There’s something peculiar about missing things. A missing watch is probably lost. A missing person is probably trouble. A missing building? That’s deliberate.

I spent Tuesday morning at the Midnight Harbor Records Office. If you’ve never visited, don’t. It’s a place specifically designed to make curious people reconsider their life choices.

Three floors of filing cabinets. Two employees. One fluorescent light that buzzes like it knows something. I asked for the old harbor maps. The clerk looked at me over her glasses.

“What year?”

“Thirty years ago,” I replied

She disappeared. Twenty minutes later, a stack of maps landed on the counter. I started looking.

Warehouse 14.

Warehouse 15.

Warehouse 16.

Warehouse 18.

Warehouse 19.

I checked again.

Then again.

No 17. Interesting.

Everyone Remembers Something Different

My next stop was the docks. Old harbor workers are better than filing cabinets. They contain more information and require considerably less paperwork. The first man I asked said Warehouse 17 had burned down. The second said it had been demolished before the fire. The third insisted there had never been a Warehouse 17.

The fourth looked at me for a long moment and said: “Who’s asking?”

“Nick Nine Lives,” I replied.

He laughed. “Then you should know better.”

“Know better than what?”

He smirked, “Than asking questions about Warehouse 17.”

Then he walked away. Finally. Progress.

Back to Tank

By late afternoon, I was sitting at my usual spot at The Watering Hole. Tank poured a beer.. I put an old harbor map on the counter.

“Warehouse 16.” I pointed. “Warehouse 18.” I pointed again. “What’s between them?”

Tank continued polishing a glass. “Seventeen.”

“Ah, except there isn’t one,” I probably exclaimed to eagerly.

“Then I suppose you’ve answered your question,” he replied.

“Tank.” He stopped polishing. That’s when I knew I’d found something.

Tank looked toward the window. The fog had started rolling off the water. “You know what I like about you, Nick?”

“My personality?”

“No.”

“My charm?”

“Definitely not.”

He leaned closer. “You don’t know when to leave things alone.”

“Occupational hazard,” I grumbled

Tank sighed. “Warehouse 17 existed.”

Finally. “What happened to it?”

Tank put the glass down. “Depends who’s counting.”

I’d heard that answer before. This time I waited.

Tank glanced around the tavern. “After the fire, the city renumbered the warehouses.”

“Why?”

“Officially?” I nodded. “Efficiency.”

“And unofficially?” I continued.

Tank picked up another glass. “Some places are easier to forget when you remove their name.”

Pier 17

I waited until dark. Maybe that wasn’t the smartest decision. But detectives rarely become detectives because of their excellent decision-making. The fog had swallowed half the harbor by the time I reached Pier 17.

Warehouse 16 stood behind me. Warehouse 18 sat another hundred yards down the waterfront. Between them… Nothing. Just an old chain-link fence. Weeds. A few stacks of forgotten pallets. And water.

I checked the clipping again.

HARBOR WAREHOUSE DESTROYED BY FIRE

Thirty years ago.

Only one shipment was never recovered.

Find what was lost.

I was about to leave when something caught my eye. At the end of the pier, barely visible beneath layers of peeling paint, someone had carved a number into one of the old wooden posts.

17.

Then I noticed the footprints. Fresh. Leading toward the water. But none leading back. I wasn’t the first person looking for Warehouse 17.

And suddenly…

I wasn’t sure I was alone.

CASE STATUS: OPEN

To be continued.