STARLIGHT DETECTIVES. 1.

My name is Mickey McFynch. I'm a private eye specializing in tailing rich dames' husbands. Although this one was different because she wanted to meet after hours, I assumed I was walking into the Odds & Ends Bar, the sleazy gin joint below my office, to meet with another upscale gal looking to get the goods on her deep-pockets, passed-his-prime man. I'm no better. After all, I was there to claim Daddy Warbucks's twelve grand she offered for my skills. 

I gave a brief wave to Jack, the barkeep who keeps you straight before and after a few rounds. It's good to know Jack— so many don't. Pro skirts, some Johns, and smoke filled the room, but her classy looks and intense gaze guided me to the table in the back, where she sat alone with a bottle of scotch and two glasses.

Before I could speak, she asked, "McFynch?"

"Yeah. That's what they call me." I held out my hand to shake hers. She wasn't interested.

"Jessica Baker. Have a seat," she said, kicking the empty chair away from the table. The room was barely bright enough for me to see the front slit in her dress, exposing her leg to mid-thigh. "Enjoying the view?" she asked without smiling. 

"If you mean the view from my office, no." She took a drag on her cig and pointed at the empty chair. I sat down, thinking she was all business. "What's his name, and where does he work?" I asked as she poured my glass full.

"Who?" 

"Your husband. The one you suspect of two-timing or perhaps three-timing you. I mean, judging from the generous fee you're offering—this one must be complicated. This is about your husband, right?"

"Yes. It's not about infidelity—but it is complicated," she said, reaching for an envelope from her monogrammed handbag. "Here is your retainer."

I reached across the table and noticed the initials on her handbag were H.W. "Thanks," I said.

"Aren't you going to count it?"

"I trust you, Mrs. Baker. Or is it Williams—or Wilson, maybe?" She grabbed her bag and put it on the floor under her chair. "So what do I, or you, need to know about your husband?"

"He's dead. He was killed."

She didn't act like a grieving widow and wasn't dressed like one. Maybe she was thinking the money wasn't attractive enough. "I'm sorry to hear about your husband, but I think you need to talk to the police, not me."

"It's not that. Andre was killed in the war. He is—was French." She crushed her half-smoked cigarette in the ashtray, blew a stream of smoke in my direction, and downed the remaining scotch in her glass. "I don't miss him. He was a painter of sorts—not houses, canvas." She chuckled. "He was outstanding in one dimension, average in two, and overmatched in three." She flashed a smile. "You got depth, Mr. McFynch? You'll need it." 

And that is how I met Hanna Wodes. What happened next is interesting, too. But that’s a story for another time.