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is her… I mean why…what got her here?” I wasn’t sure how to word it.
    He smiled and his slate eyes sparked. It looked as if he was charging off a battery.
    “Life is stranger than fiction,” he said. “You and I may not get upset over something like that but the next person may react. She’s a lot worse off than Patricia. Totally non-verbal, though there is a similarity in their case history. She went out with a fellow for fifteen years, never married. One day he left and never came back—though his wasn’t a disappearance case, like Johnny. He just walked out on her after fifteen years of dating. Her reason got stuck in the no-man’s land. A total emotional collapse,” he finished. He turned, before I could see whether the battery was still charging, or whether he had unplugged his wit.
    Ken didn’t say a word, all the way to the Guilford Fine Cars, Domestic and Imports.

Chapter 4
    “I really can’t say, officer. He was with us such a short time. He was about my height, maybe taller and normal weight…” Mr. Ruggiano said and trailed off with a labored frown. It was supposed to show us that he was doing his best to recall but frankly, for him this employee was unmemorable.
    He had a business card that would have drawn a crowd in any Smithsonian art gallery. He was a work of art too—tailor’s, trainer’s, manicurist’s, stylist’s and cobbler’s.
    Ten seconds into the meeting, I realized that I was staring at my annual salary, before taxes. I understood why he didn’t offer to shake hands. I wasn’t wearing gloves and my raw hand might have spoiled the results of his last hot-wax hand treatment.
    Guilford was now on Curtis Street, in Donchester Heights. I thought it was off the beaten motor path. The “domestic” product was missing from its name. It was dropped by popular demand. The dealership had relocated three times since Mr. Twain was issued the business card. Each move was into a bigger and better showroom.
    “Why did you move out of the Jamieson Car Market?” I asked. “It’s a large plaza with a dozen dealerships. Surely teamwork is good for business.”
    Mr. Ruggiano adjusted his gray-striped cravat. He measured me with a superior look and said huffily, “Our products appeal to motoring enthusiasts with refined taste.”
    I smiled. “I guess showcasing exorbitantly priced exotic imports, while surrounded by domestic mediocrity, must have scared away a lot of potential customers.”
    “It was nothing like that,” he bristled. “Our client list is full. Indeed, we have a long waiting list for many of our imports.”
    “I guess those long waiting lists must have annoyed many potential customers sufficiently, to skip next door to the Chevy or the Ford dealer and drive away in a new car,” Ken quipped.
    We didn’t connect with the manager from the start. His appraising look had dismissed us the moment he saw us. We were not customers. He would try to get rid of us quickly. Our presence didn’t enhance his showroom products. We wore jeans and our jackets were department store articles, not tailored apparel.
    He said he didn’t remember Brick-Twain but admitted that he had been hired, as a sales manager, when Guilford was still at the old location. I asked to see Twain’s file. It scared him.
    “I don’t have access to historical personnel files. They were sent to archives, off-site, in storage. Naturally, if the police require such information I’ll make arrangements to retrieve them. However, it will take time.”
    “How long?” I asked.
    His memory awakened. “Twain was a good sales manager, well liked—by everyone,” he said.
    “Who is everyone?” I pressed him.
    “Well, myself, my secretary and our part-time salesman. Twain suggested that we seek a bigger and better location. He had alerted me to the “prestige” factor. Specializing, focusing was the answer—showcasing our product. It’s the right way to leap into the second decade of the