You want to know the worst thing about being a private detective? Well, besides the relatively low pay and the obscene amount of murderers I run into for some reason? It's the sitting in your car when it's over a hundred degrees out just to catch someone doing wrong. This is mostly a problem in summer—and my bad for bringing it up again, but my God this global warming shit is no joke when you live in one of the hottest states in the Union. Don't believe those propagandist Florida ads that frame the sunshine like its enjoyable either. On my life, half the year is hotter than Satan's panties.

       But anyway, I was pretty much done. The job had required I stay parked on Newton Avenue across from the house my latest target lived in for an hour or so. I wasn't looking for evidence of a cheating spouse this time—no. My client, a lawyer for a local construction company, wanted proof that the employee who got injured on the job was really injured and not fraudulently claiming worker's comp.

       It wasn't glamourous, but one fraud case from Sanz paid more than four times the rate of a filthy cheating husband. I'd been following the guy for three weeks watching as he went about his day-to-day business. That mostly consisted of sitting in his house or going to the occasional physical therapy appointment. Unfortunately, that necessitated me sitting in my hotbox of a car because I'm not burning my gas while I idle for an hour for AC... shit's expensive.

       Its just too bad Newton Avenue didn't have any shade.

       Either way, today was my last day of surveillance for Randy M. Cairns. From the stilted way Mr. Cairns hobbled along to the passenger side of his wife's car, to his consistent appointments with a legitimate orthopedist I'd say he was really hurt and deserved whatever little money they were cutting for him. Sanz was going to be so disappointed.

       I wiped the sweat from my brow then cranked the car. I lightly tossed my camera into the passenger seat with my right hand while my left rolled up the windows. As soon as I reached out to turn the air as high as it would go the phone started ringing. I sighed. How typical for a call to come in just as I was about to get busy.

       I grabbed at it with sweaty fingers. The number was unknown. I don't care to answer unknown calls but in my line of work it could be a potential client. "Hello. Evelyn Harper, speaking."

       "Ms. Harper. Hi," said a woman with a pronounced north Florida accent. "Kelli Olson. I'm calling about a message you left me on Facebook."

       Kelli Olson. A bit of googling this morning told me that Ms. Olson was the councilwoman for District 8. Her website preached that she was a paragon of conservative values and old-fashioned Christian morals. There was also a laundry list of memberships on exclusive auxiliary boards, coalitions, and committees. The most prominent being chair of the board of the Burenville Small Businesses Committee as well as making a splash by endorsing the Free Air act.

       Apparently, she was well known for her efforts to take down big tobacco for the future of the children or something.

       "Yes!" I yelped with excitement. This could be the break I needed. "Thank you so much for calling."

       "Of course."

       I cleared my throat and dropped down into my business voice. "I'd like to ask some questions about it if you don't mind."

       "You've got five minutes, hon."

       Straight to the point. I like it. "How long has the blackmailer been contacting you?"

       "A few years."

       "Years?" That's a high level of commitment to this extortion thing. Is he a professional?

       "Oh yes. We go way back." That southern accent wrapped around the word 'way' like a security blanket.

       "Could I ask what he has on you?"

       She paused. "You, first."

       "Nudes," I said. "From college. I got hacked."

       She was quiet for a moment before murmuring, "He's got my nudes too. Well, it's more like glamour shots I took with a photographer a long time ago."

       Unfortunately, I'd run across those erotic photos in my research. I'd also found an old article from her glory days as Miss Florida. Apparently, she'd been forced to return her crown when the pictures got out. That was about nine years ago. She'd since married a powerful businessman, started her own enterprises, and run for and won an elected position. So, all in all, she'd been able to pull herself back from the brink of ruin.

       "You didn't pay?"

       "I was completely broke at the time, hon." There was a resigned timbre to her tone. "So, when I couldn't pay him, he waited until after I won to leak it to the press."

       Sounds like a real sleaze. "What did he want?"

       She sighed heavily. "Always money, but not always the same amount."

       "What's he got on you now?"

       "More photos. Except this time the little bastard hacked my phone." She chuckled but it was devoid of humor.

       "You pay him this time?"

       "I had to. I have a very public career. If those photos get out it could ruin me." I imagine her Christian constitutes wouldn't be pleased to see erotic selfies of their conservative councilwoman.

       "What about the police?"

       She scoffed. "I tried that, but the police really didn't help at all."

       They're technically public servants so it's unsurprising that their helpfulness is dubious at best. "They couldn't find something to charge him with?"

       "It was years ago when they weren't taking these things seriously." I could practically hear her lip turning up in disgust. "Honestly, I don't think they even had laws on the book for that sort of thing back then."

       That made sense. As technology advances, people find new ways to exploit it. It was the lawmakers who were slow to react but then it's rare to see a politician act preemptively about anything. It seemed to me that someone always had to demonstrate the necessity by getting hurt first. Not the best policy, but not surprising either.

      "Was the photographer involved."

       She laughed and it was like a song. I wonder if she rehearsed that. "Oh, no. That man was nothing but professional. He got hacked."

       "Any idea who did it?"

       "Oh, I know who did it."

       "What?" If I wasn't sitting down, I'd have jumped for joy. Talk about an easy payday!

       "Yeah. The police were useless when it came to pressing charges. But they found the guy," she laughed. "Suggested I get a restraining order. Should have took their advice."

       Well, shit! Looks like someone's done my job for me. Lucky me. "What's his name?"

       As she spoke the name, all the pieces fell into place...

**************

       Later that day I waited in my office with a pit of dread lodged in my gut. I'd called Ashley after getting back to Taste Teas and broke the news that the case was solved. She promised to come right over.

       "Evie, she's here." Pasha half called as she walked by.

       Remind me to put in an intercom for that girl. "Send her back." Ashley walked through the door with a mile wide smile on her face. My own smile was frozen in place. I was used to giving bad news—yes, your husband is having an affair, yes, she's started gambling again, yes, your friends are meeting behind your back—but this was different. Ashley didn't ask me for this...

       I gestured towards the chairs; my smile started waning. "Hi. Come in. Have a seat."

       She did as I said and flopped in the seat with her eyes wide with eagerness. "So! You found him?"

       "Uh, yeah."

       "You have a name?"

       "Yep. Yep. Yep." My fingers tapped nervously on my desk.

       She leaned forward; her anticipation palpable. "Who is it?"

       I took the deepest breath any human has surely ever taken before then looked her dead in her eyes. "...Noah Walker."

       Her whole body went ridged at the sound of her fiancé's name. She blinked. "No. That's not right."

        " I..." I dug up the courage, then slowly recited the word's I'd been practicing. "I found another victim who Noah has been blackmailing for the last few years—"

       "No—" she jumped out of her chair and stared down at me, angry as all hell.

       I didn't rise from my seat to meet her indignation or match her irate energy in anyway. Instead, I kept my gaze with hers and said in an even-tempered voice, "My contact gave me the name Noah walker."

       She shook her head wildly. "There's no proof that's it's my Noah."

       "I already have proof."

       She flopped down in the chair; her brows knit together. "What proof?"

       "He has a computer programming degree."

       "So do lots of people!"

       "He has access to you."

       "What does that—"

       "You live together. If the pictures are on an old phone or laptop he could easily—"

       "He would never do that!" There it was. No denial that she still had the pictures even though she told me otherwise. Noah wouldn't even need to work that hard to get them. "He would never do that!" Tears sprung from her eyes. She wiped at them with the back of her hand.

       I grabbed the tissue box I kept on the desk and passed them to her. "Please calm down."

       She took a couple of tissues then looked pointedly at me. "Calm down? How can I calm down when you're destroying my life?"

       My face was a cool mask of impartiality. "I'm just doing my job, Ashley."

       "Doing a bad job!" She dabbed at the corners of her eyes with the tissue. "I don't know what type of scam you're pulling but I'm not buying!"

       The only scammer in this twisted tale was her triflin' ass man. The hours between my call with Kelli and now had been one long reference check to make sure Noah was my guy. Everything Mrs. Olson said checked out. And everything about Noah was shadowy and superficial.

       I was one hundred percent positive he was the blackmailer.

       "There's more." I watched her carefully. "He got fired from his job four months ago."

       She looked at me, a look of disbelief on her face. "What? Now I know you're mistaken. He goes to work every day! He pays bills!"

       Yeah, with dirty money. "I already called the IT firm he worked for. They confirmed they let him go last spring."

       She swayed suddenly and started bucking forward in her seat. "I'm gonna be sick..."

       "Whoa, whoa! Hold on." I jumped up and moved around the desk until I was next to her and steadied her at the shoulders with my hands as I gently leaned her back into the chair. Her skin was burning up. "Wait here. I'm getting you some water."

       Once I was back from the kitchen, I sat a pitcher of ice water and a tall glass on the edge of the desk and started pouring. She took several deep gulps before putting down the glass and burying her head in her hands. "What do I do?"

       I gave her back a little rub. "Do you have some place to go?"

       "My parents..."

       I walked back around to my desk and sat down. "Then you need to leave him. Now."

       She looked up at me; her eyes were wide and glossy. She looked all of sixteen again and my heart ached for the cruelty of it all. "But...I love him..."

       "I understand that. But if he could do this to you he doesn't really love you. He doesn't respect you either."

       "Did I do something—"

       "No. You did nothing wrong. He's the one who broke your trust, went through your stuff, and decided to punish you for a choice you made when you were young and desperate." There's also the fact that he's a fucking unemployed liar, but it's probably best not to pile on.

       She fanned at her face then stood. "...I need to go."

        I stood too. "Are you going to be okay?"

       She barely heard me. Her eyes were already far away at the difficult task before her. "I don't know."

       I watched her leave. She moved like a shadow version of herself with her shoulders deflated and her feet dragging across the floor. I hated to be the barer of bad news, but she had a right to know she was sleeping with the enemy. If she was smart, she'd take my advice and dump the loser. If she was smarter, she'd follow her own plan and report him to the police.

       But from that shell-shocked look in her eye, I could see that doing anything that could harm him would be no easy feat. She loved the hell out of that man.

       I hoped I was wrong, for her sake...but mostly I hoped she came back tomorrow to pay me. I've got to stop being so soft hearted if I want to actually turn a profit, but I get so distracted when people are in crisis.

       See, this is why we don't do refunds.