“Detective, you have to help me!” The door slammed shut behind her and she stared at me, eyes wild like a madwoman. I knew that look. I’d seen it on every woman to come through my office, and once on a homeless woman who liked to yell obscenities at the #7 Rapid Big Blue Bus.

“What’s his name, where’s he from, and what do you need to know?” I poured myself another whiskey-diet coke and one for the disgruntled lady hyperventilating in my office chair. She hesistated, “Go on,” I jingled the ice against the Ikea glass tumbler, “Day drinking is acceptable when it’s overcast.”

She knocked it back in an impressive display. I thought I saw her unhinge her jaw a little. Wiping her mouth, she finally answered, “Mark, Palo Alto, and I want to know what his ex looks like.”

Didn’t they all?

“I’m Brooke, by the way,” she volunteered. I hadn’t asked.

“Okay, Brooke, stay calm. Now what can you tell me about them? Do you know her name?” I cracked open my laptop because it’s two-thousand-fucking-fifteen and a Private Eye using a typewriter just doesn’t make a lot of sense anymore.

“Um, Nicole, I think.” Jesus, I’d known no less than four Nicoles in my high school career. All of them Italian, for what it’s worth. This was going to be difficult.

I pulled up Mark’s facebook, nice enough guy. Didn’t post enough pictures of his lady, but I wasn’t being paid to give my opinion so I kept scrolling. 1200 friends. Mark sure was popular.

Eight Nicoles stared back at me.

“He doesn’t think I remember but one night when we were just friends he told me they broke up when she cheated on him at a rush party at Berkeley.” Brooke was smarter than I gave her credit for.

Her tip had narrowed it down to one Nicole. My hand hovered above the keys for a second before pulling her profile up. Brooke gasped.

She was a suburban 7 but a metropolitan 5, she’d gotten cocky. Like Icarus, Nicole had flown too close to the sun. She’d tried to have her cake and fuck it too. And no amount of VSCOcam filters or pseudo-hippie quotes about rhyming attitude with gratitude could hide her shame or her teeth.

Brooke sighed, releasing her white-knuckle grip on the table.

“You see? You have nothing to worry about, Brooke.”

“I don’t know what to say, Tena,” she said, pulling an envelope of cash from her bag. “You’re a pretty good creep.”

“Kiddo, I’m the best damn creep around.”