My new client emerged from the building one floor below my office and hurried toward a beat-up Toyota sedan parked at the curb. How ironic, I thought, as I watched him from my office window. Charley Blake had gotten his wish. With his mother dead, he just might get his beloved house back. Small consolation, if he also got twenty-five to life for her murder.Charley braced himself against the blustery Nevada wind and fumbled with his car keys. Finally, he seemed to find the right one and he leaned over to insert it in the lock. Just then, the front doors of a car parked just ahead of his flew open and two men jumped out. In one swift movement, they pounced on him, shoved him up against the side of his car, cuffed him, and hustled him back to their vehicle.Stunned, I turned and started for the door. Just at that moment, it swung open and a stocky figure in a snap-brimmed hat and a brown leather bomber jacket stepped into the room."You can save your energy, McCready My guys have got it under control." He walked over to my desk and stood studying the P.I. License on the wall. "Private detective, huh? He turned around. "I wouldn't have guessed you had it in you."I recognized him, of course. It was Lieutenant Wade Parks of Reno P.D. I moved over and closed the door. Then I turned to face him. "I thought I told you to stay the hell out of my life."Parks smiled. "Just doing my job, McCready.""Judging from the way your guys just roughed up my client, I'd say your job still needs some polishing."His smile faded. "Okay, let's cut the crap. Blake's been up here long enough to fill you in on his little crime spree. I wanna know what he said to you.""Maybe you should ask him yourself."Parks stiffened. "Listen, wise-ass. Maybe you'd like a crash course on the penalty for withholding evidence.""Evidence of what?""You know what. Murder. Your client shot his mother in the face at point blank range.""I suppose you can prove that?""No problem. I know all about the threats he made on her life."I felt my blood pressure begin to rise. "Parks, I may not be the most experienced P.I. in the business, but I know an innocent man when I see one. Charley didn't kill anyone.""Well, you're right about one thing. You don't have enough experience to be involved in this case.""Maybe not, but I wouldn't be in this business at all if it hadn't been for your bungling."Parks moved a step closer, his face flushed. "I did my best on your wife's case. Nobody solves them all."I folded my arms and smirked at him. "I intend to solve it. I certainly can't do any worse than you did."I knew by the way his eyes went sort of crazy that he wanted to hit me. Instead, he turned and walked over to the window. For a time he stood looking out, hands on his hips. Then he faced me, and in a voice as cold as a Sierra blizzard, said, "I'm through being your friendly neighborhood cop, McCready. Unless you'd like to end up bunkmates with your buddy Charley, I suggest you tell me what you know."He had me. I knew it. To help Charley, I had to be free to move around. I grabbed my notepad off the desktop and tossed it at him. "You can read for yourself. He swears he's had nothing to do with her for years. Said he drove by her house Saturday morning just in time to see the coroner wheeling her out."Parks quickly flipped through my notes, then slipped the pad into his coat pocket. "I knew you'd cooperate, McCready." He smiled, but the smile didn't reach his eyes."But that's all you get, Parks, I said. "You'll have to do actual detective work after this."His smile slid into a frown. "This better be all the information he gave you." He patted his pocket. "If I find out you've withheld any evidence in this case, I'll nail you for aiding and abetting." With that he pushed past me, threw open the door, and stomped noisily down the stairs.I moved back over to the window and watched them drive off.After they were out of sight, I pulled out the trio of Polaroids I'd taken of my old chum, Charley, before he left. "Guess I better get to work," I said to his doleful image.#My name's Yank McCready. I make my living as a private investigator, working the self-proclaimed "biggest little city in the world, Reno, Nevada. More often than not, working means tailing Reno's abundant supply of two-timing husbands or wives, as the case might be, and supplying my clients with a portfolio of 8"x10" glossies depicting their spouse, well, let's just say, en flagrante delecti. In my prior life, I owned and operated a moderately successful, one-man photography business, so the photo part of the P.I. biz came easy. I had a harder time getting used to a private investigator's everyday working environment. At any hour of the day or night, I might find myself hanging out in some seedy motel lobby, or hunkered down in a parked car for hours hoping to capture some schmuck on film romancing his secretary.But incredible as it may seem, I didn't become a P.I. for the glamorous lifestyle. I became a P.I. for one reason and one reason only: to find the low-life scum who murdered my wife, Lana.Why me? Why not leave it to the police? Well, it's because Reno P.D. never turned up a single suspect. And after a frustrating six months of watching them let the case grow cold, I decided that I could do a better job of finding the murderer myself. All I needed was the training.That turned out to be tougher than I anticipated. Because of my photographic experience, I was able to land a job with the Morris Gretzski Detective Agency doing, what else? surveillance. Mo usually gave his homicide cases to his experienced agents. Still, those guys let me tag along often enough to learn the ropes. Once in a while, when everyone else had a case, Mo let me work on a homicide case of my own. Little by little, I learned the ins and outs of being a detective.And Mo, God love him, when didn't have anything for me, let me work on my wife's murder case. I studied the crime report until I could recite it from memory. I interviewed and re-interviewed all her friends and co-workers, especially anyone who had seen or talked to her the day of the murder. I knocked on doors all along her travel route. And, I inspected every inch of the crime scene. In fact, I spent so many afternoons there, nearby neighbors started inviting me to their houses for coffee or cold drinks.But I didn't find any new evidence. And after five years of trying, I began to doubt that I ever would. Too much time had passed, the trail grown too cold. Maybe I had made a mistake in thinking that I could succeed where the police had failed. Lana had been my love and my life and I desperately wanted to find her killer, but maybe I made a better photographer than a detective.So, I guess I'd have to blame Mo for my sticking with the P.I. game. He stopped by my desk one morning and handed me an official-looking document."What's this?" I asked."Your five-year certificate," he said. "You'll need it when you get your license."Then he turned and walked away. After he'd gone, I stared at the piece of paper for a long time, trying to decide what to do. I knew I'd probably never find Lana's killer. And the life of a detective certainly didn't hold any fascination for me. But I'd spent five years learning the ropes, more time than I'd spent as a photographer.In the end, it was probably more out of momentum than desire that I decided to get my license. I had learned the business well, and I passed the exam on my first try. Then, with Mo's blessing, I nailed up a shingle of my own.Let's just say the clients didn't show up in droves. But they did begin to show up in dribbles, one or two a week, usually divorce cases, which kept me busy a few hours a day. And Mo continued to use me even after I left the agency. He still needed someone to do the odd surveillance job that his guys didn't have the time or talent for. I wasn't getting rich, but I was making a living.And then, as if fate had been waiting for a chance to play its hole card, Charley Blake showed up at my door.
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