within fifteen years of birthing age, but this targetâs icy exterior is surprisingly impenetrable.
âActually, I think itâs best if I meet with Mr. Lamb in private,â she says.
I give Sadie a glare like sorry, but youâre gonna have to scram, kid, and she reluctantly retreats back into her room.
âSorry,â I say. âThatâs my daughter. Like I said, I donât usually meet clients here.â
âI love children,â she says emptily. âYouâre married?â
âNo.â
âWhereâs her mother?â The question catches me off guard.
âNot in the picture.â
âNot in the picture?â Only her sharp gaze tells me itâs a question.
âThis is getting pretty personal, considering you havenât even told me your name yet.â
She frowns, as if sheâs displeased with herself, like this is a mistake she makes often and is working to correct.
âOf course. That was rude. My name is Greta Kanter.â
She doesnât offer me her hand. Her gloves are still on. Sheâs not showing a sliver of flesh below where the crest of her tight black turtleneck hugs her neck. Iâm thinking, if sheâs a leper, then sign me up for leprosy.
âNice to meet you, Greta. Well, first things first. If you donât mind, I must insist on seeing some photo ID and knowing who gave you my name. Both are kind of standard.â
She purses a pair of creamy lips and wordlessly plucks a green leather wallet from some fold of her pants, hands me a driverâs license. I copy down the infoâÂtaking a little longer than I have to so I can admire a DMV photo that could pass for a glamour shot.
She says, âI got your name from Orange.â
Ugh .
I was hired about eight months ago by a Columbia linguistics professor to gather proof that her loser husband was having an affair. She was all but sure heâd been cheating on her and didnât want to give him a penny when she divorced him. It only took two days to figure out that whatever he was doing, he was doing it behind an incredibly sketchy-Âlooking metal grated door on West 59th Street, nestled between an old Polish restaurant and Laundromat. The husband stops a Âcouple times a week in the early evening, buzzes in, then leaves four or five hours later. I figure, too much time for sex, plus I never see women coming or going. Must be drugs or gambling. Finally, after watching this guy for a week, I buzz in myself and wave to the little CC camera. A voice tells me to wait, and thirty seconds later a grotesque fat man in a tan suit materializes from the darkness, huffing from what must be some steep steps, followed by two dudes in sweatshirts, each about two heads taller than me and looking straight out of a Ukrainian mail-Âorder meathead catalogue.
The fat guy is pale, with black eyes sunk deep into his rubbery face. Heâs built like a 350-Âpound teapot, and his face bulges and bloats in all the worst places. Gives me a greasy handshake, introduces himself as Matty Julius, but everyone calls him Orange. Heâs doused in expensive cologne, and I catch the monogram on his silk pocket square. I think he puts in a lot of effort to draw attention from the parts of his appearance he canât change. I also think he might be wearing a toupee.
He explains heâs seen me out here taking pictures of his facade over the last few nights, and if Iâd be so kind as to turn those photos over to him, heâd be happy to offer double whatever my current employer is paying me. I casually note the size of the rocks on his stubby fingers, think I could probably ask for triple and he wouldnât blink, but explain that I already signed a contractâÂIâm an investigator, not a mercenary. But he neednât worry; the pictures will never be seen by anyone but my client.
He nods, satisfied, impressed even. I can tell heâs one of these guys who