Cynthia Wyatt was the first client to remotely fit the vision I'd imagined, and so my inflexible rule of not taking domestic cases snapped and shattered, in spite of my initial protest. How tough could it be?

Admittedly, this wasn't your run-of-the-mill domestic; I hadn't heard of paying to confirm and document a spouse's infidelity then keep it quiet. I opened the two-page letter that was with the money and sat back, reading every line carefully.

A small headshot of Mr. Wyatt was stapled to the top corner of the first page, a youngish man, younger I think than Mrs. Wyatt, with an open neck sports shirt and a look of ready-to-serve arrogance.

The hint of regular sun in the complexion and the faint beard-shadowed, square jaw, all combined to describe the quintessential womanizer. Jarmon Wyatt, the letter said, was an expeditor for an import/export firm named, creatively enough, Deadline Import/Export Limited.

Itemized in business-like fashion was a short list of places Jarmon frequented, some people he hung around with on occasion, a description and licence plate number for his BMW, and even his cell phone number. The hotel suite at the Dunbar Hotel was the last item on the list.

I wondered why the name of the partner wasn't included if the affair was known. At the bottom of the second page was a cryptic little note reminding me of my timeline and that I could reach her at the following number, only when I had the proof she required. Only was heavily underlined. Apparently, Cynthia Wyatt didn't want progress reports or chatty little calls.

The timeline piqued my interest, besides the startling fact that she didn't seem to really care if he fooled around or not. What could the end of the month have to do with anything? I checked my calendar and wasn't enlightened, except to discover that I had only nine days to make good and get the balance of her offer.

I wasn't kidding about not taking domestic cases. I didn't get into the business to spend damp nights hiding in some blind with a Polaroid or tracking down some poor slob, trapped in a huge life choice, just playing out a desperate daydream. No, I was in it for what came out of this envelope - money. Big money!

If that meant lowering the standard of Christopher Wallace Investigative Services, well...

I opened my file drawer, grabbed an empty folder and headed it Wyatt, slipping in the envelope, the letter, and eight hundred of the cash; I had no time for banks, and unfortunately not much need.

I wished she'd explained the urgency for the deadline, but then dames like that could ask what they wanted; who was gonna nitpick. I locked the cabinet, shuffled a few papers around, slipped on my Alan Ladd fedora and closed the office. I had nine days to earn my money.

●○●○●○●○●

"Good evening, Mr. Wallace. Haaah... how may I execute my humble skills to accomplish your benefit, haaeeh...?" The voice was a slightly breathless wheeze over gravel.

"Sydney Greenstreet."

"Bravo, Christopher! You've made my day, what can I pour you?"

Rory Smith was my best friend, best man at my wedding, biggest help with information, and countless connections, along with an endless source of questionable impressions. Rory fancied himself the Rich Little of the city, and was forever doing his act for all and sundry from his post behind the bar of the Howden Hotel.

"Make it a vodka, soda and lime tonight, pal." I tipped my hat on the back of my head and chose a peanut from the full bowl.

"Oh no! The last time this happened you wound up getting married."

Rory hopped around behind the bar, deftly pouring the drink and sticking a slice of lime on the rim of the glass.

"Tell me, boyo, has CWIS actuawy retwained a cwient?" He leaned close to Christopher, eyebrows wiggling like worms on a hook. Rory loved to use my company initials like Elmer Fudd.

"Yep, and a big payer too. And before you drag out all those old bar chits..." I pulled out my newly acquired bankroll and dropped a c-note on the back of his hand. "You can take this one out of that, and keep the rest."

The wooden platform that ran behind the bar, which Rory used to compensate for his short stature, creaked and groaned as he performed a terrible imitation dance step.

"Stick to impressions, Rory, Fred Astaire you ain't."

"If I keep all the change then I'll owe you," he complained.

"And about time too."

He gave me a snarky smile and slipped the bill into a box under the counter. "So what's the deal? Murder? Kidnap? Some sexy widow off her lover's wife and wants you to prove her innocence?"

"You always ask the same questions."

"So?"

"So it's like your routines - boring."

"Oh really. Well then describe to me your oh so exciting achievement."

I bit on a peanut, hesitating. "It's uh, a domestic . . ."

Rory reared back, astonished. "A domestic!"

"Shhh!"

"You're doin' a domestic? Christopher Wallace, the Mike Hammer of midtown is doin' a domestic?" He slapped his head. "And I'm boring?"

"You mind?" I smiled weakly at a couple down the bar and gave Rory a deep frown. "This is different," I said defensively. "A dish floats into the office, slaps a grand on the desk and says, put a lid over my husband's cheating until the end of the month, and document it at the same time. When I've got proof, there's another four waiting. What would you do?"

"Bull!"

"Honest to god, and even if I find he's clean, the grand's mine."

"She just wants it muffled? Who is she?"

"Name's, Cynthia Wyatt. I have to keep it quiet until the end of the month.

Rory stood staring at me, his mouth hanging open slightly.

"I know. it's weird, isn't it?" I said, staring at him. "What?"

He gaped. "Are you kidding me? Do you not know who Cynthia Wyatt is?"

"Yeah, my client."