The Last Detective

Rain hammered against the window of James Hawthorne's office, turning the neon lights of the city into bleeding watercolors. He'd been staring at the same case file for three hours.

A knock at the door. "It's open."

She walked in like trouble wrapped in a red dress—the kind of woman who made men do stupid things. James had seen plenty of them.

"Detective Hawthorne? I need your help."

"Everyone who comes through that door does. Question is: can you afford it?"

She placed a stack of bills on his desk. "Will this do?"

James didn't touch the money. "Depends on what you want me to find."

"My husband." Her voice cracked, just slightly. "He disappeared three weeks ago. The police say he ran off with his secretary. I know he didn't."

"How do you know?"

She met his eyes. "Because I already killed his secretary. And he didn't run."

James leaned back in his chair. This was going to be one of those cases.