A little
later, Scott entered his L-shaped office. The quarters were small but very
modern, sporting a reception desk, a computer, and two phones. Two leather
chairs nestled inside the door. Scott’s desk, the twin of his reception desk,
was tucked around the corner, hiding behind a retro-style, aluminum- inlaid,
folding screen.
Behind the
desk was a closet door. Scott opened it to reveal his mini-darkroom. He clicked
the long lens off his camera, left it on the credenza, stepped into the
darkroom with the camera body, and closed a black curtain.
In total darkness
he removed the negative, spooled it in the developing canister, closed the lid,
set the timer, and flipped on the red light.
A cup of
coffee was next, from the beautiful espresso machine hidden in his credenza.
He made a
cup, put his feet up on his desk, and pondered the gunshot, the big hairy guy,
Lester, and his own near trip off the embankment and down the steep hillside.
Getting
almost pushed off the road was no big deal to private detectives. It came with
the territory. The heart attack was disturbing and guilt inducing. But Lester had
brought it on himself, so Scott managed to put it out of his mind.
The
gunshot, on the other hand, was extremely interesting. Glancing back at his
closet darkroom, he wondered if anything would show up on film.
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