I met Maxwell Hunter at the Magnolia Hotel in downtown Omaha. I'd never been inside the place, but if it was as magnificent as the outside, then I was ready to be impressed. As I approached the door, a porter opened it, allowing me to pass through. Hunter said he'd wait for me in the bar. I'd done my homework and knew I was looking for a light-skinned, bald, black male, about 5'11", with a lean build. He was just shy of 50 years old, with dimples and bluish-hazel eyes, according to the pictures. Hunter was single and never married. He'd made his money through a variety of business ventures, but mostly in quick-service restaurants. From behind the front desk, a petite woman, with brown hair styled into a pixie cut, greeted me. She directed me to the bar.
I spotted Maxwell Hunter sitting at a table in a corner furthest from the entrance. From his vantage point, he could see everyone. He was dressed casually in a stylish sport coat and stood as I approached the table.
"Mr. Hunter, it's a pleasure to finally put a face with the voice." I took a seat opposite his.
"Thank you for meeting me here. This is my first trip to Omaha. It's quite a city."
"It's changed a lot in recent years. Mostly for the better, I'd say."
"I might need to consider a few business opportunities here."
Hunter had contacted me a month ago. Since then, we'd had a handful of conversations about a woman he wanted to find. He'd started his search on Facebook. That allowed him to narrow the possibilities to a few states. He'd hired private investigators in each location. When I called saying I believed I'd found her, he scheduled this visit.
I reached into my leather satchel, retrieved a few surveillance photos, and slid them across the table to Hunter. He leaned forward. His long fingers, much like those of a pianist, sifted through the pictures. He picked one up and studied it, and then set it back onto the table.
"This is her."
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