One of our agents has a friend. Let’s just call him Frank. Frank knows his stuff. You should listen to what Frank has to say. You might learn something about Project Pegasus.
Detective Frank Bottom let out a sigh before switching off the studio’s sound system. The player had been stuck on shuffle. Who knew how long the music had been playing. These were dark times if even dance studio owners were disappearing now.
Frank looked around the place. It was as if an entire late night dance party had simply vanished. Drinks lay half-consumed on tables. Dance bags cluttered around the front door. The tip jar was even still full, bills poking out in plain sight.
But no sign of violence. Nothing broken, no blood, no bodies. This was the third time in a little over a month that Frank had been called in on case like this. The thing that was gnawing at him was that he could normally get a feeling if foul play was involved or not. His gut was telling him nothing now, and that bothered him.
He shuffled over towards the back of the studio. It was well kept. He could tell that the owner lived in the place. Built into the studio was a little room with a bed and a desk. Frank felt the bed. It was cold. He went over to the desk and started looking through the drawers. The owner’s wordly possessions were there. A phone, a wallet with some cash and worn business cards in it, and old laptop. Nothing out of place.
What was it about these dance studio owners? Why them? Frank had met a few in his line of work. They always seemed more or less normal. Maybe a tad odd, but nothing more than what you got with your standard artist. Hell, he had even let his daughter date one for a while. Now it was if Gabriel had blown his bloody horn and called them all away.
It was then that Frank noticed a door behind the bed. It looked as if it had been forced open in a hurry. His gut started tingling.
He peered inside. What did studio owners keep hidden in their closets? His eyes slid down towards the floor and fell onto an empty spot there. He let out a small chuckle. So this was the one thing that the studio owners were taking with them. Frank wasn’t a fan of poetry, but even so, he found it a tad charming.
Frank pulled out his phone. He had to call his boss. Favors were going to be needed. The only question that remained was why in God’s good name had all the studio owners decided that now was the time?