relax when the streets are filled with low-life drug dealers, rapists and scum-bag murderers?”
“It’s just a fantasy, Banks. None of it’s real. It’s all about people being who they aren’t--playing out their nightmares. That’s all it is . . . their nightmare, not mine. I choose not to be attached to that frequency . . .”
“What frequency?” Taylor was confused by his vocabulary.
“The frequency of polarity. Perpetrator and victim. Good and bad, right and wrong. I’ve moved on. Homicide is like a bad dream, and I’m done with it. I’m ready to rake the Zen garden and go fishing. Make sushi.” Jimmy paused to make up a haiku. “He rakes his garden. A sparrow glides by. The forgotten past. Do you hear what I’m saying?”
“Taylor. Two venti vanilla lattes,” the barista called out.
“No, I don’t,” she almost pleaded as she put the lid on her latte. “I’m not you. You’re like an old walrus lying on the beach, and I’m the beach bunny ready to go surfing. How about this haiku? Old walrus lying. Beach bunny running. Get me some damn work.”
“That’s not a haiku.”
“Doesn’t matter. Do you hear what I’m saying? There’s a big difference between your four hundred years on the force and my four months. I’ve had what . . . three missing-person cases since I’ve been here? If you remember, I figured them out right away. I’m good. You’ve seen me in the field. Come on, Jimmy, tell the Chief to give me something. I need to be out there earning my stripes.”
“Have you considered going into law, or using your master’s degree to actually help normal people?”
“No. I’m here because I want to be here. My passion is to solve murder mysteries. I want excitement. Sitting around all day with a wannabe Zen master is not my idea of passion.”
“That’s too bad.”
Back in Jimmy’s office, sitting at one end of his futon sipping coffee, Taylor continued, “I don’t care if I sound like a broken record, Jimmy . . . there’s gotta be something . . . maybe you can find me another partner. I don’t care who it is. Except Carlson . . . he’s an idiot. You need to get me out of your hair so you can meditate in peace, dream about sushi to your heart’s content, write poetry, run off with your geisha or whatever else floats your sampan, or whatever they call it. I’m here to work. It’s not right sitting around wasting my talents, and you know it.”
“You are a piece of work, Banks.” Jimmy smiled. “OK. I got something for you to do. Got an email from the Chief this morning.” He pulled his Apple laptop from the side table and turned it on. “It’s kinda . . . well . . . hang in there with me . . . It’s another missing persons case. I know it’s not what you want, but . . .” He paused while jotting something down on his notepad. “. . . somebody has to go check it out.”
“It better be good . . . I’m going to scream if it’s another daddy’s Porsche case. Wouldn’t it be great if I found the body . . . and nailed the creep who did it?” Jimmy closed his eyes and almost imperceptibly shook his head; she calmed down, continuing, “At least it’ll be something to do and not another round of computer solitaire. What is it?”
“Four dementia patients are missing from a gated facility.”
“What?”
“You heard me, Banks.”
“You’ve got to be kidding! You can’t be serious. Hunt down four half-wits? Is this some sort of sick joke?”
“That’s OK. You don’t have to do it. Go back to your computer games. I won’t bother you again. I’ll send Carlson.”
“No, no, no,” she objected, seeing the set up. “I’ll go, but you gotta come with me. I’m still a rookie you know . . . can’t possibly do any real detective police work all on my own, you know what I mean?”
“All right,” Jimmy grinned, and made up another haiku. “He removed all pretense. Inside his mind. Emptiness . . . Let’s see what you can do.”
“You got it, boss. Just watch how fast I figure this one out . . . and after this you gotta get the Chief to let me in on a real homicide. That has to be the next thing that happens.”
Jimmy rolled his eyes as they left his office.
2
At night
in love they sighed--
remembering pleasures.
An hour later:
Jimmy sipped his second latte while Taylor brought the police sedan around, waiting patiently in the no-parking zone until he left the stool and Starbucks. He had certain eccentricities which he refused to alter--one being the slow art of coffee drinking.
Every morning, now only Monday through Friday, he arrived at work a little before nine, said a few hello’s, saved Taylor from another game of computer solitaire, and left with her for their morning coffee. They returned around ten, leaving her at his door while he retreated to his office for the rest of the day. If not for Taylor’s frequent uninvited visits, he would happily spend each and every day alone in quiet solitude. Always during one of her interrupting’s he would pause, look off into some sort of hole in space for several uncomfortable-to-her minutes, and then recite a made-up haiku.
During the twenty minute drive to Troutdale Jimmy didn’t say a word. She waited for the haiku that never arrived. Although she wanted to finally say, “OK, let’s hear it,” she didn’t. She knew that he resented being rushed or provoked by anyone--and if so he would employ one of his stock responses--cryptic or sarcastic--more often poignantly silent--or decidedly harsh; a particular response chosen for dramatic effect. The joke around the office was that if anyone were to go postal, it would be Jimmy Meriweather. He resented the implications, but was fully aware of the confusion true Zen evokes.
Turning into the Happy Acre’s, Taylor pushed the button at the gate, waited patiently as it slowly cranked right to left, and drove in, parking in handicapped. She glanced over hoping for a briefing, only to watch as Jimmy exited the car, mentally surveying the general area. “You go ahead,” he said looking back through his still opened window. “I’ll walk around the building. See if they’re playing badminton in the back yard.”
“Yeah, right.” She paused, wondering if she was losing her audience. “You want me to do this without you? Who am I looking for?”
“A Mildred Rice, the director.”
“Got it. You’re coming in, aren’t you?”
“We’ll see. I’m just here to supervise, remember? Go for it.”
Taylor took a moment to look at herself in the rearview mirror. She freshened her lipstick and ran a brush through her thick hair, and then stepped out scanning, as Jimmy had, the park-like setting. As always, she was impeccably dressed, this day in a tailored gray suit over a salmon colored silk blouse. Her daily professional statement had failed to impress anyone at the office, but after much thought she really didn’t care.
She walked up the red-brick front steps and entered an empty foyer, a hundred-year-old time-stopper, antiseptically clean and, except for a large vase of flowers, mostly yellow lilies, devoid of life. There was no one to greet her, or a sign indicating the whereabouts of the office of the director. She contemplated a small brass bell, the Virgin Mary? and finally decided to ring it. Within seconds the first door down the hall opened and a late-sixty-something wiry matron, dressed primly in forgettable dull cotton, stepped out and waved Taylor forward. “Come here, dear. You must be from the police department.”
The moment she entered Mildred Rice’s stuffy 19th century office, Taylor felt apprehension, like a chicken wandering into the fox’s den. This is creepy, her spleen whispered. Smells. What’s that odor? Old lady stink? How do I start this? Guess I wing it. Maybe they’re safely back in their rooms and I can get the hell out of here. “Good morning, ma’am. I was told some of your old folk are missing. They sent me to investigate.”
“Tell me your name, dear. You don’t have to be nervous.” She reached out to shake hands.
“Taylor Banks, detective, Portland Police Bureau. I’m not nervous.” She didn’t feel like shaking hands, but did so anyway.
“I’m Mildred Rice. Thank you for coming. Would you like something? Coffee? Tea? The kitchen may still have some left-over morning biscuits.”
“Nice of you, but that’s not why I’m here. What can you tell me about these missing people?”
”We’ve never had patients go missing before, you know.”
“I don’t know. When did you last see them?”
“Oh, they were all here last night, playing bridge,” Mildred responded as if nothing out of the ordinary had occured. “Please, have a seat.”
“No thanks.” I wonder if this goofy Mildred woman really is the Director or if she’s one of the nut house ‘guests?’ I probably should ask for a photo ID and her diploma. What’s the protocol here? Jimmy, where are you? Last night? “Last night?” Taylor finally answered with surprise, raising the finely penciled eyebrows above her electrifying hazel green eyes. Why is she calling the police so soon? “So, let me get this straight . . .” She glanced at her watch, It’s ten in the morning, and did the math. Isn’t there a twenty-four hour rule? “They’ve been missing for a little more than twelve hours . . . and you’ve looked everywhere and can’t find them?”
Mildred nodded. “They didn’t show up for breakfast this morning. We checked their rooms, and the beds were still made.”
“And you thought that was enough to call the police?”
Without making a sound Jimmy slipped into the office. Both Taylor and Mildred watched as he first sniffed the air, looking for the source of the odor. He moved around the room, checking out the knickknacks, badly framed photos, and rosewood shelves filled with romance and mystery novels. Opening a worn Agatha Christie, he spoke to the book, “Are you sure they aren’t hiding somewhere?”
“I’m sorry, Mister . . ? What was your question?” Mildred asked, instantly annoyed by the tall black yesterday-handsome intruder.
“I said . . . are you sure they aren’t hiding somewhere?” Jimmy asked again in an affected detective monotone. Taylor caught the mischievous look in his eyes. He picked up an incense holder, patchouli? Then a framed photo of a younger smiling Mildred, hugging a smiling woman. He continued, now speaking to his partner, “I apologize, Taylor. This is your case . . . but I couldn’t help but notice there’s a sizable forest in the back. Most likely a woodcutter’s cabin hidden in the trees somewhere.” He looked up at the ornately paneled ceiling. “This is one huge building . . . a grand old mansion. I’m sure it has an attic with many rooms.” He paused time, staring into the void before the haiku, “Many rooms. They disappear. Four into the night.” Mildred gawked at him, perplexed. “What does it say here, Banks?” He opened his notepad and handed it to her, setting up the sarcasm. “Forgot my glasses.”
“Two men and two women.”
“Yes, two men and two women.” His eyes shifted back to the ceiling. “At night. In love they sighed. Remembering pleasures.” Taylor was seeing him in rare form--two haiku’s in less than a minute. “Maybe they snuck off and hid in that woodcutter’s cabin or, better yet, the attic. You know what I’m talking about? A night of good old hanky-panky.”
“What?” Mildred was shocked that he could even imagine such a thing. She decided that this black man in front of her--with his drawstring cotton pants, red Hawaiian shirt with palm trees and dancing hula girls, six-day beard, and stupid poetry--needed to go away. Taylor was humored by his unconventional approach and the open display of his Zen-ness, surprised he had said anything at all.
“What does it say there?” He winked at Taylor. “These numbers?” He pointed to the numbers on his notepad she was still holding. Jimmy had perfect vision and she wondered what he was up to.
“Seventy-six, seventy-eight, seventy-eight, eighty.”
“Yes. All around eighty years old.” Jimmy glancing at Mildred for the first time. “They’re probably all tuckered out somewhere . . . if it didn’t kill ‘em. What a way to go, if it did.” Jimmy chuckled to himself, then walked to her desk and, looking Mildred square in the eyes, inquired in feigned seriousness, “Where did you bury the bodies?”
“Bury the bodies?” Mildred huffed with indignation. “Sir, you are out of line.”
“No, I’m not. This is a gated community. There are only three possible explanations. They are at this moment somewhere within this compound. Or they have escaped. . . and the third . . . you know exactly what’s going on and you’re withholding that information. I suggest you tell my partner here the truth. Have a good day.” Jimmy left the office.
“I have never!” Mildred remarked as Jimmy slipped out of sight. “That man was intentionally provoking me. I deserve respect.” Another fox had entered her den and she didn’t like it one bit.
“He was just being a detective. A good one, I might add.” Taylor chuckled inside, having just witnessed an artist at work. “So, are you hiding them somewhere?”
“No . . . ah . . . that man was all wrong.” She visibly swallowed.
“I’m not convinced he is.” Taylor maintained a professional composure and, with focused intent, leaned down with her hands on the desk, revealing a hint of cleavage and the leather of her police shoulder harness, both of which caught Mildred’s eye. “Where are they?”
Distracted, Mildred stuttered, “I don’t have them. They’re not here.” She then gave Taylor her best angle, blinking her nearly invisible eyelashes, vainly attempting to regain her footing. “You know, Taylor. I can call you Taylor, can’t I?” She didn’t wait for a response. “We were doing perfectly well without that man. What about you, dear? Have you been a detective for long?” Mildred didn’t wait for the answer. “You seem very competent, like you can do all this by yourself. It’s too bad you brought that insulting man along. Who needs ‘em? You know what I’m saying?’
“What? No!”
“Oh, that’s good.” She looked hard at Taylor. “I’m not . . . I hope you didn’t think I was . . .”
“I wasn’t thinking anything,” Taylor answered, getting the gist of it, respectful of other people’s affinities and not interested in the woman’s off-purpose remarks. “First off . . . the Captain didn’t insult you. He expressed a legitimate observation. And second . . . you’re avoiding the question. Do you have any idea where the four people might be? Just the facts, ma’am.”
“That’s what he said.”
“Who said?”
“Sergeant Joe Friday. You know, Dragnet? I love murder mysteries.”
“Is that so?”
“He said that, too! Do you watch Dragnet?”
“I don’t. Listen . . .”
“Mildred.”
“Mildred, this isn’t personal. Who you hang out with, what you watch on TV or anything else, is none of my business. People are allegedly missing and it’s my job to find them. That’s all.” Taylor was beginning to tire of the woman, glad to have a case, just not this one. She was ready to join her partner in the car, where no doubt he was back to dreaming about coffee or sushi or geisha girls.
“Those books and TV shows help us to be better detectives, don’t you think?” Mildred was like a dog who won’t let go of the bone. “It’s good to know what Raymond Chandler would have written when faced with a murder.”
“If this were a murder case, and I’m sure it isn’t, it would still be none of your business. Philip Marlowe would have slapped the broad, she thought. You’re not the detective. I am,” Taylor asserted. “So I’m asking you again. Where do you think they are?”
“I have no idea.”
Taylor took a second to unconsciously rub the mascara off her eyelashes, before reaching into her pants pocket. “Here’s my card. Leave a message if they show up. I’ll be back in the office Monday morning, and if they’re still missing we’ll expand the search. I’m sure we’re going to find them one way or the other. ” Without saying goodbye, she turned and left the office.
Pausing on the porch of the Happy Acres mansion, Taylor studied Jimmy, who was sitting peacefully in the car below. Although she respected his calmness, she could hardly wait till he finally retired. With a new partner she would be given real assignments--real-life murders she could sink her teeth into. Eight weeks. It’s only eight more weeks, she thought to herself. I can handle a thousand more games of solitaire . . . after all, I’m tough. I can hang in there.
3
In a heart beat
love whispers:
trust me
On their way back to the police station, Jimmy said two things when Taylor brought up Mildred Rice: “She’s withholding information” and “Patchouli incense?” He wasn’t interested in seriously considering that the dementia patients actually disappeared, so once back at the office he locked his door, closed off the inch of light coming through the dark blue kanji-inscribed curtains, put a Bach tape in an went back to his meditation. As far as Taylor knew, he was stretched out on his futon surrendering to a late morning nap.
Taylor’s visit to Happy Acres was an intriguing field trip; Mildred Rice a spinster worthy of a Dickens novel. She considered the possibilities, and by lunch she had convinced herself that the missing old folks would end up as nothing but a misunderstanding, a bogus case of no consequence. Upon their return Mrs. Rice would remember that she had long ago authorized an overnight field trip, and that would be the end of it.
Taylor spent the rest of the afternoon reading a Rex Stout mystery and wishing she had an office like Jimmy’s, where she too could take a nap. By four o’clock she couldn’t stand it any longer and tapped on Jimmy’s door. She wanted some sort of closure to the day and week, but when he didn’t answer she headed to the police gym, the one place where she could surrender her active mind to reps, pain and sweat. After years of fitness training, she had advanced to the “insanity” level: a self-guided nonstop regimen of aerobics, weightlifting, bag boxing, Kundalini yoga, treadmill and so on; a routine that would debilitate most people but invigorated her. Taylor was in primo physical shape.
She luxuriated under a hot shower, thinking about her last boyfriend, a fellow rookie police officer she used to bathe with. She couldn’t remember how long it had been since they broke up.
On her walk home she picked up a package of spicy tuna sushi from the neighborhood market. Once in her bare bones apartment in the Pearl District, downtown Portland, she looked at the kitchen clock and wondered what she was going to do for the next two hours--until NCSI came on at eight.
She gobbled the sushi, wished she had more, washed it down with half a bottle of Deschutes Porter, and stared into space.
Then, after ten minutes of channel surfing, she turned the TV off and tried to relax on the black leather couch. She began thinking about Mildred Rice--the weird amateur detective wannabe. She realized that she had a similar reputation at the Portland Police Bureau--a weird wannabe detective. She got up and grabbed her beer, took a big gulp and flopped back down on the couch, lamenting her lack of real police work. Even though Taylor was tough and could handle difficulties and disappointment better than most people, she was at her breaking point.
Dusk soon settled over the city, shadowing her apartment. She was tired, more in spirit than body, and wished she could just disappear for awhile and wake up--completely involved in the perfect murder case--respected, honored and acknowledged for being a master sleuth--with a handsome many in her arms. Tears formed in the corners of her eyes, caught her off guard--she never allowed herself to cry.
Sinking deeper into the leather, the tears dried and she was soon half asleep. She would never admit to sadness, even though she was overwhelmed with it but now, in the theta sleep stage, unhappy images of her childhood flashed by. She saw herself as an unkempt little girl, with an emotionally distant mother who dressed her in simple clothing with no flair. In her unhappy memory, her mother didn’t hug or fuss over little Taylor, didn’t tell her how much she loved her or how pretty she was.
In her half-sleep Taylor forgot all about time and space and the couch. The story began to loop, repeating exaggerations, and after a while she opened the one eye that wasn’t pressed against leather. The living room was dark and she thought it was the next morning. She bolted up. It was only seven o’clock and still an hour away from NCSI.
Not knowing what else to do she turned on the lamp and phoned her father. “Hi Daddy. Do you have a few minutes?” He did and, after exchanging their customary line of lies, she asked, “You always loved me, didn’t you?”
“Of course I did, pumpkin,” the highest ranked Army officer in the state of Oregon answered. “Why do you ask?”
“I don’t know. Did you wish I was a boy?”
“What? That’s a silly question, Taylor. How’s work going?”
“What about mother?” She ignored his question. “I know she never wanted a daughter.”
“That’s a wild and unfair assumption, Taylor.” He remembered that his daughter was immune to his political dodge ball. “OK . . . the truth is, she’s much better around men than she is around women.”
“What are you trying to say?”
“I’m saying, you need to give her a break. It’s not a crime for a woman to like men more than women, even if the woman is her own daughter.”
“That’s now. What about when I was growing up?”
“Just because she could dress herself and paint her face, it didn’t mean she could do it for you. Parents aren’t perfect.”
“So you rescued me.”
“I don’t think rescue is the right word. What year are you referring to? When you were twelve?”
“OK . . . twelve.”
“All I knew back then was how to train soldiers. There are women soldiers, you know. You asked me to train you, remember? And you took right to it.”
“You didn’t think that was a problem? Making a man out of me?”
“I didn’t think that was possible,” he chuckled. “Even at twelve you were a beautiful young woman. You needed to toughen up and stop crying. That’s what happened . . . and look at you now . . . a police detective. It’s what you always wanted, isn’t it?”
“But not through favors?”
“What?”
“The Chief is holding me back . . . I can’t figure out why . . . he won’t give me any real work to do. It’s bullsh . . .”
“Buckle up, soldier.”
“What does that mean?”
“When you join a service, no matter what service, you have no rights as a recruit. None. Zero. You grunt out your basic training and then if your commanding officer tells you to pick your ass for a year you pick your ass for a year--damn square--yes sir thank you very much sir for letting me pick my ass sir. Do you hear what I’m saying, Taylor?”
“It’s not fair.”
“Life isn’t fair . . . being a low ranked anything isn’t fair . . . especially with you being the daughter of an old bastard like me when everyone thinks I got you the damn job . . . it isn’t fair . . .”
“Did you?”
“Not directly . . . You’re a Banks for Christ’s sake and you’re working for an old school good ol’ boy. What do you expect? Put in your time, Taylor, don’t buck the system and you’ll see . . . you’ll land on your feet. Is there something in particular I can help you with?”
“I thought . . . never mind . . . it’s just . . . do you think Mother ever loved me?”
“My God, Taylor. What’s going on?”
“That’s a fair question.”
“Hardly . . . you’ll have to ask her that yourself. Shall I put her on?”
“No, that’s OK. It’s not a question a grown woman should have to ask her mother. I love you, Daddy. We’ll talk again soon.” She hung up and lost herself in a thousand miserable thoughts until NCSI brought her back to the business of murder.
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