|About the Book|
Gumshoe. Flatfoot. Bulldog. Professional snoop. Theyve got a lot of words for someone like me. Most of them you wouldnt say on a Sunday in front of your mother. Its not easy being a private investigator in a town where no one is innocent, but itsMoreGumshoe. Flatfoot. Bulldog. Professional snoop. Theyve got a lot of words for someone like me. Most of them you wouldnt say on a Sunday in front of your mother. Its not easy being a private investigator in a town where no one is innocent, but its twice as hard if youre a woman. I have to be twice as tough, twice as sharp, and take ten times as much horse manure to solve every case I take. Good thing Im also ten times as much of a detective as all the coppers down at the station put together. Not that it would take a lot, but you know what I mean.Right. So it all started when a man from my past showed up at my door one dark, rainy night. Of course, its Seattle. I dont have to tell you it rains here, right? Right. So he was pounding my door. I was pounding a drink. He had a problem in need of solving. I solved problems for a needy living. It was a match made in heaven. Except that matches start fires, and fires are more in line with the opposite of heaven. I didnt know it yet but thats right where my world was headed with this case: straight to hell, with a whiskey chaser. I was about to be a lot toastier than I really wanted to be, and things were just getting warmed up.But hey, someones got to do it. Why not me? Oh, right. Because Im a dame, just a flatfoot floozie with a closet full of tar-black memories and a chip on my shoulder the size of Gibraltar. Maybe so. But Ill get this case solved no matter what it takes. Even if I have to call on skills I havent used since my Master went off to combat Germanys special occult forces in the Great War. He never came back, and Im still half-trained at best. Hopefully its the right half. If not, Im a walking obituary.Remind me again why I do this for a living? Oh, that’s right: its really not much of a living.