The private detective gig had come as the result of a bizarre episode about four years ago when I innocently bought some socks and DVDs one day at the mall near my apartment, and accidentally exchanged them for a huge sum of cash, with the woman who ultimately became my wife.

Events filled with excitement, danger, and unbelievable characters followed - thankfully with a successful conclusion. I had immediately envisioned a new career, fraught with fedora-d tough guys, beautiful blondes and the thrill of walking the edge.

With little opposition, and an implied pat on the head from Nora, my wife, I left my job telemarketing, and launched C.W. Investigative Services, sitting back to await the fantasy.

The imagined glamour failed to materialize as swiftly as it did in the movies. Cases like finding presumed stolen articles in the public transit lost and found, or tracking down a driveway paving company that absconded with the client's down payment, didn't quite fit the guns, guys, and dolls scenario; they weren't even private investigator jobs.

Fortunately, Nora was a very well paid, chief legal counsellor at a prestigious law firm, a position resulting from the original episode of socks and DVDs, I was free to indulge myself a little. I was aching for the kind of case that would attract a Sam Spade, or a Johnny Dollar. Goons, gats and gals.

My office was a two-storey walk-up near the downtown and I had furnished it with a dash of Marlow and Diamond, right down to the wooden four drawer filing cabinet. Ambience was everything.

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She was no Clair Trevor or Lana Turner, but then these days, not many were. Still, the way she blew into the office and took a seat across from my desk without asking, won her a seven and a half for an excellent impression.

She plopped a chocolate coloured, Kate Spade, New York Liberty Helena, quilted leather tote on my desk, crossed long legs and pegged me with a pair of challenging peepers. I gave back my best, seen it all face. Nora, my lawyer wife, had exactly the same bag in an azure blue, and I was aware of the full name - because of the price tag.

"Can I help you, Ms...?"

"Wyatt. Cynthia Wyatt." The voice was medium emery on a satin pillow. "I want to hire your services."

I held the cool grey eyes a beat, enjoying the voice while I tilted back in my creaking chair.

"To do exactly?"

"To follow my husband. He's cheating on me." She adjusted her skirt and placed one arm alongside the tote.

I deflated slowly and leaned back, clenching my teeth, offering her a sad but sorry look. I hated domestic cases, besides, who would cheat on this broad?

"I don't do domestic cases, Mrs. Wyatt. Sorry you wasted your time."

She opened her purse and withdrew a business envelope, dropping it on my side of the desk. "I don't have time to waste, Mr. Wallace. There's a thousand in there," a sleek nail tapped the envelope, "and another four when you have successfully completed the task. I need detailed documentation of his activities, and I need those activities to remain confidential until the end of the month."

I stopped breathing, unintentionally, as I processed what she'd said. Until the end of the month? Now that sounded fishy - and interesting.

The cool grey eyes grabbed mine, punctuating her statement. "There must not be one whiff of scandal. It is imperative that no one - no one, Mr. Wallace, know anything about this."

"By this, you mean, you hiring me, or your husband's cheating?"

She let those eyes travel slowly over my face, and I felt something melt and slide away inside. "My husband's behaviour, Mr. Wallace. I just assume that as a client, my confidentiality is assured."

Damn, I hated backtracking! I picked up the moola, catching a brief whiff of cosmetics from her purse, and let it flop up and down in my fingers. "You want me to detail his infidelity, but not let him know before the end of the month?"

"I don't want you to let him know at all, Mr. Wallace. I want you to see that nobody else finds out before then. For reasons that don't concern you, I need the information kept private."

I laughed and dropped the money on the desk. "And like how would I do that, ride shotgun?"

"In other circumstances that analogy might have applied." She pushed her upper lip out briefly with a pink tongue. "All of his activity takes place in his suite at the Dunbar Hotel. Just see that it stays there." There was a rustle of material as her legs re-crossed, and she leaned onto my desk. "See that he doesn't do anything to draw public attention."

"I'm not sure how you think this can be done. Helping him out by protecting his fooling around, and recording everything he's doing at the same time? You need a bodyguard that does documentaries."

"My husband has an ego the size of this town, Mr. Wallace, interest in his fooling around, would be like spotlighting a star at centre stage. He'll bluff and fluster and eat up every bit of attention in the end. That's why I'm hiring you, to see that attention isn't satisfied away from his love nest."

I grinned inside at the term.

"Mrs. Wyatt, if you know all about this why don't you just stop him yourself?"

"That's my concern, not yours."

"I really don't like getting personally involved in affairs of the heart," I said, fondling the bills. "Is there a chance you are wrong, and he isn't running around?"

"Then you keep the thousand along with a closed mouth, and forget the whole thing - but I know he is."

I tried stalling a little longer, not really wanting the case, but not willing to let go of the money either. "And what if I can't get this proof, or somehow it leaks out?"

"In either of those circumstances, Mr. Wallace, you will be looking for a new career. I will trash your reputation beyond repair - and I can do that, Mr. Wallace."

"It's not nice to threaten a potential employee, sweetheart." I dropped the envelope, adopting a hard line.

She sighed and gave her hair a toss that broke my concentration. "Look, if it becomes necessary, use my name to get to see him, suggest to him that it would be in his best interest to desist until the time I stated, and while you are there use that advantage to get the necessary proof. Bring me indisputable proof of the affair, and you get the rest of your money. After that he can do as he likes."

"Proof?" I groaned. "You mean photos?" I watched her lips form her reply and almost missed it.

"Whatever is necessary." The medium emery on satin became a rasp on concrete.

"Are you suggesting you want me to threaten him?"

"I'm suggesting you do exactly what I've stated, Mr. Wallace, nothing more."

"In this business, that's what's known as proactive detecting. It falls into a different financial category, you don't even know my rate, Mrs. Wyatt." This I said with more gall than a storm door salesman; I didn't even know what I meant by proactive detecting.

She stood slowly, adjusting her skirt and slipping her tote strap over a sculpted shoulder. "Oh I think I do, Mr. Wallace. All the information you need is in the envelope. Remember, the end of the month."

"Could you at least tell me why you picked me?" I blurted, not wanting her to leave right away.

She cricked the corner of her mouth, slipped on a pair of rose-coloured sun cheaters, turned, and floated out of the office in slow motion. An action that matched my brain. No request for references, or even validating my I.D., and she'd dropped a thousand clams on my desk like yesterday's Kleenex.

As I watched her leave, letting the door click softly behind her, I fingered the crisp new bills thinking, our Mrs. Wyatt had come and gone in less than five minutes, and without asking any questions - but she had threatened my future should I disappoint!