“Course I knew Finwe well.” the dame says. Real classy, her clothes. Puts some of the mooks out there to shame. Unfortunately, she also puts out a dimly lit cigarette on my desk. Fourth client this month to do that. Some bird outside my office probably told them it’s an ash tray. But whatever song they’ve got is none of my business. I’m not here for a theatre thrill. I prefer more of a murder mystery myself.
The cost for a private eye in Valinor is hell, but with their hell comes my high tide. Nobody trusts each other in the city these days, and deep pockets get lightened by the best floozy, or the best detective in the city. I fall into the latter, former on Wednesdays, but that’s a story for another day. Any punk can stroll up to a crime scene and flip a card and jerk some strings. But they’re no puppetmaster. I run the circus where nobody’s got nothing but peanuts to throw.
For those of you who haven’t read the paper, mayor took a hit yesterday, the kind where you don’t get back up from. Those kinds are the worst, the higher you are. In his defense, opening a door for a stranger in the middle of the night isn’t good for you, but neither is the remaining two shots in my glass, nor the five in a pocketed holster near my twisters, and we aren’t doing anything about that.
“His death was a real shocker, ma’am.” I answer politely. The curtains are drawn, no snooping peepers besides my own are allowed in the office. But I’ve seen a couple of dames, been with a few of ‘em. This one’s not telling the whole story. I know the story sinks deeper, like the mulch in the sewer. Think you got everything, and there’s more, and their uncles and aunts and in-betweens. Like everyone behind a desk, I’m a patient man when money is involved.
“Lotsa people would want a mayor dead.” she says, and I nod again. Another tick on the terms and agreements. “But the coppers couldn’t get a trail on who clipped my husband.” she continues, and I hum. The broad seems inconvenienced by his death, but annoyed enough to find me.
A case with thousands of leads, hundreds of which will lead me skint face-down a ditch, with an orchestra playing all the wrong instruments. I mull over the case with my buddy, perched on a desk with a glint in her brown eyes when the light rolls around her right, 60% alcohol and best served on the rocks. My buddy rubs my shoulders and gives me the confidence to grip up an answer.
“You’ve got yourself a case, lady.”
“Knew I could count on you, Olorin.”
