A handwritten note fluttered slightly on Ray’s desk like a forgotten candy wrapper stuck to a train car window.
Don P. Tannhauser pulled the note out from under a large, string–bound file on Ray Delaney’s desk and held it up to the light streaming through the broken glass of Ray’s office door.
When he was done reading, his hands fell listlessly to his sides, as though he’d suddenly realised that maybe he wasn’t the only cat in this city for whom curiosity may prove fatal.
He headed out, tugging his radio from his inside pocket as the door slammed on another of Ray’s crazy schemes, leaving the note lying on Candy’s peculiarly empty office desk.
‘Don’, it read. ‘No time to explain. Going to the source. Flight leaves in 2 hours. You can reach me here May be worse than we could have imagined.’