Author's Note: When I first put up this story, I noticed some apparent confusion among the reviewer community. In an attempt to clear things up, let me say firstly that none of my stories really have a universal timeline or a cohesive format. Just think of this bit of fanfiction as you would think of "Darkwing Doubloon" in the series. An offshoot set in a different era using the same characters.
With that said, this story will be told from three points of view, all changing intermittently throughout. To keep them all straight, here are the guidelines:
Jacob Mallard, P.I. is normal font.
Negaduck is in bold font.
Jake Mallard is in italics.
Darkwing Duck, Negaduck, J. Gander Hooter, Agent Gryzlikoff, Bionca Beakley, Tom Lockjaw, and the Fearsome Five are property of the Walt Disney Company and are used without permission. (Don't shoot!)
Jacob Mallard and Ariana McCawber are the sole intellectual property of myself, Amanda Rohrssen. Please be nice and don't steal them. Otherwise I'll sic Gumbo on you.
Jake Mallard and Ava Blackfeather/Moore are the sole intellectual property of Rachel Faraday, and they are used with permission. (Thank you!) Be sure to check out her story, The Path of Consequence!
Gumshoe
The incessant ticking was driving me insane.
The crossword puzzle before me had proven to be a worthy foe, and for what had to be the hundredth time that morning I found my mind wandering. There had been no work for two weeks straight now, and my office was looking more and more like a disaster area the more I tried to keep myself occupied. Though they were glazed, my eyes traveled over every square inch of my miserable little niche, searching once again for something – anything – to make the hours pass a little faster.
Amid the piles of hastily thrown documents and haphazardly stacked files, patches of dark carpet peeked through, and if one looked hard enough through the mass of hastily scrawled notes on top of my desk, one could find a framed photograph or two of friends and family long since departed from my life.
The insufferable ticking would not end.
I glared at the clock on the wall, hoping that my fervent stare would make its hands whirl by in a vain attempt at time warp. No such luck. My gaze seemed only to turn its slowness into an agonizing crawl.
Sighing, I folded my hands behind my head and propped my feet up on the rosewood desk, eyeing the ornately chiseled border work with disinterest. Just as I actually began toying with the idea of cleaning up the place, there was a knock at the door. It was so soft that at first I wasn't sure if it really was a knock or the old office settling, but the silhouette shadowing the frosted window of the doorway told me that, as usual, my first instinct had been correct.
"Door's open!" I shouted, too lazy to move from my position.
It cracked open hesitantly. There behind the threshold stood what had to be one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen in my fifty-five years on this earth. The dim light of the hallway poured down over the cascading locks of her golden hair, and her slender, hourglass figure was accentuated perfectly in the square frame of the doorway.
"Mr. Mallard?" she said in a wavering voice.
I bolted out of my chair, banging my knee against the desk in the process, and hobbled toward her, managing to maintain at least a little dignity by motioning her inside with a courteous sweep of my hand.
"Well, you can read. That's a plus," I joked lightly as I shut the door behind her.
She regarded me tearfully. Her eyes were two gleaming pools of precious silver, and there was such sadness in them I could scarcely escape them tugging at my heartstrings. I cleared my throat and broke eye contact, making my way round the piles of junk back behind my desk.
"Well, little lady, what brings you here?"
When things got uncomfortable, I liked to get straight to the point.
"It's my…my sister," she replied, unable to hold back the tears any longer. I offered her a handkerchief as they spilled down her face in clear twin streams. Strangely enough, they only made her seem more beautiful.
"Your, your sister…?" I prompted her.
"She's missing!"
"…is missing," I repeated.
"For a few days now. I've looked everywhere!" She dabbed at her eyes with a small sniffle.
I frowned. There were more important things I could be doing than spending my valuable time and energy on a missing person. Missing persons came a dime a dozen. Finding them was the job of rookie flatfoots, not a master sleuth. I was more worthy of a national conspiracy, murder, intrigue, terrorism…
"Have you tried the local department store?" I asked her snidely. My sarcasm only seemed to upset her more, and I felt a dull twinge of guilt in the pit of my stomach, which only made me more agitated. "Look, the police handle things like that. I, on the other hand, am a professional."
"I think she was kidnapped," the young woman continued as if I'd said nothing at all.
"And you know this because…?"
"A few things are missing from her house…but nothing was ransacked. They were just…gone, like her."
"What if she went on vacation, did you ever think of that?"
Her blonde head shook miserably from side to side.
"No…she would have said something. She's just…gone."
"No ransom note, no eerie phone calls?"
Again her bent head indicated no.
This was turning out to be a bigger and bigger waste of my time. If there were no clues on which to build, there was no case.
"Look, she's probably just gone to a local resort or something. She'll turn up in a few days," I said, ushering the young beauty back toward the door. "Good day, Miss…?"
"McCawber," she said solemnly, as if all the hope had been sucked out of her. At the moment, I didn't really care. I'd just suddenly come up with a four letter word for "fall guy."
"Good day, Miss McCawber."
The door shut somberly behind her and I returned to my crossword with a vengeance.
It didn't take long to get past the guards. Like most of the so-called authority figures in Saint Canard, they were incompetent and easily bribed. I stuck mostly to the shadows once I gained access to the SHUSH laboratory, not because I feared getting caught – oh no – it was because I enjoyed the fear on the faces of my victims as I attacked from the darkness. Maneuvering through the facility was easy enough, and it wasn't long before I found what I was looking for. A devious grin snaked across my bill. It was like taking candy from a baby, another one of my favorite pastimes. There was only one part remaining to my perfectly executed plan.
"Double bourbon, on the rocks," I mumbled to the barkeep.
"Right away, boss," he replied in his ever-cheerful voice. Sometimes the man made me sick. He cocked his head to the side as he poured the liquor. "You feelin' all right?"
I eyed the beverage hungrily. "Not particularly."
"Everythin' goin' okay?"
"Not particularly."
"Any reason for that, boss?"
"Just gimme the drink, Charlie," I sighed. It went down cold and smooth against the back of my throat, and I licked my lips for any remnants lest they escape me.
I'd received another notice that morning. Rent was past due.
I ran my fingers through the slicked back feathers on my head, as I was prone to do when I felt anxious, and let my gaze wander over the faces of the less-than-respectable patrons of the Old Haunt. I'd been coming to this place for the better part of thirty-three years. It had been like my second home after the deaths of my wife and daughter, and now with my business being threatened by bankruptcy, it was quickly turning into my safe haven yet again.
"Anything goin' on I should know about?" I asked offhandedly.
"Nothin' that I've heard, but that don't mean nothin's happenin'." He filled up my glass again.
Charlie oftentimes made a good informant, being the bartender of the local backstreet pub. In exchange for tips on the crime circuit, I'd make sure certain activities in the bar were kept on the down-low as far as the authorities were concerned. Having been an officer of the law myself at one time, I had no problem turning the skills I'd learned in training against the force, although it didn't take a genius to fool the cops in this town.
The second glass of bourbon went down faster than the first, and though my gut yearned for more of the stuff, I waved away the refill the barkeep tried to offer me.
"I'm done for tonight, Charlie," I said, lugging myself off of the stool. "I think I'll take a walk around the city before I head home."
"Okay, boss, you take it easy now."
I turned to make my leave, but as I slid my black fedora over my head, something crumpled on the ground caught my eye. I snatched it up, my eyes darting to those surrounding me, and unwrinkled the small piece of paper. Written in jagged, yet elegant, script was an address. I pocketed it with the intention of checking it out later in case it was a lead.