Detective Ryan Telford turned the ignition key of his
non-descript, eight year old grey Chevy to the off position, pushed the driver
side door open. The old car gave a loud cough, snorted once, and then as if
deciding that a good rest was the order of the day ceased complaining.
Size twelve scuffed black shoes landed hard on
the pink-grey cobble stone driveway, and a lanky, tough shoe leather frame eased
off the cracked, imitation black leather seat. He stood up and gave the large
two-story house in the center of Garden Circle a good going over.
Every white brick, every piece of polished smoke grey
granite, every bit of black mortar oozed wealth and privilege. He mumbled,
“Must be six thousand square feet if it’s an inch.”
“It’s seventy-two hundred, but who’s counting.”