He glanced at his watch, startled to see the time had gotten away from him. It was 9:43. He had an appointment at 10:00, a job prospect that had come as a happy surprise. Fellow named Willard Bryce—young man by the sound of him, clearly unaccustomed to requiring the services of a private eye. During their phone conversation, Pete had pressed, trying to get a line on the problem, but the fellow was reluctant to specify. Pete was imagining a matrimonial issue, always depressing to contemplate.

He removed his sport coat from the rack, hung his scarf around his neck, locked the office door behind him, and went out to the car, brooding about his lot in life. In his heyday, he’d hated having to stoop to domestic cases, which were emotional and messy and seldom netted much in the way of returns. Confirm a woman’s intuition that her husband was cheating and suddenly she’d reverse herself, denying the truth even when the photographs were laid out in front of her. If Pete managed to convince her, she’d be too bitter or too upset to pay his fee. On the other hand, if he assured her of her hubby’s innocence, the wife would claim he hadn’t done his job. Why pay a PI who couldn’t come up with the goods? Why was that worth thirty bucks an hour, she’d ask, peevishly.

Working the husband’s side of the equation was no better. Pete would tease out the ex-wife’s property holdings, providing proof she’d bought a condominium in Hawaii while at the same time claiming her meager spousal support was inadequate to her needs. By the time a court date was set to review the facts, the husband would have piled up legal expenses so steep that he wouldn’t have the bucks to pay the PI who’d provided the ammunition.

He drove north on the 101, waving in response to the sour looks from passing drivers. His 1968 Ford Fairlane wouldn’t exceed fifty-five miles an hour. The muffler was noisy and the once fire-engine red paint had faded to a harsh flamingo pink. It was a sweet drive for a twenty-year-old vehicle with 278,000 miles on the odometer. On cold mornings, it took a fair amount of coaxing before the engine turned over, sending up dark puffs, like smoke signals, visible in his rearview mirror. He’d bought the car at what he could see now was the height of his career. It ate up gasoline at a rate of fifteen miles to the gallon, but it was otherwise low maintenance.