The Miller's Wife's Tale

b y Miles Archer

It was the first week of the month and I was so bloated I couldn't get my favorite sparkley ring on my finger this morning. My roots needed touching up something fierce. Plus, I always have a headache for three days before my period. So, all in all, I could have cheerfully shot someone. Slowly torturing them to death might have felt even better.

The streetcar was packed and some joker was taking the opportunity to cop a feel. I shifted my handbag to the other arm and let it dangle. When the car lurched I swung my purse backwards connecting with his groin. He let out a satisfying gasp and started to sink to his knees. I guess the added weight of my nine millimeter Llama gave it that extra added oomph.

Momma died when I was ten and Pop was pretty much in the bag most of the time, so I raised three brothers and took care of Pop until I could get out. Two husbands and who knows how many lovers later what I don't know about men ain't worth knowin'. God, if I knew at twenty what I know at forty five...

The phone was ringing when I unlocked the office door. An unusual event these days. The phone ringing, that is.

"Four A Investigations." I am told I have a great telephone voice.

"Yes. Hello. Do you conduct domestic investigations?"

"You mean divorce cases?"

"Yes. That is what I mean." This lady talked like a computer.

"Sure. Would you care to discuss it on the phone or would you like an appointment?"

"What is the name of the investigator I would be seeing?" Oh brother, like it matters?

"Mr. McCool is our senior investigator, however he is working on an international case at the moment." Yeah, he was in Mexico invading some topless dancer from Costa Rica he'd met.

"Oh. I need someone who can begin immediately."

" My name is Barbara Brown and I'm Mr. McCool's associate. I can begin the investigation for you. Would you care to share your name, madam?" It's kind of weird talking to this robot.

"Mrs. James Miller." I never understood broads that use their spouse's first name. What happened to theirs?

"Okay, Mrs. Miller. Why don't you name a time to come in and we'll discuss our services?"

"Ten fifteen. Tuesday the fifth." Glad she could narrow it down.

"Okay. We'll see you then." I always use the plural, makes it seem like there's more than meets the eye. There isn't.

Business was booming that day, the phone rang again about two in the afternoon.

"Four A Investigations." We tried using triple A, but the bastards threatened to sue us, so we added a fourth A.

"My name is Tammy Wingate, with COYOTE."

"Uh, COYOTE?"

"The prostitute support organization."

"Gee, I'm afraid I'm not familiar with your organization. How can we help you?"

"Mr. McCool's name was given to us by Detective Dave Toschi of the San Francisco Police."

"It's Inspector."

"Pardon?"

"It's Inspector Toschi. In San Francisco they call the detectives 'inspector'."

"Oh. Well, anyway, he suggested I see Mr. McCool."

"Mr. McCool is out of the country at the moment, but I'm his associate. I can see you."

"That's fine. How about three?"

"Three it is."

She wasn't what I expected. I'm afraid I had a certain stereotype in mind. She didn't fit it.

She was what they call "willowy": long legs, shown off with a slightly above-the-knee straight worsted wool skirt; a bulky sweater that suited the weather but made a mystery of her figure. Attractive in a kind of horsey way, like one of those women you see in ads with expensive cars and riding clothes.

"Ms. Brown?"

"Ms. Wingate. Pleased to meet you. Have a seat and tell me how we can help you."

She sat carelessly, sprawling. She seemed very self-possessed, not in a bad way, just not easy to rattle. "Are you aware of the serial murders of prostitutes that's been occurring in the City?"

I shook my head no. I like to read the paper, but killings of prostitutes wasn't exactly headline news.

"There have been eight girls killed in the past two years."

"And the police...?"

"They say they're trying."

"Honey, if Dave Toschi says he's trying, he's trying."

"I'll take your word for it. But the fact is, they haven't gotten anywhere. COYOTE has posted a fifty thousand dollar reward for the arrest and conviction of the perpetrator."

I couldn't figure where this was going. "And what would we be doing?"

"Detec-Inspector Toschi reccomended your agency when I asked about private detectives."

Dave felt that he owed McCool for the Zodiac thing. He would throw business our way sometimes. Hey, it's not illegal.

"We're not bounty hunters. Besides, these days bounty hunting is only for people who've jumped bail. It's not like the Old West." I didn't know what this lady thought private I's do for living.

"I understand. But we would like to get another set of eyes on this case and Inspector Toschi agreed that if we consulted with your agency he wouldn't object."

"We can't work for reward money."

"What's your rate?"

"Two hundred a day and expenses."

She blanched. "You have to understand, we aren't well funded. I happen to know some of the business leaders of the City..." she broke off and gave me a little smile. I understood that when she used the word "know", she meant it in the Biblical sense. "Anyway, they have been good enough to post this money for the reward and they help us with events. Anyway, we have a budget and we couldn't possibly afford that kind of rate."

"Well, that's the problem with criminal investigations, Ms. Wingate. I mean, that's why people pay taxes."

She looked at me with very steady grey eyes. I sighed. This is why we never have enough to pay the bills. "We'll see what we can do. We have a lot of contacts. Can some of your, er, members help us out with information?"

"Sure. The police have followed up the usual things: weirdo johns, guys that like it rough, rip offs, perverts-the girls are in a tizzy. These days if you look hinky, you're not going to get anywhere with the street girls."

We shook hands. I didn't know what exactly we were going to do with this, but when McCool returned I figured I'd talk him into giving it a sniff. He has a nose for trouble. All kinds of trouble.

I rang up Toschi.

"Inspector Toschi, homicide," a familiar voice answered. He had a nice voice, you wouldn't take him for a cop.

"Hey Big Man, it's your favorite girl detective."

"Hey BB, how're they hanging?"

Dave always said that. I had gotten used to it. "They don't hang a bit, for your information and it's none of your business. Eleanor will use her chef's knife on Mr. Happy if you're not careful."

He laughed. "Oh God, don't rat me out, BB. She'd pull a Bobbit job on me for sure."

"So what's with this COYOTE person? I mean, you actually sent her to us?"

"Look, " he sounded apologetic, "Tammy Wingate is actually pretty well connected and we've been getting a lot of heat on this case. We're going nowhere fast and she wanted to shop it around the City to PI's. I begged her not to and we compromised on you guys."

So Dave was looking to ease the pressure on himself by using us for a little escape valve. He could make a case for not having every gumshoe and wanna-be Paladin out gunning for the fifty Gs, but he couldn't shut her down completely.

"You know the master is in old Mexico at the moment?"

"What's he doing there?"

"Apparently exploring the wonders of Costa Rica."

"I thought you said he was in Mexico."

"Miss Costa Rica is in Mexico, so he's suddenly developed an interest in Latin America."

"Well, Doug's never one to say no to that kind of thing."

"Tell me about it." I coughed out a laugh. I mean, I have to show I don't give a damn, even if sometimes I do. "Anyway, we'll take a whack at it when he gets back next week."

* * * * *

Tuesday, ten fifteen on the dot, Mrs. Miller entered the office like she was in the fur department at Magnin's, that is, she had that look rich people wear when they're expecting someone to run up and start kissing their ass. I didn't like her right away. But she looked like she could pay her bills. I liked that.

"Mrs. Miller, I'm Barbara Brown." I waited to see if she shook or not. No hand was offered so I kept mine to myself. "Please come into my private office." I opened the door to McCool's inner sanctum. It was neat, for a change, because business was so bad we didn't have any files to clutter the place up. While he was taking care of his new chicky-poo I had been cleaning.

I sat behind the desk to give myself that air of authority that a desk seems to provide. She looked at the armchair in front like it was going to stain her Anne Klein suit but she sat anyway. She started pulling off her gloves to reveal hands that hadn't washed a dish in God knows how many years. I could keep my nails like that if I didn't have to wash dishes and clean the damn toilet.

"Suppose you start at the beginning." I settled back and gave her a look that was intended to convey a 'just us girls' attitude. I think she bought it.

"Frankly, I didn't know there were female private investigators. Not really the profession for a lady, is it?" I let this go without comment. No sense getting into a cat fight with a client over her prejudices about the proper employment of women. "I suppose I'm more comfortable discussing this with you, however. These things are so hard to mention to a man."

"Why don't you go ahead and tell me what's troubling you? I'm sure we can help you, discretely of course."

She flopped the gloves around a bit to channel her anxiety. Then her gaze fixed on the wall behind me and she started her mea culpa.

"I suspect my husband of cheating."

I smiled, a girl-to-suffering-girl expression. "Well Mrs. Miller, that's always hard, isn't it? How long has this been going on?"

"For the past two years. He says he's working late about three or four times a month. He finds excuses to go out evenings and he has developed a sudden interest in some car club."

"What makes you think he's not telling the truth?"

She looked a little flustered and I figured we were going to get to the heart of things.

"Well, how can I put this? Oh dear. It's rather personal."

I decided to help her out. "You're trying to say that he's not been too interested in the bedroom department lately."

She examined the gloves minutely. "You're very perceptive Miss Brown."

She wasn't a bad looking broad: light brown hair, with blonde highlights, done by someone who knew their trade; her makeup was good, but it was designed to look 'proper', not necessarily to enhance her face; her nails were pink and perfect. I had the feeling she was one of those women who deflected his unwanted attentions with the excuse "Oh, you'll muss me."

She was a little light in the boob department and her outfit was not intended to enhance what figure she had. I was guessing she was a 'Miss Debutante' type: bridge games, polite tennis on Wednesdays, Junior League chairwoman of the membership committee, faithful reader of Martha Stewart's every pronouncement. The perfect corporate wife. It's the old Catch 22 for women, men want their wives to be half nun, half hooker. "The thing is, Mrs. Miller, do you really want to know?"

* * * * *

"What do you mean?"

"Well, where is this going? Are you looking for grounds for divorce?"

"I...I don't know. I haven't thought that far ahead."

"The thing is, here in California, you don't really have to catch your spouse up to no good. You just see a lawyer and he files the papers. 'Irreconcilable differences' is the phrase. About the only thing to wrangle over are the alimony and child support. Whether he was cheating or not, it won't really affect the outcome. I'm afraid divorce has become pretty cut-and-dried these days." I don't like to take someone's money when they're going to find out that they didn't have to spend it. Makes for lousy customer relations.

"Yes, you're correct. I guess the sanctity of marriage is old fashioned these days."

I gave her a sympathetic nod. Geez, this lady was thirty years behind the times. I've been around the block twice myself. "I don't know if that's changed or not, Mrs. Miller. But I suppose people don't fool themselves anymore."

She looked a little irritated by that remark. "Well, I just want to know what he's up to. I'll decide what to do about it after that."

I decided it was time to go for the gold. "We can put a tail on him and see what's what. That's expensive, you understand."

"I'm not concerned about the cost." I always like it when a client that says that.

"Give me his schedule and work address. Also any other places you know that he frequents. We'll follow him from the time he gets off work until it looks like he's home for the night."

She didn't ask the obvious question so I answered it anyway. "We get $200 per day, plus expenses and require a retainer of $1000."

She removed a checkbook from her Cardin bag. The pen was fat and gold, I'm guessing Waterman. She scratched across the check and passed it over, holding it delicately in her manicured fingers. I restrained the temptation to snatch at it.

When she had signed our standard contract and received her copy, I stood. She rose gracefully. I bet she'd learned her movements in finishing school. "We'll contact you by telephone. We will be discreet about calling, don't worry."

"I certainly hope so. I wouldn't want any upset."

Of course not. I don't like upset myself. "Believe me, Mrs. Miller, here at AAAA we are the soul of discretion." As long as McCool doesn't plug somebody, anyway.

McCool is always whining about stake outs, and now that I was on one I could sympathize for a change. My neck had a crick in it from being turned in one direction, I was starting to feel the urge to pee already and I swore colorfully when I discovered I only had five cigarettes left in the pack. If this SOB worked late I was gonna have a nicotine fit.

To quote McCool: "I'd rather be lucky than smart." A white 'Vette rolled up the garage ramp, waited for a flock of pedestrians, then turned up the street. I cut some poor bastard off getting out of my spot to stay with Jimbo.

I thanked the gods of girl detectives when he turned off on Jones and headed into the Tenderloin. I knew where he was going; his dick was driving.

The Tenderloin area of San Francisco is the sex-for-sale part of town. Every city has one, although perhaps they're not quite as flamboyant as the Tenderloin. It's a ten square block area and every corner carries a selection of hookers. The customers circle the block until they find something they like. Who says men don't like to shop?

Apparently he was "just looking, thank you", and after a couple of laps around the sex center he headed out Geary, homeward bound.

I followed him to a huge Victorian on Arguello. The three story house was one of those 'painted ladies', not the hookers darling, but a multi-color paint job that highlights the fancy gingerbread. I admit I envied Mrs. Miller. Hell, to live in a joint like that I'd probably put up with a little hanky panky. We all have our price.

The nice thing about rich neighborhoods is that there's on-street parking. The Gotbucks can put their Mercedes and BMWs in the garage. I made sure that Jimbo was tucked away for a few minutes and then scooted off to a gas station to fill the car, empty my bladder, and buy some stakeout supplies. Replenished with fuel, food, drink and relieved of about a gallon of pee I took up my station.

I had taken the opportunity to remove my pantyhose in the service station restroom. Whew! What a relief after sitting in the car for three hours. Important lesson to girl detectives: always wear cotton panties and get rid of those panty hose! I rolled down the window and flapped my navy blue cotton A-line ($25.75 at Ross!) so some of the fog-tinged evening air could reach the nether regions. Hoo boy, that feels better.

I hoped this guy was in the barn for the night. I would give him until about ten and then call it a day. The wife had said that if he went out in the evening, it was usually around nine and not much later.

I had just finished my second package of Ho-Ho's and a pint of milk (got to get my calcium, since the most resistance exercise I get is passing up a shoe sale at Macy's) when the garage door slid up and the 'Vette's white rear appeared. I cranked up my car and followed half a block behind. Okay! Now we were going to see what's what.

He drove down Park Presidio into the Avenues and I followed him to a nondescript block of flats on 34th. There were 'Vettes parked up and down the street. Miller stuck his across a driveway with two more of the sports cars in it and walked up to the open garage. I heard a couple of male voices doing their ritual greeting. Damn, he really was a member of the Corvette Owner's Club (COC. Oh my, how appropriate can an acronym be?) He might be seeing another woman, but her name was Chevrolet and she had an alluring shape. I dig nice cars myself and was wishing I could join up. Ooh, rich men with fast cars. Sounds like fun to me.

In any event I sat there watching the fog glow in the street lights and ruined my health with cigarettes. I was parked several houses up from the car nut's place so they didn't notice. There were forays out to the street so the group could stand around someone's opened hood while the guys seemed to pay some sort of male devotionals. They laughed and joked, punched each others' arms the way guys do (I think it's repressed homosexuality). Every once in a while one of them would fire up his prize and rev it. This seemed to elicit rounds of deep philosophical conversation, but I was too far away to hear their words. A blessing, since I have heard these mechanical soliloquies before, they're about a interesting as watching TV cooking shows.

Around ten they started taking off for their various homes. Jim Miller left with me still discreetly in tow. I was hoping he was going to return to the loving clutches of wifey-poo so I could go home. I needed to pee again and Ho-Ho's and milk don't stay with you for very long.

Like the song says, "If it weren't for bad luck, I'd have no luck at all." Instead of heading back to Pacific Heights he pointed his car downtown. In ten minutes we were back in sin city and he was idling around the blocks.

Women (and others impersonating women) waved and smiled at him when he hesitated at the corners. Once or twice he stopped in a bus zone and would have a short conversation through the passenger side window. I would wait up the street, forcing the traffic behind me to go around. A blue-haired lady in a Packard gave me the finger.

I was starting to swear at him and wishing he would just make up his mind (or whatever he was using for thinking) when he had another conversation with a lone hooker. She was dressed in the working uniform of prostitutes: miniskirt that barely covered her pudenda and didn't quite cover her ass, a tube top that provided a semi-legal covering for a pair of breasts that were starting to need assistance from Maidenform, a rabbit fur short coat (how she could stand to be out in the cool fog in that outfit?) and the requisite fishnet stockings and knee high black boots. (In the right circumstances I might have worn something similar-say a Halloween party.)

They negotiated for a few minutes and Rabbit Fur jumped into the 'Vette. I wove my Celica through the traffic, not wanting to lose him at a light. He drove west and in a few minutes I could see that he was headed for Golden Gate Park. Usually the girls just pull up in an alley and are back on the corner sucking a breath mint in ten minutes. I guess he was paying extra for discretion.

At this hour the park was abandoned to the homeless and perverts, so I gave him a pretty good lead. When he reached the far end, near the beach, he pulled the car over to the side behind some bushes next to the old windmill and I had to go on past. I went a ways onward, then hung a U-turn and slowly came back, looking for a spot where I could wait. I figured I had the info I needed for Mrs. Miller, i.e. , yes, he was cheating, and in the worst way too, but I wanted to see if there was any more frolicking after Rabbit Fur was done. I assumed she was giving him head in the two seater (I couldn't imagine anyone being limber enough to have vaginal intercourse in a Corvette coupe) and then he would drop her back at the corner and head for the barn.

I killed the lights and rolled slowly up to the curve where I had left him. When I could see the bushes where he'd pulled off I stopped and shut off the engine to wait until his car emerged.

After twenty minutes or so I began to get impatient. My bladder was aching and I was wishing that God or Nature or whomever had endowed us girls with a little longer urethra. At least McCool could pee in a bottle while he was on stakeout. What the hell's a girl gonna do? I gave up after another ten minutes, got out, and walked around to the passenger side of the car where I could squat. Naturally a car came around the curve while I was otherwise occupied, but it was too late, I had a little river running between my Nine West slingbacks and there was no relief in pressure yet. It wasn't the 'Vette so I didn't care.

I cleaned up with a couple of tissues (now I know why I carry a big purse). When I walked around to the driver's side to get back in I realized a couple of bums had been watching, but my bladder was happy if my pride was not.

I sat there for a couple more minutes. Damn, could he be taking that long with Rabbit Fur? She must be earning her fee. I decided to pull around the curve and cruise past slowly just to see what I could see.

The car was gone! I complained loudly to the empty air, using the kind of words that used to mean Momma would be fetching the soap. I couldn't figure out where he'd gone or when. Either he'd stayed in the bushes for only a couple of minutes while I was turning around or he'd slipped out of there while I was peeing. He hadn't passed me and I hadn't heard his exhaust when he started up. Hell, if McCool found out about this he'd rag me for months. I decided to keep the lost Corvette episode to myself.

I zipped across town to his house. The garage doors were shut and they didn't have windows, so I couldn't tell if he was there or not. I could have waited for a while, but just then I realized my period was starting and I only had one pad. Figuring this was the end to a perfect day, I beat it back to the barn, took a couple of Excedrin with a shot of bourbon and went to bed. The headache tapped its little bass drum beat in the back of my head and I was wishing someone would show up and massage my back. I drifted off dreaming about strong hands kneading me slowly. Oh yes...

* * * * *

The next couple of nights were a bust. Jim Miller, car fancier and patron of the art of fellatio must have taken a couple of nights off to sit around and watch TV with the missus. I gave him until ten each night.

With the retainer from Mrs. M I paid the office rent up to the first of next month, got the phone company off our back and sent the electric company half of what I owed them. I still had enough left for half my apartment rent, so I wasn't ready to give our client a report. I intended to bleed her for at least another grand.

I was reading the Chronicle, looking to see if anybody had lingerie on sale. When you have to fill the size bra that my anatomy requires you're always happy to get quality stuff at a good price. That cheap stuff just cuts my shoulders something fierce and if the underwire isn't done right it pinches like hell. I know that carrying a nice rack gets a girl attention, but at a price, darling, at a price.

Buried back on page fifteen above a Magnin's ad for Bali (they were on sale, buy two get a third free!) I happened to notice an article about some girl's body being found in the Bay. Presumed homicide, coroner's investigation, all that jazz. I thought about my trusty Llama nine millimeter. Boy, if some creep tried anything with me...

At noon I ran over to Magnin's and got six new bras. Wore one of the new ones out. The old bumper guards felt much better in the soft lacy cups-I even got a red one and a black one. McCool might give up on that anorexic little twist. My period would be over by then and he's a pretty good...well, anyway, I had work to do.

I closed up early and spent a couple of hours out on the range, getting my eye in shape. It's been a couple of months and I suddenly felt the need to sharpen up. I smoked a box of wadcutters in an hour and by the time I left I was grouping in the black seven out of eight. Hell, I don't know why men make such a big deal out of it. Just point and squeeze.

* * * * *

I kept my dress on but changed into running shoes. I'm tellin' ya you don't want to do no tailing and stakeouts in those heels, I don't care how much they cost. In fact, I have a theory that shoes are comfortable in inverse proportion to their price. It can be worth it, such as when a nice pair of spike heels puts that light in a man's eyes.

I was parked outside Miller's office building at four forty five, giving him a chance to leave early from work but he didn't. It was six thirty by the time his car came out and headed uptown. I lost him at a light when he ran the yellow, but I guessed where he was heading and found him again, circling the blocks as before. I figured it had been a few days and the pressure was building up.

Same shit, different day. This girl was not much different from the first. Oh, different clothes, hair, etc. but same occupation. I was reminded of the campaign the radio stations were running-"It pays to advertise". Indeed. These girls could give lessons in marketing.

This time he headed out Geary and for a while I wondered if he was taking her home to meet Momma, but he turned off and started winding through the Presidio.

The United States Army owns the best chunk of real estate in San Francisco. If the government had any brains they'd sell it and pay off the national debt, but then, it's the Army. This pristine land at the northwest corner of the City occupied about a fifth of the total area of San Francisco, had a half mile of coastal view and was covered with nothing but eucalyptus and young men in uniform. Like a park, with soldiers. Not a very busy place these days and I always figured it was a prime billet for the dogfaces stationed there. I mean, the only thing they had to worry about was catching the clap from the locals. SF was not in immediate danger of foreign invasion. At least, not the kind that the Army could handle.

He drove slowly, the speed limit on base is twenty five and he held to it. He was heading for Land's End. This is where the steep cliffs on the ocean side of the Golden Gate meet the Pacific. It's windy, foggy, cold as a witch's tit most of the time and has a fantastic view. But on a dark foggy night in October there weren't going to be a lot of tourists.

I gave him a good lead and kept my lights off, risking a ticket. I figured I could flick them on if an MP came along. Miller nosed the 'Vette into a parking area that offered a view. There was nothing to see in the dark, of course. I pulled up in another lot just past him, screened from his spot by scraggly bushes. I was able to see right through the tiny side window of the car, a streetlight gave me enough illumination to make out their silhouettes.

I saw her head move downward and it didn't take a genius IQ to figure out where she was going. Been there, done that.

I was startled by the muffled crack of a pistol shot. I saw him push a slack form upright. His door opened. I was out of my car with the Llama auto in my hand as he was walking around to the passenger door. He opened the door and bent down and I ran up, hoping to take him while he was inside the car, but he must have heard something. He straightened up and turned toward me.

I shouted something dumb, like "Stop!" His right hand moved toward a jacket pocket. I stopped running and turned sideways, bringing the pistol up so he could see it.

The rest is slow motion. McCool always says that fast things happen slowly. He's right. In two seconds that seemed an eternity he pulled a gun from his pocket. I shouted something again. He raised his arm. I squeezed and was surprised by the roar. I squeezed again while he fell back, the open door catching him. His gun went off into the asphalt and I fired twice more.

We maintained that tableau for another eternal second or two, then I edged up to him, lying propped against the car. His stare showed he had followed the light. I had to straddle him to look inside. The girl he'd picked up was flopped back, limp, blood trickling from her mouth.

I used my cell phone to call 911 and laid my pistol on the rear deck of his car while I waited for the MPs. It didn't take them long. A couple of sturdy young fellows. I wasn't reluctant to give them my phone number, although I don't suppose they would want to ask me out after what they saw that night.

* * * * *

When Doug came in on the following Monday he looked tanned and relaxed. I'm sure that at least one part of him was relaxed, anyway.

"Hey BB! How's tricks?" He gave me a wink and that lopsided smile that makes me want to kiss the corner of his mouth.

"Not much."

"No clients?" He sounded fatalistic.

"Nope."

"Oh well, Buddha will provide."

The phone rang and he let me answer. He says it sounds more businesslike for a woman to answer the phone. Sexist pig.

"Four A Investigations."

"That you Brown?" It was Dave Toschi, McCool's pal from Homicide.

"Yeah, who else? You think McCool became a castrati?"

"Huh?"

"Never mind. What's up?"

"Got some big news for you. Looks like that Miller guy you popped was the guy that's been icing whores for the past couple of years."

"Well, I'm always happy to do my bit against crime."

"You'll be even happier to find out they're gonna give you the reward anyway, even though you didn't give him a chance at a trial."

"No shit?"

"I shit you not. McCool's gonna be happy."

"If you say one word to him I'll plug you where it'll really hurt."

He laughed. "Not a word from me, dead eye! I've seen you shoot."

McCool called from his office. He was already on the other line with the Playmate of the Month, I could hear him murmuring soft soap into the phone. "Anything hot?"

"No baby, nothin'. Don't worry, I'll take care of it." I was already planning my own vacation. One of those cute MPs had called after all.

Miles Archer is the pen name of a Pacific Northwest writer who cut his mystery teeth on the classics in the genre, i.e. Christie, Gardner, Chandler, Hammett, Stout, et al. Like many authors, Archer has had a checkered career: reporter, sales clerk, process server, free lance undercover operative, sales executive and registered nurse. More than enough careers for three lifetimes. He lives on five acres in the woods and loves the rain.