The Passenger Who Was Not There
The first time I saw the green Charger, I was not looking for it. I was driving back from a case in Phoenix, a straightforward missing-person that had turned out to be a man who simply did not want to be found. The desert was flat and brown, the highway a straight line that seemed to go on forever. I had the radio on, a jazz station out of Flagstaff, and I was thinking about nothing in...
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