Neale Berkley yawned and stretched, took a glimpse at a blank word processor on his computer screen, blinked a few times, and sighed. He had been perfectly fine while peacefully asleep, but as he awoke once again to the teasing blankness of the screen that bore before him with the same emptiness that filled his head, he could only say one thing to himself.

"Writer's block sucks the big one," he shook his head. "It's driving me mad; making me talk to myself."

The man sat up in his chair and rubbed his temples, defeated. After several years of fierce typing, he felt that his young brain could think no more stories to come up with. Twenty years of scribbling, and he had finally been backed into a corner with nothing left. And what did he have to show for it? A drawer full of rejection slips and a bookshelf full of unpublished manuscripts. He had so many binders of manuscripts that they took up a whole wall of his office.

Neale was an eager young man at the age of twenty-three, and had been trying to publish books for the past seven years. His life was his books, and he might be consumed in his typing for well over six hours a day. He was a good-looking single man who had a head of neat brown hair and always a clean shave. Neale's daytime job was a local newspaper reporter, and at night and early mornings he became an unsuccessful freelance writer. He always assured himself he would have his break, but now more than ever he began to eat his words and doubt his own talent.

He shook his head and flipped on the TV to watch the seven o' clock news, something he usually did to help his brain un-spaz.

"-Several cases of stolen DVD players in the area, probably an expensive practical joke of teenagers. Another mystery for local policemen to figure out is the case of a missing woman, Cecile Zimmer, recently married to a millionaire, she disappeared merely a week after their honeymoon..." the screen switched from the glittery-toothed newscaster to a snapshot of a pretty blonde lady. "She was last seen in Seattle Center shopping with some close friends who are now suspects. Any news of the missing woman contact James Lance Zimmer at 555-0959. Now to the weather with Terry."

Neale clicked off the television, practically shouting, "I got it!" It was apparent - he knew what he could write about now... a kidnap. He quickly sat down, getting straight to his word processor once again before he had to get ready for work.

* * * * * * * * * *

"You know how expensive your type of guys are? You're not exactly cheap. And it doesn't help that you're not getting anywhere. I swear I'm going to go broke by next week if this keeps up," James ranted sternly to FBI agent, detective Gary Spence.

"Your wife's case is unusual, and if you'd just be patient-"

"I have been extraordinarily patient with you, sir, so don't go preaching to me about patience!" Zimmer interrupted. He took a deep breath. "How much longer? Just give me an estimate, I want an estimate. How long will it take to find my wife?"

"I haven't the foggiest idea," Spence muttered.

"Well! I'm paying you! Have you found any of your sneaky little detective clues? Hmmm..? Am I any better off than I was three days ago!?" Zimmer huffed.

"I'm working on it, sir, these things take time."

"Well you can at least suspect her friends for her disappearance; what did they say happened again? They all went to the bathroom at the exact same time as Cecile waited for them outside the stalls, and when they finished she was gone? Doesn't that sound a little weird to you?" James searched the helpless detective. "I mean - I know it's the thing for women to do, to follow each other to the bathroom, but doesn't that sound just a bit out of place? And what do you think Cecile was doing at the time, eh?"

"Getting kidnapped?" the detective offered.

"Aha! But wouldn't her friends have heard her scream if she indeed were being kidnapped?" A triumphant look crossed Zimmer's face. "So there! Did I really need to hire you in the first place? You're no good. Get lost."

The detective reddened. "Fine! If you're so sure you're going to crack the case yourself - go ahead! I'm leaving! And I'm not coming back no matter how much you beg me when you're completely lost!" With that, Spence stormed out the front door, slamming it behind him.

"Nice going," James muttered to himself. "I just had to lose my temper.. now I've done it." He sat down on his expensive white leather couch for the first time since he had bought it a couple years before and stared at his knees, thinking of a way to get his wife back without that idiot detective.

"Sir, are you all right?"

Zimmer glared up at his butler. "Do I look all right to you? Here I am, sitting on my gadram couch, wife-less! I think I'm just a little annoyed by that!"

"Something will come up, though to prosper, you must have patience," the butler said brightly. "Calm down and you may think of something."

"What are you, a fortune cookie? Why is everyone telling me to be patient? Do you think that the kidnapper will return my wife if I wait long enough!?" Zimmer growled in frustration.

"Sorry sir," the butler rasped, leaving James to himself.

"Calm down..." Zimmer said to himself. "Tuh."

Then suddenly, he jumped straight up and shouted, "I know!" right out of nowhere, as if the thought had just popped into his head... which it had. "Jeeves! Come in here!"

James's butler entered the room looking grumpy. "Would you stop calling me Jeeves!? That's not my name!"

"Yeah, whatever-your-name-is, quick! Find, um... find..." James snapped his fingers and wondered aloud, "What's his name again? Oh yeah!- Neale Berkley! Find his phone number and call him right away! If anybody knows anything, it'll be Neale, the intelligent twinkie! He's always coming up with things, I'm sure he can find my wife!"

"First of all, my name is Pete if that's too hard to remember..." ("Jeeves is better," James said), "-and second, where'd you hear of Neale Berkley?"

"He's an old high school buddy... I went on to that business university to study computer programming after graduation, and he got lost in some stupid college that specified in journalism and I never heard from him since..." he waved his hand. "But that's not the point! Get him on the line, quick!"

"Right away," the butler said, shuffling around for a phone book.

"Thanks," Zimmer sighed, and from the corner of his mouth, he muttered, "Jeeves..."