I climbed the rickety stairs towards my office and fumbled with my keys. The headline had shaken me to my core and I instinctively knew that the mysterious blonde and the mayor’s son were somehow connected. Call it my sixth sense.
As I closed the door behind me, I set the newspaper on my desk and immediately went to mile file cabinet in the corner. I opened the top drawer and moved the recent files to uncover a spare bottle of scotch.
Sitting at my desk, I bypassed the glass entirely and took a mighty swig straight from the bottle. My nerves were finally starting to settle down enough that I could function. As I sat there reading and rereading the front page article, I kept reliving the conversation I had with the blonde. I thought back to every word. I analyzed and memorized her inflection of every syllable. I made note of her posture and mannerisms. I may be a man, but I’m a well trained, highly attentive man – and right then that woman was the only client I had. I was forced to take this job, and by god, I would make sure that it was done correctly.