It was sunrise in the City of Angels, another gritty, grimy, manic Monday, just like any other. At least, I figured it was sunrise in Los Angeles because the sun had been up for four hours here in the Bronx. I was in my office, prepared for another day of reading the newspaper and placing casual bets on the ponies when there was a knock on the door. I said, "Come in." The door opened ever so slowly, and in comes a babe that was a feast for the eyes. "Are you Sam Foureyes?" She pointed at my name on the door. "I'm sure, with your heavy caseload, that you're terribly busy, but I'd like to hire you." I couldn't tell if she was being sarcastic or genuine. "I need you to find somebody."
"Who was that you wanted me to look for, anyhow?"
"My father, Madison Cartwright III. He's been missing for," she shrugged, "almost two weeks now."
