Lately, there have been a series of disappearances in downtown Abuja. Not to say that people were not going missing all over the place before, it just got worse that'sall. There were no considerable leads and the police kept mum with whatever they knew thus most people concluded that itwas most likely that The President needed more livesto add to his own. How old was He again? 200 years oldand he had been in power that long too. Regardless, our intrepid heroine Private Investigator Bolanle Okerekewas not interested. She had sworn off disappearance cases 10 yearsago saying it always lead to dead ends and it broke her cold heart to have to tell clients that their loved one would never be found. And about The President, Bolanle had a lot to say about him but knew tokeep all her negative comments to herself. People running their mouths just added to the missing people statistics.
'Look at the headlines,' Bolanlesaid out loud disgusted, her eyes glued tothe notices that popped up on her personal computer. 'Thirty people missing in justtwo hours. What the hell is happening?'
'Trust me Bola, I have no idea.Best to keep an eye wide openwhen you walk around at night.' That was Aboulaye Bachir, her secretary who dreamt of becoming her partner in detecting and already was as far as he was concerned. He is our dependable sidekick.
'You either call me Bolanle ornothing at all. And I never walkaround at night.'
'Hmm, so you say.'
They shared a small office thatdoubled as an apartmenton the second floor of the Saharacomplex, a run-down tall building carefully situatedon the outskirts of Abuja citybut not too far away from the luxury comforts to be found in the heart of the city.Though itwas not like they could afford any of the 'luxury comforts'. The Sahara was a twenty-one storey residential complex withthe first five floors devoted tobusinesses of which Bolanle Okereke's Detective Agency was one. The agency was botha place of business and a home with the two rooms at theback of it belonging to Bolanle and Aboulaye respectively. They worked together and lived together which meant they were always in each other's hair. Normal days werespent, waiting for clients while exchanging mean words over their personal computers. Business was hard but Bolanleremained firm in keeping her agency going because it was afamily thing,at least that is what she toldpeople who cared to listen usually after a few bottles offine red wine. The truth however is much more complicated than that, it always is.
That day, April 29th was no normal day. While Bolanle and Aboulaye heatedly discussed the latest increase in disappearances, there was a small knock on the door. The door was pushed open and in walked Mrs. Fadila Danjuma, our client for this case. Everything about Mrs. Fadilascreamed money, it was obvious this woman had lots ofcash and even I could tell. Everything from her six-inchheels, her designer purse, herperfectly made up face, the hair she had packed in an updo and pinned under a smallstylish hat to the rare diamondthat glittered on her manicuredfingers yelled 'jackpot'. As youcan probablyguess the agency rarely gets any clients but common sense suggests that one filthy rich client is worth twenty working class clients. Yet though Bolanle hadlots of common sense she remained cautious, she smelttrouble on the client.
Mrs. Fadila waltzed in like she owned the place and satgingerly on the ruined leather swivel chair oppositeBolanle with the wide desk between them. She looked into the detective's eyes for a long time before turning her gaze to examine the office properly.
'What a quaint office,' she saidwith a lilting accent. 'It has a certain...charm to it.'
'Thank you.' Bolanle replied nonchalantly, her voice calm even as she thought the woman opposite her was a bitch.
'Boy,' Mrs. Fadila spoke to Aboulaye even though she looked several years youngerthan him. 'Fetch us some tea would you?'
Aboulaye stood up from his desk which was opposite Bolanle's on the other side of the room. 'I'm sorry we're out of tea bags and coffee. Would some juice be okay?'
Bolanle always called him an ass-kisser and he was obviously impressed with therefined airs that surroundedtheir client. He already knew that purse she carried was vintage Omotosi from almost a century ago. It cost several millions.
'Juice would be fine.' Mrs Fadilasaid without looking at his direction. 'Feel free to take your time with my drink.'
'You know there's no point hiding anything from my secretary,' Bolanle said as Aboulaye left for the kitchen.'He's going to know pretty much everything you say to me Mrs...'
'Mrs. Danjuma but please callme Fadila,' she answered politely. 'I'd really prefer talking one on one with you.'
'If that is what you would prefer, I won't inconvenienceyou Mrs. Danjuma.' Bolanle remained always formal and distant. 'I am certain he understood that when you toldhim to take his time with your drink.'

How did I miss this great story ?

Spaced out paragraphs would help give a better arrangement. Though the beginning of the story wasn't quite catching.

Hope you can continue. You have a nice story line.