Armani? Versace? Burberry? I had no idea, and it didn’t matter to me that I wasn’t current on suits likely to cost more than my monthly mortgage. His sneer had come from a designer collection, too. Men more generous than I am might have imagined that he’d meant his lip movement as a smile that had come out deformed, but every time his lip curled, his aura came up spiky and dark. No, it was a sneer. He was not happy to be in my office. In fact, he’d walked in carrying some kind of grudge. Since I’d never met him before, I figured his issue wasn’t mine to fix until he shared. I let him stew. He leaned forward and snapped his business card on the middle of my desk like it was an ace of trump. “My client wants you to find his son’s blackmailer.” I picked up the business card and studied it, although I already knew what it said. Andrew Kommen, Managing Partner, Stelnach, Kommen and Breyer. On the phone, his assistant had spoken the name with outright reverence, expecting I’d be awed, or at the very least, grateful for this visitation.
