Gumshoe

“Find her,” the Stranger said, throwing a dossier on my desk.

I took a long, slow drag off my cigarette and cocked an eyebrow at him. “Why should I?”

“You’re a detective, a gumshoe,” he replied flatly, begrudgingly tossing a roll of hundreds on my desk. “That should get you started.”

I leaned forward, eyeing the money. It smelled faintly of blood. I’d be concerned, but I had debts to pay, mostly at Harry’s Pub.

I grabbed the folio and thumbed through the files. “There’s no pictures, boss.”

“There’s enough.”

“Find her and tail her, that it? You want pictures? See who she’s been with?”

“Just find her for me.” The Stranger snapped, stepping back into the shadows of my office, quietly letting me peruse the documents.

“You’re the client,” I shrugged noncommittally and returned to the dossier. The more I read, the more familiar she seemed. “I think I know this broad.”

“I’m sure you do,” the Stranger leered through the darkness. “In fact, I think you, of all people, know her better than anyone.”

“She got a name, this golden girl of yours?”

“Indeed she does, Lauren,” he whispered, the click of a gun echoing through the silence of my office.

I looked up with revulsion. He found me.