CONSTANCE

Nick Sinclair is my name, and private investigation is my game. Well, that's my name now, anyway, and that's what it says on the glass of my office door. I had to have my name legally changed as soon as I turned twenty-one. Who would have put much trust in a private detective named Irving Gladmyster? Private investigation is my business, but for fifteen years preceding my now chosen profession, I was a homicide detective with the Chicago PD. When I opened the PI business, I wanted to look the part. I had the right look physically, six foot two, dark hair and eyes, wiry build yet strong and athletic. So, to complete the look, I wore a conservative dark suit, slightly wrinkled shirt, scuffed shoes, and short haircut, parted and kept in place with a spot of Brylcreem and topped off with a fedora hat. I looked like I had stepped out of the late forties or fifties, a bit like Sam Spade in The Maltese Falcon. You've probably read plenty of tales about guys like Spade and me. But after two years, I hadn't had any work that anyone would want to read about. I had some savings, but it was running low. I also had a nest egg from my father's life insurance, but I'd never touched it, and I hoped I would never have to. Things were looking bleak, and I thought I would have to close the doors. Then I caught a break.

It was sunny but cool in Chicago on that fateful Friday morning in August. At approximately eleven hundred hours, I was sitting at my messy desk, my back to the door, feet propped up on the windowsill. I was on the phone and staring out my window when she walked in. I spun around to see who had come into my humble establishment and then said into the phone, "Bill, someone just came in. I'll get back to you." I tried to make it sound official, like perhaps it was another client, when in fact it was my bookie. Yes, I liked to bet on tennis matches occasionally, a small-time vice and ... well, that's another story.

There she stood, a tall figure of a woman, one who had the right equipment in the right proportions and all in the right places. The sheer beauty of her would make any red-blooded male take a long, hard look and then run for a cold shower. My eyes couldn't help but visually caress her from the top of her fiery-red hair to those trim ankles. Her face flushed a bit. I guess I wasn't all that subtle. She had her red hair pulled back and tied close to her scalp, creating a long plume that hung over her left shoulder and down the front of her stunning green dress to below her breast. The green dress she wore said, "I'm rich." Her demeanor said, "I didn't pay for it." Her nails said, "I don't work." Her skin said, "I'm very pampered." As she stood with her hands behind her, leaning against the door, not saying a word but looking at me as if to say, Drink it all in, boy, and then let's get to work, I felt that it was going to be a very lucky day.

"Good morning, miss. May I help you?"

"It's Mrs., and I wish to see Mr. Nick Sinclair."

"Yes, ma'am, that's me." I stood, wearing my best smile. "Won't you please come in and have a seat."

As she came toward me, I noodled that this woman was skilled in the social graces. She was poised and walked with assurance, and she sat with her knees together and to the side, shoulders squared and her back erect. She hadn't just come into money; she had grown up with it and was bathed in it. Then I noticed her green eyes, exquisite, looking almost like emeralds. She looked slightly familiar, but not the kind of familiar I would have wished for.

"Mr. Sinclair ..."

"Call me Nick. Formality doesn't work in my business." I smiled slightly.

The corner of her ruby-red lips turned up, and with a discreet nod, she said, "Very well then, Nick. My name is Constance Rothstein-Ramos."

I wrote it down, and then it hit me. Of course, now I knew exactly who she was, the eldest daughter of Herman T. Rothstein, arguably the richest man in Cook County. I had read that she had married Stanford Thomas Ramos, or Tommy, as close friends and family referred to him. He was from another old-money family in Chicago. Why is it that money always marries money? The Ramos Family Trust owned the Dwight David Building and, therefore, was the landlord to such notables as yours truly and my friend Duffy. When I moved into the building, I was told I had leased part of what was at one time the Ramoses' office, until they built their own office building. That was why my office had a few extra perks, like a shower, in addition to the usual office restroom fixtures. The Ramos family fortune had been made in real estate many years before by Tommy's parents and grandparents. The Rothsteins had also made their money starting three generations back—in retail, real estate, and banking. They currently owned forty retail outlets throughout the urban Chicago area and forty-five bank branches, strategically placed in retail buildings throughout the city with five more in the suburbs.

"How can I help you, Constance?"

"Mr., I mean, Nick, I'll come straight to the point. I believe my husband is having an affair."

There it was, disappointment and dashed hopes. This was heading for just another snoop-and-shoot job. My heightened anticipation of what she needed dropped. She pulled a lacy, white handkerchief from her slim, black purse and dabbed it to the corner of her eyes, being very careful not to mess up the beautiful makeup job. Yes, sir, catch that tear, but don't let the makeup get smudged.

"And you want me to confirm your fears or put them to rest. If I do catch him in an act of infidelity, you want me to gather photographic evidence and determine the other woman's identity?"

"Yes, and anything else you can determine about her."

"I can do that, but I'll need some information from you." I readied my pen to my notepad and went through my litany of questions, which she answered in complete detail.

During our conversation and between tears, I noticed that she kept looking at me and then at my desk and then around the office. Was she looking for something? Was she having second thoughts about being here, or did she begin to have a change of heart about learning the truth? I had to clarify this before moving on.

"Mrs. Ramos, is something wrong? I mean, you keep looking around as though you're looking for something or...