Personal Narrative Essay

Detective Hunter Sloane, the top recruit of his graduating class and the first promoted to detective, thanks to his hound dog instincts, and relentless determination, had a new case. It took eight years, but he’d earned boasting rights and the respect of his peers and yet he remained humble. Though to be fair, his comrades did it for him. “With no cold cases to speak of, he’s simply the best at what he does,” someone said.
“That’s because I’m here to work, not play hopscotch like you jokesters,” he quipped.
To date, Donovan Kingsley’s case was the most notable he’d had. In fact, he had just finished interviewing a list of prominent business owners who’d had dealings with him. Other than that, Hunter couldn’t account for any of Kingsley’s staff,

Hunter fought the urge to chortle. “Are they here? I’d like to have a word with them.”
“Sure. Follow me. You can use one of the rooms. Questioning them in the lobby might spook the customers.”
Madame Chevaliéa escorted Detective Sloane to a room normally used for lovemaking where he spoke at length to Abigail and Lyla, but the conversations they held with their clients weren’t particularly useful to the investigation. Immediately thereafter, he spoke with the third courtesan in a room farther down the hall. Within the confines of the room, which reeked of heavy perfume and perspiration, she divulged all of her activities.
Three months prior, Anton Newman–Kingsley’s guard lay limp in a bed with an attractive, bell-shaped courtesan in his arms. On the wall facing the foot of the bed, women with their breasts exposed and their lower extremities draped in textiles posed within frames. Anton reached for a bottle of wine on the small dresser near the bed, drank straight from the bottle, and then gave it to her.
Blanche raised a brow as she read the label. “What’s the occasion?”
Newman leaned into her and groped her left breast. “I got a new job—and I wanted to celebrate with my favorite gal,” he said and kissed her roughly on the