Mystery Chapter One

The summer heat pulsed off the asphalt as I sprinted the last few steps of my run and turned into my driveway. Panting and dripping sweat, I power-walked into the gloriously cool kitchen and picked up my phone. No time to cool down - I had a lead.
I put my cell on speaker and listened to it ring while I dumped ice cubes into a cup. On the fifth ring, someone picked up.
“Hello, this is the Cameron County Police Department. How may I help you?”
“Hey Laura. It’s Allie. Can I talk to Joe?” I gulped down some cold water.
“Oh, hey Allie. Actually, Joe just went on his lunch break.”
I nod, wipe my forehead, and sit on the kitchen floor to stretch.
“Alright, no problem. Can you let him know I’ll stop in later? Maybe around two? I need to talk to him.”
Laura laughed. “Girl, it’s your day off! Enjoy it! Stop working so much.”
I roll my eyes and drink the rest of my water. “See you soon, Laura.”
“Yup. Bye,” she says and hangs up.

20 minutes later, I’ve gotten a shower, changed into white shorts and a yellow top, and have a chocolate muffin in my hand as I lock the door to my house. I rent the house with a roommate, Michelle, but she’s visiting her boyfriend in Ohio this weekend. I get into my car, a modest white toyota, roll down my window and turn on the radio. As I drive to work the sweet summer wind blows through my hair, cooling me off and relaxing me.
The Cameron County Police Department is only five minutes away from home. It’s a small brick building, consisting of three offices, a waiting room, a processing room, and two jail cells. I complete a marvelous parallel parking job right outside the doors before walking up and pressing the little red button next to a speaker.
“Hey Laura, can you let me in?” I ask.
I hear her sigh. “I told you not to come in today!”
I laugh. “Well, you knew I would!”
I hear a click, and the doors unlock. Inside it’s rather dim, but the waiting room is aesthetically decorated with abstract paintings, pastel-colored lamps, and a braided rug - all Laura’s doing. At 52, Laura has worked as a secretary here for 28 years. She’s like the mother of the station, but everybody knows not to get on her bad side.
Laura is standing next to some cabinets behind her desk, feeding her goldfish.
“Joe’s in his office,” she tells me without turning around. “He just got back from lunch with Kendyll Julius, so he’s not in a great mood.”
“Ah, thanks for the warning.” I flash her a thumbs up and walk back the hall. Joe’s office is the second door on the right, and the door is cracked open. I knock, pushing the door open.
Joe is sitting at his desk, evidently not doing anything. His computer is open and paperwork is strewn over the desk, but Joe’s arms are crossed over his uniform lazily.
“Hey, Allie. I thought you had a day off today.”
“Oh, I do. But listen -” I sit in one of the two chairs across from him. “So I was just running -”
“Running? Today? It’s, like, 100 degrees out. Literally.”
I wave my hand. “Just 5 miles today. But really, it’s not that bad. You get used to it.”
Joe raises his eyebrows skeptically.
“I was thinking about that B&E we were talking about yesterday.”
Joe leans forward, interested. “Ok. Do you have any new ideas about who Arnold James Rosswell could be?”
Two days ago, an older woman called in to report that someone had broken into the building across from her house. We’d gotten many “tips” from Karen before, but this one turned out to have some merit. After sending officers over to the building, which housed offices for a commercial insurance agency, we were able to confirm that someone had broken a window, entered the building, and. . . we’re not really sure what happened after that. Nothing seemed to be missing, so it wasn’t super high on our priority list, but we did find an ID on the floor. It had a picture of a middle-aged man whom it identified as Arnold James Rosswell, green eyes, brown hair, 5’11”. However, Arnold didn’t match anybody in our database, so either he wasn’t from around here… or he didn’t exist.
“Yes.” I say. “Actually, it’s who he’s not. I don’t think this was a B&E.”
Joe frowns. “I’m not tracking.”
“It was a fake ID,” I explain. “Arnold isn’t the culprit; he’s the crime. Someone’s been using the insurance offices to manufacture fake ID’s.”
Joe rubs his head, thinking. “OK. What you’re saying does kind of make sense. I mean, the offices would have a printer, and all the supplies you would need… and it does explain why the ID was there. But, why would they break in, if they had been using the offices consistently?”
I sigh. “I thought about that. I’m not really sure. Maybe they haven’t done it before? Maybe it was just like a one-and-done type of thing. They just wanted to make a whole bunch of ID’s all at once to turn a profit, and they thought that the risk of breaking into the building would be worth it for whatever money they would make.”
As I talk, Joe nods. “You know, that makes sense. It still doesn’t narrow down who our culprit is, but at least it gives us a motive. Something to look for.”
“Exactly. And, we know we’re not looking for Arnold James Rosswell anymore.”
“Right.” Joe stands and walks over to open his office door for me.
“Thanks, Allie. I’ll look into it. Your runs sure are productive.”
I laugh. “Alright. See you tomorrow.”
“Yup. Now go home and take a nap or something - remember, you’re off.”
I nod and walk back to the waiting room.
Laura, who has gone back to her desk and is working on her computer, waves to me on my way out.
“Ooh, love the top, girl!”
“Thanks!” I strike a pose. “See you tomorrow!”
“Until then!” Laura blows me a kiss.

That night, I have plans to meet Michelle for dinner at The Rails, a local restaurant, to chat and welcome her back. When I walk in, she’s already there, and she stands up to wave me over.
“Heyyyy!” She says, throwing her arms around me.
“Hi!” I laugh. Michelle is Asain American and a few inches shorter than me. She has a beautiful smile and a slender body that she accentuates with wild clothing, like the patchy red and orange dress she’s wearing tonight.
“How was Owen?” I in quire as we both sit down.
She rolls her eyes. “Oh, fine. Obsessed with work, as always. He was on call on Saturday, but obviously I forced him to just hang with me today.”
“Obviously,” I agreed. Owen is a resident, working to become a family doctor. He works crazy hours and only sees Michelle twice a month.
The waiter comes over and takes our drink orders. Michelle asks for a Bloody Mary; I go with Coke.
“Come on, no alcohol?” Michelle whines after the waiter leaves.
I shrug. “It’s Sunday night, and I’ve got work tomorrow.”
Michelle rolls her eyes. As a freelance musician and artist, she doesn’t really have any concept of “going to work”. As long as she can get up by 5 o’clock for her evening gigs, she’s good.
Michelle tells me about Owen’s apartment in Cleveland, his crazy roommates (Todd and Kelton: apparently aspiring rock musicians, but, and take it from a real musician, they’re no good), and the bus ride back to Indiana, during which she sat next to a weed smoker who writes surprisingly deep poetry.
“Pot Poet is basically my mentor,” she’s saying as our waiter, Brace, brings our drinks and takes our orders: mashed potatoes, grilled chicken, and Ceasar salad for me, clam chowder for Michelle.
“Pot Poet?” I ask incredulously. “You don’t know his name? And he’s not your mentor, Michelle, he’s a stranger that you talked to for 4 hours.”
Michelle sips her drink daintily. “Actually, he conked out after 2 hours.”
I laugh. “So, did you do any work while you were there?”
Michelle groans. “Are you kidding me? Uh, no. I was taking every moment with Owen I could get.”
I nod. “Fair.”
She squinted at me. “You seem distracted. New case?”
“No, just a new lead. Also, it’s kind of creepy how easily you do that.”
She shrugged happily. “It’s one of my many talents. Tell me!”
“You know I’m not supposed to talk about work with you…”
“You know you always do…”
Michelle bats her eyes at me. For some reason, she loves hearing about my cases, although in Cameron County nothing exciting really ever happens. I fill her in on the break in to the insurance offices and the mysterious Arnold James Rosswell.
As I talk, Michelle doesn’t laugh and fill in like normal - instead, she seems thoughtful, and a little pale.
“Um, are you OK?” I ask.
Michelle shakes her head slowly, not really seeming to hear me. “I have to go to the bathroom,” she announces, smiling tightly and practically running away from the table.
As soon as she leaves, Brace comes back with our food. I’m a few bites into my salad when Michelle returns.
“Hey, what’s up?” I ask gently.
Michelle sighs and sips her drink. “I’m OK.” She says. “It’s just… I know Arnold.”
I frown. “You what?”
“Arnold James Rosswell. That ID you found. It’s not a fake one - well, it is, but not in the way you think. I know Arnold James Rosswell. I can help you with your case.”
My mouth drops.