The mid-July morning had barely begun, yet the thermostat read 102 degrees Fahrenheit. The old creaky windows were wide open, letting in streams of sunlight that shone down on stacks of dusty filing cabinets. The ceiling fan hummed as it turned slowly, which barely provided a breeze. A sweaty, exhausted middle-aged man was asleep at his bulky wooden desk, snoring loudly. An empty amber bottle of J & B Scotch lay on the ground by his dingy, fraying brown boots. His head lay resting on the desktop, an empty rock glass sat in his hairy, sun-burnt hand.
The old, faded green rotary landline phone on his desk rang, startling the man out of his sleep like an old alarm clock. His head jerked up with the sound of a snorting pig. He looked around dazed for a moment before he was suddenly overwhelmed by thirst. He lifted the glass to his lips, pouted at its lack of contents, and put the glass in his desk drawer. The phone continued to ring, adding more pain to his hangover-induced migraine. With a sigh, he grabbed the phone after the third ring.
"Mike Emmet, Private Investigations, how may I help you?" he asked in a tired, monotone gruff voice.
"Morning, Mike. It's Peggy. I know today's your day off, but I could really use you on duty right now." Peggy, the bubbly dispatcher from California's Child Protective Services was the only one who would dare risk calling Michael on his first day off in two weeks.
He let out an exhausted groan and laid his forehead back on the desk. "You're lucky I like you, Pegs. What's the case?"
"Oh, Mike, thank you, thank you!" He could practically hear her jumping for joy on the other side of the line. "We desperately need an extra hand at 221 Mari Lane. The neighbor called about a 'repeat offender,' Jim Truter, assaulting his daughter on their front lawn. We do have officers en route to arrest the dad, but they won't be there for some time. Can you get over there and make sure this piece of garbage doesn't take off or hurt the girl?"
Michael's eyes widened as he jumped from his desk, juggling the phone between his head and shoulder. He wiped the sweat and sleep from his eyes and grabbed his sidearm and badge. Now fully awake and energized by such a serious call, he was more sober and coherent.
"221 Mari Lane. Yeah, I'm on my way." He quickly hung up the phone, grabbed his keys and wallet, and bolted out the door of his small office. He quickly raced down the steps, attempting to straighten his tacky blue tie while staying upright.
Michael worked full-time for Los Angeles' CPS branch as one of their senior investigative detectives and used whatever days he managed to have off to run his side business as a Private Investigator for hire. Though private cases were few and far between during the current recession, he made a decent living working both jobs. With Michael living and working out of Montecito Heights, crime was never scarce, and work was always available. It didn't matter to him if it was a typical CPS case or a request for assistance with the local police department, if a child was in danger, Michael was always the first to help.
*
"HAVE YOU BEEN HIDING MY SHIT?!" he roared. Jim Truter, a tall, thin, sore-covered scruffy-faced brunette man, shook from withdrawal as his bony, nicotine-stained fingers dug into the forearm of his 6-year-old daughter, Isabelle. His stained white wife-beater tank top flopped around in the hot breeze, his tattered faded jeans sagging, even though held on with a belt. Months before, both had fit him well, but from excessive drug use, they were now two sizes too big for him.
"No Daddy..." Isabelle bellowed between sobs. She looked up at him with tear-filled green eyes, her small chubby face red from crying. "I dint take it. I'm sorry. Please let go!" Her little hand fought to pry her abuser's white-knuckled fingers from her little bruised forearm. With his free arm, he back-handed her, busting the skin on her lip. She let out a small whelp, sobbing harder. A hot breeze blew her dark down hair into her face, small strands stuck to her lip and cheeks.
YOU ARE READING
Save Me
General Fiction(Trigger Warning for those who suffer or have suffered from abuse) Michael Emmett, a prudish detective for hire, has been working with Child Protection Services for fifteen years. He's rescued the abused from their abusers, and has hunted down runaw...
