Promise You Won't Tell? Read Free Page A

shrugs.
    “Great. Note to self. Don’t let teenage boys pick out the receptionist. Dillon?”
    “Yeah?”
    “Tell her to get her ass to work.”
    “Okay. But I think you’re being kind of hard on her.”
    “Of course you do.”
    He says, “Till she gets here, someone has to do the mailings. I can’t help it if I suck at pasting.”
    “If that’s really paste all over your hands, the letters you sent must be even stickier.”
    “Cool idea,” he says, changing the subject.
    “Which idea is that?”
    “Installing the slot behind your desk so the clients’ checks fall into my office. That way I can run to the bank and cash their checks while they’re still talking to you about their cases.”
    “Did you wire Jana’s car?”
    “Of course. As always.”
    Another of my “cool” ideas, as Dillon would say. Pretending he’s the valet parking guy instead of my partner. After parking the clients’ cars he installs a tracking device in the trunks of their cars.
    “Dani?”
    “Yes?”
    “Sorry about the envelopes.”
    I look at him. Dillon’s eighteen, with runaway acne and long hair he keeps in a ponytail and neglects to wash. He’s six-three, and so skinny my mom would say there’s more meat on a butcher’s apron.
    If Mom was still alive.
    Though socially inept, Dillon truly is a computer genius. He’s incredibly talented with anything electronic. Toss him some nuts and bolts, give him an hour, he’ll build you a lunar space module.
    Apart from his computer skills, he’s a work in progress.
    And sensitive.
    I smile to let him know I’m not upset about the envelopes.
    “Wash your hands, okay?”
    “Okay.”
    I go back to my office, sit at my desk, think about how dull my job is. I’m a private investigator, but virtually all my income is derived from decoy work. Wives pay me to see if their husbands are cheaters. Fiancés pay me to test the integrity of prospective husbands. Attorneys pay me to test the fidelity of clients’ spouses. Campaign managers pay me to test their opponents’ characters.
    I keep trying to move beyond decoy work. It’s not an admirable profession. Decoys are two clicks below hookers, and only six above politicians.
    But the truth is I’m good at it.
    How good?
    Two weeks ago a deadly assassin paid me a hundred thousand dollars to see if I could seduce his girlfriend.
    Why so much?
    In his line of work love’s a luxury. His girlfriend, also an assassin, had been living a lesbian lifestyle for years. He had to be absolutely convinced she was ready to hang up her dildo.
    It was a thrilling assignment, dealing with volatile people who kill at the drop of a hat (which may explain why you don’t see many people wearing hats these days). Flirting with this assassin, playing her, was exhilarating. But the investigative work I’ve been doing the past two weeks?
    Boring.
    Half the time I’m at my computer, digging through records. The other half I’m in my car, or Dillon’s, waiting for something to happen. And by that I mean—brace yourself—a man or woman might walk out of a house or hotel room!
    Together!
    Yawn.
    Not long ago I was consumed by a real case. A serial killer was on the loose, one who preyed on teenage girls. Having been abducted by a similar killer/rapist at an early age, I devoted countless hours to solving the case.
    But the payoff?
    Zero.
    Monetarily speaking.
    The P.I. sign makes the phone ring, but decoy work pays the bills.
    People don’t realize it, but decoy work requires incredible skill. You need to be a psychologist, great listener, great conversationalist. A wardrobe master, great dancer, an enthusiastic, effective flirt. A tease. You must also be sensual, cute, adorable, cunning, clever, and so much more.
    By comparison, being a P.I. requires a computer, a car, and a reliable bladder.
    I hate routine investigative work! And the clients? Don’t get me started! My current book of clients would tax the patience of a sloth. No proctologist in the