I walked down the street, rain splashing off my hat and running down my back, a walking advertisement for AFLAC, complete with the honking that I suddenly noticed was coming from my own nose. I was cold, I was wet, and I was a gumshoe. Life was good.I stopped at the corner, dug my hands deep into the pockets of my old trench, the one I’d gotten off my old partner, Sam Manilla, after he’d been snipped, clipped, chilled, and fitted for a Chicago overcoat during the cat milk scare at the local elementary school. There was a clue somewhere in this story. I oughta know—I put it there. It kept gnawing away at my brain like one of those praise-choruses with only one verse, repeating the same words over and over until you either gave your life to Jesus or killed the woman sitting next to you, the one who kept poking you in the eye with her Rexella Van Impe Study Bible.The clock tower struck twelve. I looked across the street and there she was, draped in mink from her mink umbrella to her mink high heels.
