The woman who walked into my office was dressed to kill. Her heavy combat boots thudded across my hardwood floor, leaving damp footprints on the new finish. I winced.
“For future reference,” I said between gritted teeth, “Use of the doormat is free of charge.” Did that count as ‘antagonizing potential clients’? I didn’t think so, but my shrink might disagree. Oh well – what I didn’t admit during a session couldn’t hurt her, though it might lose me a paycheck.
“I’m looking for someone,” said the woman brusquely, folding her arms over her chest and staring down at me. “Heard you might be able to help me.”
“That is the sort of thing I get paid to do, yeah.” I eyed the gun at her hip. “You, uh… looking for someone in particular?”
She didn’t smile, but she reached into her coat pocket and withdrew a thick envelope. “My cousin,” she said, and dropped it heavily on my desk. “Hasn’t been heard from in six months.”
I picked up the envelope and opened it – carefully, so as not to rip the paper. Old habit. There were photos inside, perhaps twenty, glossy and well-preserved. I spread them across my desk like a pack of cards, focusing on what seemed to be the most recent ones.
“Well?” asked the woman after a moment. “What do you think?”
I let the photograph I was examining fall from my fingers. “Your cousin is hot,” I said, shrugging.
The look that flashed across her face was dangerous enough that my hand automatically drifted to the handle of the drawer where I kept my own gun. “I thought you were supposed to be the greatest private detective in this part of the country!” she hissed.
“Greatest? Maybe – but I think you misheard,” I said. “I’m certainly the gayest detective in these parts, private or otherwise. And I need a touch more to go on than some cute Polaroid selfies.”
It’s Very Good™ and I really feel like the best version of myself when I take long sips from it while maintaining steady eye contact.
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