Mae Sullivan frowned up at the grimy old office building
and shifted from one aching spike-heeled foot to the
other, trying to keep the weight off her blisters. From
the looks of the neighborhood, her chances of getting
mugged were only slightly greater than the chances of the
building falling on her. Only a loser would work in a
place like this.
Good. It hadn't been easy finding an incompetent private
eye on such short notice in a midwestern city like
Riverbend. But now there was Mitchell Peatwick. She could
picture him, leaning back in his office chair, balding and
overweight, slack-jawed and beady-eyed, no brains to speak
of.
He'd patronize her because she was female. She'd play him
like a piano.
All she had to do was convince him that he was
investigating a real murder case, and he'd swing his
paunchy weight around, creating noise and confusion until
whoever had taken her uncle's diary would be forced to
either give it up or bury it forever if he didn't want to
be accused of murder. Yep, that was all she had to do. So
go do it. She took a deep breath and winced as the
waistband of her borrowed pink skirt cut into her flesh.
Then she pulled the veil on her hat over her eyes and
walked toward the cracked glass doors of the old building,
watching her reflection as she climbed the steps.
Even through the dumb pink veil, she really did look sexy.
It was amazing what clothes could do.
Now, if she could just get this damn interview over with
before the waistband of June's skirt cut her in two and
June's heels made her lame for life, she'd be on her way
to solving all of their problems.
Please let Mitchell Peatwick be dumb as a rock with a
weakness for women in tight skirts, she prayed as she rang
for the elevator. Please let him be everything I need him
to be.
* * *
The window behind him was cranked wide-open, and the
ceiling fan above him stirred the air, and Mitch was sure
if he got any hotter, he'd die. As it was, he was pretty
sure that the only thing that kept him alive was the fact
that he wasn't moving. If he moved, his body temperature
would rise, and he'd melt right there in his office chair.
He didn't want to move, anyway. He was too depressed to
move. He leaned back in his cracked leather desk chair -
sleeves rolled up, hands laced behind his head, heels
crossed on his battered metal desk - and thought about the
way he'd planned things and the way they'd turned out. Big
difference there. Anticipation was a lousy preparation for
reality. That's why he was giving it up for fantasy.
Fantasy was not particularly productive, nor was it
lucrative, but it beat reality hands down.
Reality sucked. Fantasy was leaving a prosperous career to
become a private detective. Reality was regretting it. He
closed his eyes and tried to recapture the dream, the part
where he'd be the Sam Spade of the nineties. Then the
elevator cables rumbled across the hall and Mitch knew
another divorce job was coming his way. He hadn't had many
illusions about relationships before, he thought sadly,
but he had absolutely none now. Even the people who
weren't married had him investigate to see if the people
they weren't married to were telling the truth. And of
course, they weren't. That was the one irrevocable truth
Mitch had learned in a year, the only thing, he realized
now, that he'd taken away with him.
Everybody lied. Sam Spade would have understood that part,
but he would have spit on the divorce work. Mitch had the
uncomfortable feeling that he should be spitting on it,
too, instead of making a precarious living at it. Too
precarious. He had one week left in the year, one week to
earn the last of the twenty thousand dollars and win his
stupid bet and go back to his regularly scheduled life,
but to do that he needed a client who would shell out
$2,694 before Friday.
It wasn't going to happen. Prying money out of clients was
the second least favorite thing he'd learned about this
job.
So when he heard the elevator cables rumble in the hall
opposite his office door, he didn't leap to his feet with
enthusiasm. It wasn't just because the heat would kill him
if he moved. It was also because it had been a long time
since he'd done anything with enthusiasm, and he'd
forgotten how it worked.
If I was Sam Spade, this would be Brigid O'Shaughnessy.
The ancient ceiling fan creaked above him, and buttery
sunlight spattered over him, and in spite of himself, he
began to feel optimistic again. Maybe hope wasn't dead
yet. Maybe this was a Brigid heading his way, a woman
uninterested in marriage and commitment, willing to seduce
him to get what she wanted.
He was sure as hell willing to be seduced. She would come
into the office, cool, slender, lovely and lethal, in one
of those white suits with the wide lapels and a tight
skirt that was slit to the hip. She'd have incredible
legs. And maybe she'd be wearing a hat over her glossy red
curls, a dark veil that dusted over blue, blue eyes and a
straight little nose above moist, pouty lips. And in
between the lips and the legs would be the best part. Her
jacket would be tight under her breasts. Round breasts.
Full, round breasts. High, full, round breasts.
With an effort, Mitch pried his mind off the breasts.
And she'd come in and say, "I need you to find the Maltese
Falcon," and her voice would be throaty and soft. And
somewhere along the way, she'd take off her hat, and
they'd have passionate, steamy, slippery, sweaty sex ...
Mitch lingered for a moment on the sex.... and then he'd
find out that she'd been the guilty one all along. "I
won't play the sap for you, baby," he'd say, and they'd
take her away for murdering his partner. Okay, he didn't
have a partner unless he counted Newton, and nobody ever
counted Newton, but still.... No wonder that book was a
classic. Sam Spade got to nail her without a commitment
and still feel good about himself when he dumped her.
First, great sex, and then he walked out on her, free as a
bird, a hero instead of a schmuck.
Now there was a fantasy. Then the door opened, and he
looked up, and she came in.
Her hair was dark brown, and so were her eyes behind the
veil, and her suit was pink instead of white, but
everything else was pretty much his fantasy. The nose, the
lips, the ...
"I'll be damned." With enormous effort, Mitch raised his
eyes from her breasts to her face.
"Probably." Her low voice reverberated straight into his
spine. "Are you Mitchell Peatwick?"
"Uh, yeah." Mitch swung his feet to the floor and stood
up, wiping his sweaty palm on his shirt before offering
her his hand. "Mitch Peatwick, private investigator.
Listen, did you ever read The Maltese Falcon?"
"Yes." She ignored his hand as she surveyed the dingy
office, her pout deepening as she took in the cracks in
the upholstery and the dust. "Is this really your office?"
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