Joran van der Sloot
No one answered. Bernie pressed the buzzer again. We were at the gate of Albie Rose’s place in Vegas, me and Bernie. We’re partners in the Little Detective Agency, in case that’s not clear by now. Missing persons is our specialty, and we had one in this case, namely Astrid Jason. In fact, maybe two, if you include Ray Jason, whose father was our buddy Colonel Bob, also the the client, meaning we were getting paid, which put me in a very good mood every time I thought about it. Is this a good time to get into the state of our finances? Maybe not.
Still no answer. Bernie turned to me. “I’ve been thinking about this Joran van der Sloot thing,” he said. “Of course, we don’t have the facts, but let’s just say it is what it looks like.” He’d lost me completely. “People make mistakes – heartbreaking ones, like that ump who blew the perfect game call last night, and infuriatingly careless ones, like the oil spill – but then there’s something way further down the scale, and that’s the evil in some people.” Yup, I’d seen that. “And – kind of like an oil spill that causes itself – it can’t be contained, bubbles up again and again. Hope they lock him up this time.”
Bernie pressed the buzzer one more time. Still no answer. Bernie glanced up at the gate. “Climbing time,” he said. Fine with me.
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