James Brogan and the Case of the Missing Pet

 

James Brogan and the Case of the Missing Pet

The rain was coming down in sheets, the kind that makes the city streets look like they’ve been varnished with regret. I was nursing a lukewarm coffee in my office above McGill’s Bar when the door creaked open. In walked a woman in her late thirties, eyes red from crying, clutching a soggy photograph like it was the last life raft on the Titanic.

“Mr. Brogan?” she asked, voice trembling. “I’m Ellen Hargrove. My cat, Mr. Whiskers… he’s gone.”

I raised an eyebrow. I’ve tracked down cheating spouses, missing heirs, and the occasional crooked accountant, but a cat? Still, the rent was due, and her desperation looked genuine.

“Tell me everything,” I said, motioning her to the chair that had seen better decades.

Mr. Whiskers wasn’t just any cat. He was a massive, battle-scarred Maine Coon with a chipped ear and a habit of bringing home “gifts” from the alley behind their brownstone in the Heights. Ellen had come home from her night shift at the hospital two days ago to find the window cracked open and no sign of him. No blood, no fur out of place, but his favorite toy—a tattered mouse with a bell—was left behind like a taunt.

I started with the basics. Neighbors hadn’t seen anything. The local animal shelter was a dead end. But something felt off. The window was on the third floor. Cats don’t usually swan-dive from that height without leaving a mess.

I hit the streets. First stop: Old Man Reilly, the super who knew every stray and grudge in a ten-block radius.

“Whiskers?” Reilly grunted, spitting into a coffee can. “That ornery bastard? Saw him two nights ago getting cozy with some fancy dame in a carrier. Black SUV, tinted windows. Looked like money.”

Money. That word always complicated things.

I tailed a lead to a quiet cul-de-sac where the city’s elite pretended they weren’t part of the same rat race. A discreet inquiry at a high-end vet clinic turned up gold: a wealthy widow named Mrs. Abernathy had recently “adopted” a cat matching Whiskers’ description after her own Persian passed. Coincidence? I don’t believe in them.

Confronting her at her mansion felt like walking into a perfume commercial with claws. She denied everything at first, but when I mentioned the cracked window and the fact that Mr. Whiskers had a very distinctive scar and microchip, the façade cracked.

“He just… wandered in,” she sobbed. “My darling Reginald was gone, and this big fellow showed up looking so noble. I thought it was fate!”

Turns out fate had a little help. Her driver had been cruising the Heights looking for a “replacement” after seeing Whiskers on the fire escape and deciding the cat would make the perfect emotional support animal for the grieving widow. They’d left the window open as bait and scooped him up when he investigated.

I got Whiskers back that evening. The big lug was lounging on a velvet cushion like he owned the place, looking mildly annoyed at being rescued from luxury. Mrs. Abernathy wrote Ellen a very generous check for “emotional distress” and promised to stick to shelter adoptions in the future.

Back in my office, Ellen hugged me so hard I thought my ribs might file a complaint. Mr. Whiskers rubbed against my leg once, then promptly ignored me—the highest praise a cat can give.

“Another case closed,” I muttered to the empty room as the rain finally let up. “Even if it was just a glorified housecat.”

But in this city, sometimes the smallest missing pieces are the ones that hit hardest. I poured myself a real drink this time. Tomorrow there’d be another client, another mystery. For tonight, though, the cat was home, and that was enough.

James Brogan and the Case of the Missing Pet

 

James Brogan and the Case of the Missing Pet

Listen to it

The rain was doing its usual tap-dance on the window of my office above O’Malley’s Bar when she walked in. Mrs. Eleanor Whitcomb, sixty-three years old, pearls around her neck like she was still trying to impress the country club that stopped inviting her. Her hands were shaking so bad she could barely hold the photo she slid across my desk.

“Mr. Brogan, someone took Mr. Pickles.”

I looked at the picture. A fat orange tabby cat with one ear that looked like it lost a fight with a lawnmower. The kind of cat that judges you silently while knocking your coffee off the table.

“Mr. Pickles,” I repeated, deadpan.

“He’s all I have left since Harold passed. I feed him salmon twice a day. He has his own room.”

I took the case. Not because I’m a cat person—I’m not—but because Mrs. Whitcomb offered me three grand upfront and another two on recovery. In this city, that buys a lot of bourbon and not a lot of questions.

First stop: her upscale brownstone in the Heights. The place smelled like lavender and regret. I walked the neighborhood, asking the usual questions. The mailman saw nothing. The neighbor’s teenage son was too busy staring at his phone. But the old Ukrainian lady three doors down had something useful.

“Big black van. No windows. Came at 3 a.m. Cat screamed like demon. Then quiet.”

Black van. Always a black van in this town.

I hit the streets. Called in a couple favors with Animal Control, checked the shelters, even talked to the weird guy who runs the underground exotic pet trade out of a warehouse by the river. No Mr. Pickles.

By the second night I was nursing a headache and a warm beer at O’Malley’s when my buddy Louie the Snitch slid onto the stool next to me.

“Brogan, you looking for a fat orange cat?”

I raised an eyebrow. “You’ve got two minutes before I remember you still owe me fifty bucks.”

Louie grinned like a rat who just found cheese. “There’s this crew running a new racket. They snatch expensive purebreds and well-known neighborhood pets, then hit the owners up for ransom. Five, ten grand a pop. Your boy Mr. Pickles? They got him in a warehouse on 14th and Industrial. They’re calling him ‘The Colonel’ now. Real cocky about it.”

I found the warehouse just after midnight. The place reeked of motor oil and cat piss. Three guys inside playing cards. One of them had Mr. Pickles on a fancy pillow like he was some mafia don.

I kicked the door in the old-fashioned way.

The first guy went down easy. The second pulled a knife. I introduced him to a pipe wrench I found lying around. The third tried to run. I caught him by the collar and introduced his face to my knee.

Mr. Pickles looked at me with pure feline contempt, like I was late to his royal appointment.

I carried the fat bastard out under my coat while he yowled and tried to claw my ribs out. Mrs. Whitcomb cried when I brought him back. She paid me the rest of the money and tried to hug me. I took the cash and left before the tears really got going.

Two days later I got a thank you card in the mail. Inside was a picture of Mr. Pickles sitting on a throne made of what looked like expensive cat toys. On the back she’d written: He’s been extra cuddly since you brought him home.

I pinned the picture to my bulletin board right next to the mugshots and the “World’s Okayest Detective” coffee mug.

Another day, another missing pet.

At least this one didn’t try to bite me on the way out.

James Brogan: The Case of the Missing Cat

 

The Case of the Missing Cat

James Brogan was halfway through his third cup of coffee and the morning paper when the door to his office opened. In walked a woman in her late fifties, wearing pearls and an expression that suggested she’d rather be anywhere else.

“Mr. Brogan?” she asked, voice tight. “I was told you handle… delicate matters.”

Brogan folded the paper and waved her toward the chair opposite his desk. “Delicate is my middle name. What seems to be the problem, Mrs…?”

“Cartwright. Eleanor Cartwright. It’s about my cat, Mr. Whiskers.”

Brogan didn’t laugh. He’d learned long ago that people took their pets more seriously than most relatives. “Tell me what happened.”

Eleanor explained that Mr. Whiskers, a large, imperious Maine Coon, had vanished three days ago from their gated community estate. No signs of struggle, no open windows, no broken screens. The security cameras showed nothing. The gardener swore he’d seen the cat sunning himself on the terrace at 2 PM, and by 4 PM he was gone.

“I’m not a crazy cat lady, Mr. Brogan,” she said, folding her hands. “But Mr. Whiskers is… special. He was my late husband’s cat. And I have reason to believe someone took him.”

Brogan raised an eyebrow. “Any enemies? Disgruntled staff? Family members who stand to inherit if something happens to the cat?”

She hesitated. “My stepson, Derek. He’s been pressuring me to sell the house. He never liked Mr. Whiskers. Called him ‘that expensive furball.’”

Brogan took the case. His rate was reasonable, especially when the client wrote a check with that many zeros on it.

---

The first stop was the Cartwright estate. A sprawling mock-Tudor monstrosity with perfectly manicured lawns. The gardener, an older man named Luis, repeated what he’d told the police: cat was there, then he wasn’t.

Brogan walked the grounds anyway. Near the back fence, half-hidden by azaleas, he found a small tuft of long gray fur caught on a rough edge of the wrought iron. Interesting. The fence was high, but not impossible for a determined man with a blanket and a pair of bolt cutters.

Next he visited Derek Cartwright at his downtown condo. The man was in his thirties, tanned, and clearly annoyed at the interruption.

“Look, I didn’t steal my stepmother’s stupid cat,” Derek said, pouring himself a scotch at 11 AM. “I hate that thing. It sheds everywhere and hisses at me. But kidnapping? That’s ridiculous.”

Brogan noticed a fresh scratch on Derek’s forearm, partially hidden by his watch.

“Interesting scratch,” Brogan said.

“Garden work,” Derek replied too quickly.

---

By evening, Brogan was sitting in his car across from a rundown warehouse on the edge of the industrial district. He’d followed a lead from one of his less reputable contacts: a guy who knew a guy who knew a guy who’d heard about a very large, very angry cat being held for ransom.

Brogan slipped in through a side door. Inside, he found Mr. Whiskers in a large crate, looking thoroughly offended at the indignity. Two men were arguing nearby.

“I’m telling you, the old lady will pay,” one said.

“She better,” the other replied. “That thing nearly took my finger off.”

Brogan stepped out of the shadows, gun loose at his side. “Evening, gentlemen.”

The fight was short. One man tried to swing a crowbar. Brogan sidestepped and introduced the man’s face to a metal shelving unit. The second decided running was wiser and promptly tripped over his own feet.

Brogan opened the crate. Mr. Whiskers stared at him with golden eyes, then calmly walked out, climbed up Brogan’s leg, and perched on his shoulder like he’d been waiting for a proper chauffeur.

---

Back at the Cartwright house the next morning, Eleanor nearly cried when Mr. Whiskers jumped into her arms. Derek was nowhere to be found. Brogan suspected he’d taken an unscheduled vacation once he realized his hired help had failed.

“You have no proof it was him,” Eleanor said quietly, stroking the cat.

“No,” Brogan admitted. “But sometimes people get the message without needing proof.”

He tipped his hat and headed for the door.

“Mr. Brogan?” Eleanor called after him. “How did you find him so quickly?”

Brogan smiled. “Simple. Cats are creatures of habit. And angry Maine Coons leave very distinctive claw marks… and very loud complaints when they’re unhappy.”

As he walked down the driveway, Mr. Whiskers’ farewell present—a single long gray hair—still clung to his coat.

Another day, another missing thing found.

James Brogan Private Detective: Missing Husband

 

Missing Husband

James Brogan sat in his cramped office above the laundromat on 14th Street, the hum of dryers vibrating through the floorboards like a tired heartbeat. The neon sign outside flickered "BROGAN INVESTIGATIONS" in faded red, missing the 'G' for the third year running. He was nursing a lukewarm coffee and a fresh black eye from last night's collection job when the door opened.

She was mid-forties, sharp suit, sharper eyes. Eleanor Hargrove. Her husband, Richard, had vanished two weeks ago. No note, no clothes missing, no suspicious withdrawals. Just gone. Richard was a mid-level accountant at a logistics firm downtown—boring, reliable, the kind of guy who color-coded his sock drawer.

"Everyone says I should wait," Eleanor said, sliding a photo across the desk. Richard looked like every other suburban dad: thinning hair, soft jaw, glasses that cost more than Brogan's rent. "But something's wrong. He was... off the last few months. Distant. Happy, almost."

Brogan raised an eyebrow. Happy was never a good sign in his line of work.

He took the case for a modest retainer and spent the next three days doing the usual dance. Richard's office was a dead end—coworkers described him as quiet, competent, recently promoted. His gym card showed regular visits, but the last one was the day he disappeared. No affair that Brogan could sniff out immediately, though he had his doubts.

On day four, Brogan hit the bars Richard occasionally frequented according to credit card statements. The third one, a dimly lit Irish pub called The Twisted Shamrock, yielded gold. The bartender remembered Richard. "Yeah, the nervous guy. Came in a lot lately. Always sat in the back booth with the same woman. Nice-looking, red hair, laughed like she meant it."

Brogan showed the photo. The bartender shook his head. "Not the wife. Definitely not."

The trail led to a modest apartment complex on the east side. Brogan waited in his battered Chevy until he saw her—red hair, mid-thirties, carrying groceries. She kissed Richard Hargrove on the cheek when he opened the door. Richard looked ten years younger. Relaxed. Happy.

Brogan waited until the woman left for work the next morning before knocking.

Richard answered in sweatpants, coffee in hand. The color drained from his face when he saw Brogan.

"Mr. Hargrove. Your wife is worried sick."

Richard sighed and let him in. The apartment was small but bright. There were two plane tickets on the kitchen counter— one-way to Lisbon, leaving in four days.

"I couldn't do it anymore," Richard said quietly. "Twenty-two years of the same conversations, same routines, same... nothing. Karen makes me feel alive. I was going to send Eleanor a letter once we landed. I know it's cowardly. I just... I wanted to disappear cleanly."

Brogan leaned against the wall, arms crossed. "Cleanly? You left your phone, wallet, and car in the parking garage. Your wife thought you were dead in a ditch somewhere."

Richard looked ashamed. "I panicked. Figured if it looked like a disappearance, she'd get the insurance payout. Help her start over."

Brogan almost laughed. Almost. "Insurance doesn't pay out for seven years on a disappearance, genius. And they investigate like hawks when the spouse is the beneficiary."

He gave Richard two choices: call Eleanor himself and explain, or Brogan would do it for him. Richard chose the first, hands shaking as he dialed. Brogan stepped outside to give him privacy, lighting a cigarette he didn't really want.

Eleanor showed up an hour later. There were no dramatic screams or thrown objects. Just a long, cold silence in that little apartment, followed by quiet tears. Richard tried to explain about the "spark" being gone. Eleanor told him the spark died the day he stopped trying.

Brogan collected the rest of his fee and left them to it.

Two weeks later, Eleanor Hargrove came back to the office. She looked different—lighter somehow. She dropped an envelope on his desk with a bonus inside.

"He moved in with her," she said. "I'm filing. Turns out the promotion money was going to her rent for six months. But you know what? I'm keeping the house, the dog, and the better lawyer. For the first time in years, I feel like I can breathe."

Brogan nodded. "Sometimes the missing don't want to be found. Doesn't mean they stay gone."

She smiled for the first time since he'd met her. "Next time I need someone found, or lost on purpose, I'll know who to call."

As she left, Brogan poured himself a real drink. Another case closed. Another marriage in the morgue. Just another Tuesday in the life of James Brogan.

He looked at the flickering neon sign and thought about getting that 'G' fixed. Maybe next month.

Divorce, Wife Cheating

 

Divorce, Wife Cheating

James Brogan sat in his cramped office above the pawn shop on 9th, nursing a lukewarm coffee and staring at the rain streaking the window like it had a personal grudge. The neon sign outside buzzed and flickered—half the letters burned out—so it just read “BRO AN – NVEST GAT ONS.” Good enough.

The door opened without a knock. A man in an expensive gray suit stepped in, shaking water from a black umbrella that probably cost more than Brogan’s rent. Mid-forties, thinning hair, eyes that looked like they hadn’t slept in weeks.

“James Brogan?” the man asked.

“Last time I checked.”

“I’m Richard Harlan. I think my wife is cheating on me.”

Brogan leaned back in his creaky chair. “You ‘think,’ or you know?”

Harlan dropped a thick envelope on the desk. “Photos. Credit card statements. She’s been distant for months. Late nights. New lingerie I’ve never seen her wear. I want proof. Ironclad. For the divorce.”

Brogan thumbed through the photos. Standard stuff—blurry shots of a stylish woman in her late thirties getting into a silver Lexus with tinted windows. Nothing conclusive.

“Three days,” Brogan said. “Two grand a day plus expenses. Half up front.”

Harlan didn’t blink. He peeled off ten crisp hundreds and laid them down. “I want her followed starting tonight. She’s having dinner at La Fontaine at eight.”

Brogan took the cash. “You’ll hear from me.”

---

That night, Brogan sat in his old Buick across from the upscale French restaurant, collar turned up against the drizzle. Eleanor Harlan emerged at 8:45 on the arm of a tall, silver-haired man in a tailored coat. They laughed too easily. He helped her into the Lexus, his hand lingering a little too long on her back.

Brogan followed at a distance. The Lexus wound through the city and pulled into the underground garage of a sleek new high-rise downtown. Brogan parked on the street and waited.

Two hours later, Eleanor came out alone, fixing her hair in a compact mirror before driving off. Brogan noted the time, snapped a few shots of the building’s entrance.

The next two days were more of the same. Secret lunches. Hotel bars. One afternoon at a boutique hotel where the silver-haired man—identified quickly as Victor Lang, a corporate lawyer with a reputation for winning ugly cases—booked a suite under a fake name. Brogan got photos of them entering together, leaving separately. He even sweet-talked a maid for confirmation on the room service order for two.

On the third evening, Brogan met Richard Harlan at a quiet bar near the harbor.

Brogan slid a thick manila envelope across the table. “It’s all there. Names, dates, times, photos. They’ve been seeing each other for at least four months. He’s her old law school professor. Turned business associate. Turned something else.”

Harlan’s face went pale as he flipped through the evidence. His hands trembled slightly. “That son of a bitch.”

Brogan sipped his whiskey. “You wanted proof. You got it. She’s good at covering tracks, but not good enough.”

Harlan stared at a particularly clear photo of his wife kissing Victor Lang in the hotel elevator. “I loved her, you know. Really loved her.”

Brogan didn’t say anything. He’d heard that line too many times.

“What now?” Harlan asked quietly.

“Now you talk to your lawyer. File the papers. Use this to get whatever you want in the settlement. And try not to do anything stupid.”

Harlan nodded, paid Brogan the rest of the fee in cash, and left without finishing his drink.

Brogan stayed at the bar a while longer, watching the boats rock in the harbor. Another marriage down the drain. Another paycheck in his pocket. He wondered, not for the first time, if anyone ever really beat the house in this game.

He finished his whiskey, left a tip, and stepped back out into the rain. The city didn’t care. It never did.

James Brogan Private Detective: Missing Car

 

Missing Car

James Brogan sat in his cramped office above the Chinese laundry on 14th Street, nursing a lukewarm coffee and staring at the rain streaking the window like it had a personal grudge. The radiator clanked like an old man clearing his throat. It was Tuesday, which meant the rent was due yesterday and the bottle in the bottom drawer was getting dangerously low.

The door opened without a knock. A woman stepped in—mid-forties, sharp black coat, pearls that probably cost more than his car. Her name was Eleanor Voss, and her actual car was worth more than his entire block.

“Mr. Brogan,” she said, voice clipped but edged with something raw. “My husband’s Jaguar is missing. Along with my husband.”

Brogan raised an eyebrow. “Usually it’s one or the other. You get the two-for-one special?”

She didn’t smile. “Richard left for the club last night at 7:15. He never came home. The car is gone from the garage. No note. No call. The police think he simply left me. I don’t believe it.”

Brogan leaned back, chair creaking. “Insurance fraud? Secret girlfriend? Midlife crisis with a blonde in the passenger seat?”

Eleanor placed a manila folder on his desk. Inside: photos of the silver Jaguar F-Type, recent bank statements showing a series of large cash withdrawals, and a single blurry photo of Richard talking to two rough-looking men in a parking lot.

“He’s been nervous lately,” she said quietly. “Something about a business investment that went south. He kept saying ‘they know where we live.’”

Brogan took the case. Half upfront, expenses extra. He wasn’t in the business of turning down desperate rich people.

---

First stop: the club. The doorman remembered Richard. Said he left around 11 p.m., alone, looking like he’d seen a ghost. No one saw the Jaguar pull out.

Brogan drove his battered Plymouth around the city, checking chop shops and low-end dealers who might flip a high-end ride. Nothing. Then he hit a stroke of luck at a dive bar near the docks. A mechanic with grease tattoos recognized the photo.

“Yeah, I seen that Jag. Got dropped off last night by a guy who looked like he was about to piss himself. Two big fellas in a black SUV took him somewhere after. Didn’t look voluntary.”

Brogan slid him a twenty. “Where’d they go?”

The mechanic shrugged. “Toward the old industrial park. But you didn’t hear it from me.”

---

The industrial park was a graveyard of rusting warehouses and broken dreams. Brogan parked a block away and went in on foot, collar up against the drizzle. He found the Jaguar parked behind a chain-link fence, doors locked, no sign of forced entry. A single set of footprints led from the driver’s side toward Warehouse 17.

Inside, he heard voices. Richard Voss was tied to a chair under a hanging bulb, looking like he hadn’t slept in days. Two thugs stood over him. One held a baseball bat.

“You thought you could just walk away with our money, Richie?” the bigger one growled. “Boss wants it back. With interest. Or we take it out of your kneecaps.”

Brogan slipped in through a side door, revolver in hand. “Evening, gentlemen. Mind if we keep the violence to a minimum? My dry cleaner hates blood stains.”

The fight was short and ugly. Brogan took a punch to the ribs but laid out the first guy with the butt of his gun. The second swung the bat; Brogan ducked and introduced the man’s face to a nearby forklift. Richard sobbed with relief.

---

Back at the office the next morning, Eleanor Voss wrote Brogan a check that made his eyes water. Richard sat beside her, bruised but alive, muttering about never touching another “sure-thing investment” again.

“You knew it was trouble from the start?” she asked.

Brogan lit a cigarette. “Rich guys don’t disappear without a reason. And fancy cars rarely vanish on their own. Usually it’s either money or women. This time it was money.”

He walked them to the door. Eleanor paused. “Thank you, Mr. Brogan. Truly.”

As they left, Brogan looked at the check, then at the bottle in the drawer. He poured two fingers, raised the glass toward the window.

“To missing cars,” he muttered. “And the poor bastards who drive them.”

Outside, the rain finally stopped. Somewhere in the city, another client was probably about to walk through his door with another problem.

James Brogan smiled thinly. Another day, another dollar.

James Brogan Private Detective: The Case of the Missing Husband

 

James Brogan Private Detective: The Case of the Missing Husband

Boston, late summer 1987. The air in the office above the Chinese laundry smelled like egg foo young and yesterday’s coffee. James Brogan was halfway through a lukewarm beer and a stack of overdue bills when she walked in.

Mrs. Eleanor Hargrove was in her mid-forties, pearls still on, but her eyes looked like she hadn’t slept in a week. Her husband, Richard — a respected accountant at a downtown firm — had vanished three days earlier. No note. No suitcase missing. His car was still in the garage. The police figured he’d run off with a secretary. Eleanor didn’t buy it.

“Richard wasn’t the type,” she said, twisting her handkerchief. “He hated change. He wore the same brown shoes for twelve years. If he was leaving me, he would’ve made a spreadsheet first.”

Brogan leaned back, lighting a cigarette. “Lady, in my experience, the quiet ones are the ones who snap and join the circus. But I’ll take the case. Two hundred a day plus expenses.”

She paid a week upfront. Smart lady.

First stop: Richard’s office. The partner, a slick guy named Mitchell, sweated through his shirt the second Brogan flashed the license. “Richard? Solid man. Probably just needed air. Midlife thing.”

Brogan smiled like a shark. “Funny how his last three clients all had books that didn’t add up. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

Mitchell clammed up and called security.

That night, Brogan sat in the dark office with a flashlight while Marmalade the big orange cat sprawled across the desk like he owned the place. Dave the Hamster was in his top drawer, munching sunflower seeds and watching everything with beady eyes. Major John Rush (Ret.) had stopped by “for coffee” and ended up helping.

“Accountant disappears right when the books are getting audited,” Rush muttered, flipping through ledgers. “Smells like panic.”

Marmalade yawned and knocked a file folder off the desk. Out spilled a small notebook with columns of numbers and a single underlined name: Vinny “The Weasel” Capello.

Brogan whistled low. “Well, shit.”

Vinny wasn’t happy to see them at the back booth of Cheaters Tavern the next evening. The Weasel was nursing a whiskey and trying to look innocent, which for Vinny meant looking like a rat wearing a better suit.

“Brogan! My favorite mick dick. What brings you to my humble establishment?”

“Richard Hargrove. Accountant. You got him cooking your books or what?”

Vinny spread his hands. “Me? I’m legitimate these days. Import-export. But between you and me… Richie got in deep trying to impress the missus with some side investments. My guys loaned him a little seed money. Then the investments went south. He came cryin’ last week saying he needed more time. I gave him forty-eight hours. Then poof. Haven’t seen him.”

Dave chittered angrily from Brogan’s coat pocket. Marmalade, perched on Rush’s shoulder like a furry general, flicked his tail in disgust.

Brogan leaned in. “If your boys touched him, Vinny…”

“Hey, I like accountants. They’re useful. I don’t whack useful people. But maybe somebody else figured he was worth more dead than alive.”

The trail led to a quiet suburb and a nervous mistress who swore Richard had promised to leave Eleanor for her. She hadn’t seen him either. Then to a storage unit registered under a fake name.

Inside the unit they found Richard Hargrove — alive, gagged, and tied to a chair next to a mountain of shredded documents and a half-empty bottle of scotch. He looked like he’d been on a three-day bender of terror and regret.

Turns out Mitchell, the “loyal” partner, had been skimming big from mob-adjacent clients and pinning it on Richard. When the audit loomed, Mitchell panicked, grabbed Richard after work, and stashed him while he cooked up a disappearance story and finished burying the evidence. He planned to kill Richard quietly later and make it look like suicide.

Major Rush cut the ropes while Brogan read Mitchell his rights (with a little creative emphasis involving a .38). Marmalade sat on Richard’s lap the whole time, purring like a broken engine, which somehow calmed the accountant down.

Back at the office two days later, Eleanor Hargrove hugged her husband so hard Brogan thought she’d crack a rib. She wrote a fat bonus check and left arm-in-arm with Richard, who kept glancing nervously at the big orange cat like it might file taxes on him someday.

Brogan poured four small glasses — one for him, one for Rush, a thimble of milk for Marmalade, and a drop of beer for Dave.

“To missing husbands who turn up before the missus files the insurance claim,” Brogan toasted.

Rush clinked his glass. “And to partners who don’t ask too many questions.”

Marmalade lapped his milk with royal dignity. Dave chittered happily and stole a sunflower seed from the Major’s pocket.

Another case closed in the books of Brogan Private Dick. The city kept turning. The laundry downstairs kept steaming. And somewhere out there, another desperate soul was probably already walking up the stairs with a problem only a sarcastic ex-cop, a retired Major, a spicy orange cat, and one heroic hamster could solve.

Just another day in Boston.