The matte black cell phone buzzed from an incoming call. The rubberized cover kept it from vibrating off the rough-cut, oaken table, and Dane rose from his computer desk to tug off the charging cord before answering. He rubbed his eye quickly, as if that could dispel the after-glow that plagued his retinas from staring at the monitor for so long. Dane squinted as his thumb swiped the answer function on his smart phone, continuing to massage his vision, coaxing it from high-contrast as he spoke. "Dane Kuger, here." He vented a tired exhale quietly as a woman's voice met his ear from the phone call.<br/><br/>Devin Fontenot was her name. Dane listened closely, not just for the information she detailed in her words -- which Dane transcribed on a sheet of paper -- but also the tone in her voice. Nuances meant everything to the detective, and the slightest differences in expression and pitch told the experienced policeman whether someone was being truthful or dishonest. The voice on the other end of the conversation gave off an aura of being nervous, scares, and a bit embarrassed. Dane continued listening to the woman as she mentioned Mark Donovan, the numerous folded origami gifts, and her rising fears. The woman sounded genuinely concerned for her well-being; Dane had heard enough — it was the hidden dismay in her voice, an agitation that Dane could not abide.<br/><br/>"Alright, that's fine, Ms. Fontenot. Why don't you stop by this afternoon, and we can see what can be done."<br/><br/>Dane gave her his address and ended the call. He looked around his humble surroundings and picked up the sundry articles that littered his -- otherwise -- clean office space. The line between home and office could be considered blurred in some areas, especially when it came to the division of personal and business paperwork. Paper was paper on Dane's mind, and the reams of reports, notices, bills and files all — eventually — ended up collected into a single, uncollated pile. The tasks upon those papers was always tended to and resolved, but the means to that end remained imprecise. He sighed in mild frustration when his eyes turned to his small, pine work-table. He hurried over and rushed to stow the pistol he had begun cleaning that morning. The brushes and oils carried a faint, acrid scent, though that paled to the smell of scoured metal and carbon that pervaded the room.<br/><br/>Still, Dane needed to perform his due diligence and verify that Ms. Fontenot, indeed, was who she claimed to be and that he wasn't courting some psychotic disaster into his home. Luckily for Dane, his prospective client was a college professor, which made the task of pre-analysis and profile construction easier than in the old days. Back then, you had little more than your intuition -- that nose for the truth beneath the lies of the world -- and a pad of lined paper with a no. 2 pencil. Binder folders worked well, but pages ripped and dog-eared page markings made short work of the vital information gathered. Though not more than thirty-two years old, Dane always felt as if he were born from a distant generation -- one that valued honest things and leered at others who misplaced their trust in devices with batteries. The rewards came internally, and Dane spent a good part of his life reinforcing the moral fiber his ramshackle life had developed. In the end, it didn't matter -- Dane was a simple sort, rising early and wanting to make the world a better place by helping others. Such beliefs came from Dane's mother, who told him so whenever he asked what his purpose was in this life. He respected her for her honesty and charity. Devin owed his deceased mother a small debt, for those maternal promptings surged up, passing trepidation that the case would be nothing more than an innocent admirer -- and, therefore, a waste of the detective's time.<br/><br/>Soon enough, however, it became apparent that Ms. Fontenot commanded every credential she claimed. Her status at the University appeared rock solid, as did her tenure, recommendations, academic publications, and even her Facebook page -- it all checked out. Dane even found a promotional photo of her teaching. Most likely the alumni office wanting to create a splash of marketing by parading one of their starlet professors. To their credit, the images held an indelible appeal -- the brunette struck Dane as undeniably attractive. The students in the photo all look rapt, their gazes focused upon woman and the cryptic script on a dry-erase board behind her. College was still college, and a poor fellow held his head down, presumably sleep-deprived and suffering from the effects of Ms. Fontenot's early morning class. Dane surveyed all he had collected; if she was a fraud, she was a damn good one or knew a computer savant of incredible prowess.<br/><br/>Dane went ahead and changed his shirt. He considered keeping on the newer, plaid long-sleeve, but the mirror made a convincing argument. Debris and metal shavings from re-boring his gun barrels still clung to his chest. He had forgotten to shave that morning, and the flannel made him look like a louse. Wearing a sharper button-down somehow melded with a five-o-clock shadow — at least that's what his last girlfriend insisted. A pressed, white Oxford shirt replaced the flannel, which he shook out back before tossing into the laundry pile next to his office. One last look in the mirror confirmed that he would never be as sophisticated as Ms. Fortenot. That was fine, so long as he didn't resemble a longshoreman upon first impression.<br/><br/>Taking a short-barreled rifle scope from his weapons locker, Dane leaned against the tall window frame. He peered out down the driveway, observing what he could before her arrival. When Devin's car arrived, Dane felt a small jolt in his stomach. He forced himself through the faint apprehension he couldn't identify and surveyed the scene behind her approach. A few cars could be seem on the street, but they passed by without pause. The likelihood that Ms. Fortenot was followed dwindled in Dane's estimation, and he capped his scope before standing it upright on the end table.<br/><br/>The sound of small heels echoed from the entrance and grew louder. Dane caught a final, anonymous glimpse of Ms. Fortenot as she seemed to deliberate the wisdom of coming to Dane in the first place. He thought she wielded an exotic beauty that no camera could capture, and her animated visage betrayed the deep consternation that must have been buried inside. People never visited private investigators unless they were hopeless and without recourse. Dane knew that. Even if he couldn't help her, the man felt an obligation to ease her mind however able. He straightened when the raps came upon his oaken door.<br/><br/>A latch clicked and he opened the door on noiseless hinges. A slight smile graced Dane's erstwhile grim and masculine features. "Ms. Fortenot?" Dane asked in a quiet, friendly voice of baritone. "Won't you come in?"<br/><br/><div class="bbCodeSpoiler">
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<span>Spoiler: <span class="bbCodeSpoiler-button-title">Dane Kuger</span></span>
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<i><span style="font-size: 12px">Face Claim: Noah Mills</span></i></div>
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