Life has its ups and downs, ins and outs. It can be good or bad. Right now it's one of those mixed days when I'm totally filled with mixed feelings. I just solved one of my biggest cases, and although I feel satisfied with a job well done, I feel that the solution wasn't what my client was after.

My name is Maxwell Diamond, and I'm a self-employed private detective. Self-employed in the sense I'm a one-man operation, which means I don't have a bunch of detectives working for me like some of the big agencies, and I don't work for one of the big agencies unless I'm called in on a sub job—minor assignments they hand over to me when all their operatives are tied up on the big cases. I'm thirty-five years old, once divorced, with no kids. I live in a condo on the sixteenth floor of a high-rise building in Atlantic City. It has one bedroom, one-and-a-half baths, an eat-in kitchen, and a fair-sized living room. I live alone and like it that way. Because of my work, I never know what time I'll be home, or even if I'll be home at all on any particular night. I like not having the responsibility of calling to tell someone what time I'll be home or asking someone to put dinner in the refrigerator because I'll be late. I do like to date, as long as it's on my own terms, which means no strings attached.

My parents own a plumbing and heating supply company. I used to work there when I graduated high school. My brother is the manager, under their watchful eye. I went to night school to get my college diploma while I worked for Mom and Dad. I took a couple of afternoon classes a week and got paid even though I wasn't at work. But that's one of the fringe benefits of being the bosses' son. I majored in law enforcement, and after graduation, when it became apparent I wasn't going to be an asset in the family business, my father got me a job with a friend of his from the country club who owned a large detective agency. (The customers complained that I didn't have the patience to explain simple things that they should already have known since they were licensed plumbers. I had a bad attitude). After five years working at that agency, I went out on my own.

My office is on the second floor of an old but newly renovated office building on Atlantic Avenue in Atlantic City. The rent is cheap considering everything in the city is overpriced. It has a semi-private entrance, which means I'm on one side of the hall. There is a dentist's office on the other side of the hall. Both offices have electronic combinations on the doors, as does the door from the street, which is unlocked during office hours. I have the smaller office, which consists of two small rooms. On the left-hand wall of the outer office there's a door that looks as if it might conceal a closet, but actually it's a powder room. It's just the size of a closet. The outer office contains a decent desk with a telephone, along with several customer waiting chairs. It reminds me of a doctor's office waiting room. The walls are light in color, and are hung with a couple of mass-produced paintings. There's a beige-colored carpet on the floor. Perfect for a secretary's office (if I had one). Through the other doorway, which is located directly across from the door to the hall, is my main office, with the same light-colored walls and beige-colored carpet. I keep all the toys in this room: computer, printer, answering machine, small refrigerator. I do keep a good coffee machine in the room, since I usually drink coffee whenever I'm in the office. Yes, there's usually hot coffee on. I was sitting back having my first cup at the office when I first met my newest client, Mrs. Laura Burningham.

I usually come to the office around nine in the morning to do paperwork, check for messages, or meet clients—by appointment only. Sometimes I have to be somewhere else, but this wasn't one of those times. I was going to type up a report for a lawyer who had hired me to trace the whereabouts of some people who owed his client money, when Mrs. Burningham came in.

The outer office door was unlocked, and I had left the inner office door open. I heard a light knock, and when I looked up, I was quite pleasantly surprised to see her standing in the doorway. I use the word pleasantly because it isn't that often I see a gorgeous blond standing in my doorway. Her hair was slightly below the shoulder in length. She stood about five feet two inches and probably weighed about one hundred and five pounds. She had one of the most sensual mouths I had ever seen. Bright white teeth and bright red lipstick seemed to show off her blue eyes. She was wearing a blue top with a very short white skirt. Some people might consider that skirt too short; I considered it just the right length to show off her shapely legs. Her spike-heeled shoes didn't hurt her appearance either.

"Mr. Diamond?" she asked.

"Yes. Can I be of some assistance, Miss ... ah?" I was trying to remember if I had an appointment that might have slipped my mind.

"It's Mrs.," she corrected me quickly. "Mrs. Laura Burningham."

Well, it's true what everyone says, I thought to myself. All the good ones are taken. "Well, Mrs. Burningham, what can I do for you?"

"Call me Laura, please."

"Only if you call me Max." I was trying not to sound like I was flirting. "Come in and take a seat."

When she was settled, with her elegant legs crossed, I said, "Now tell me, what can I do for you, Laura?"

"I want to hire you," she said.

"To do what?"

"Do you remember reading or hearing about that accident on the Black Horse Pike last week? The one where a young woman was killed?"

"I remember reading about it. I don't remember the woman's name."

"It was Rosie Green. She was an employee of mine," she said. "My husband and I own The Kiddington Club. She was my assistant manager."

"What exactly do you want me to investigate?" I asked.

"I want you to look into the cause of death. I don't believe it was an accident, and I want you to find out exactly what happened."

"If I remember right, the papers said that the woman driving the car had too much to drink and failed to negotiate the curve because she was doing in excess of seventy miles per hour. Her car bounced off the median, then hit a telephone pole."

"I don't give a damn about what the papers said," she snapped. "Rosie wasn't a heavy drinker. She lived offshore and had driven that road thousands of times. I find it hard to believe that she just drove off the road for no reason."

"Did you go to the police about your suspicions?"

"Yes. They said a patrol car was parked in a lot near where the accident happened. They had her on radar doing seventy-two at the time she went by them. The two officers said they were going to give chase, but before they could even get on the road, she bounced off the median and slammed into the telephone pole. The brake lights never even came on; they figured she was so drunk she didn't even try to use them. She just drove into the pole."

"Okay, let's see what we have: two eyewitnesses, both police officers, witnessed the accident, and you don't believe them."

"No, I believe they described what they saw." She paused. "Rosie did drive fast, but sometimes things aren't the way they seem. Does that make sense?"

"Yes, that does make sense, but I'm not sure this is one of those times."

Laura seemed to become a little annoyed with that last statement. I started getting the feeling I wasn't getting the whole story, which usually makes me a little annoyed. I learned a long time ago that usually half of a client's story is fact. The other half is fiction, or at least what the client perceives the facts to be. The best way to get the truth is to ask questions.

"Laura, is there something I should know that you haven't told me yet?"

She seemed to get nervous as she began to twitch in the chair. "I don't know if it means anything or not, but Rosie and I drove the same exact type of car—white Corvettes with red interiors. She got hers the week after I got mine. The night Rosie died I was up visiting my family in Philadelphia. I called Rosie to tell her I wasn't going to be in that night. It was raining, and I have a reserved parking spot by the back door at the club. I told her to park there, since I wasn't going to be there."

"It sounds to me that you are suggesting that you think Rosie was actually murdered—and you were the intended victim."

"I don't know what to think, Max. But I want you to find out what happened to Rosie."

"Is there any reason you think you might be the intended victim, Laura?"

"I didn't say I was the intended victim," she said defensively. "I just want to find out what happened to Rosie. Can you help me?"

"Laura, I don't know exactly what I can do. Let me make a couple of inquiries. If there's something I might be able to do, we'll sit down and talk business. But I promise I'll get back to you as soon as possible. Is there a number I can reach you at?"

As she reached down and picked up her purse, all I could think of was who would ever want to hurt anyone as beautiful as Laura? She was the perfect blonde ... perfectly put together. Then I remembered something she'd said earlier: "Sometimes things aren't the way they seem." I started thinking maybe she might be a lot of men's fantasies on the outside, but as my mother used to say, it's what's on the inside that counts.

She brought her hand out of her purse holding two cards; she handed them to me.

"The top card is my business card at the club. It has both the club and my private office number on it. The other card is my personal card." I noticed it had two numbers on it, too. She said, "Try the top number first; it's the house number. If I'm not there, the second number is my cell. I'm usually at the office after six in the evening to make sure everything is ready. There's nothing like having the boss around to keep everyone working."

As she stood up to leave, I naturally stood too so I could walk her out. Actually, I let her walk a couple of steps ahead of me so I could watch her shapely legs in those spike heels.

She turned at the door to the hall and asked, "When can I expect to hear from you? One way or the other, I need to know if you're going to take the case."

"I'll make some inquires and probably get back to you either late today or early tomorrow."

I walked with her as she turned and went out the door and down the stairs. It was one of the few times I wished I had a basement office so I could watch those legs go up the stairs.

I still had to write that report for the lawyer. I started it as soon as Laura closed the door to the street at the bottom of the stairs. It's nice to have a client with a nice case, but I wasn't sure I even had a case to work on yet, and even if I did, big-money cases are rare and far between. So I typed up my report on the whereabouts of the person of interest the lawyer had hired me to locate. Then I called his secretary and told her I was going to drop the report off within the hour. Ordinarily I would just e-mail the report, but this report included some photos, and the lawyer had wanted prints rather than digital files. Working for lawyers isn't usually a high-paying job; I give them a discount, and they usually want the work done yesterday. Even after all the awful lawyer jokes, they're still people; you have the good ones and the bad ones. Once you weed out the good (the ones who pay quickly and aren't shady) from the bad, they account for most of my business. Once in a while I get a freelance job from an insurance company, but the large companies usually have their own investigators. I work primarily for three lawyers, mostly tracking down people they plan to sue or taking pictures of places where people got hurt so the lawyer can sue the owner of the property or defend the owner from getting screwed.

When I finished the report, I e-mailed it, put the photos into my briefcase, and rushed out of the office. I wanted to drop off the photos and start my inquires to see if I really had a case worth looking into for Laura Burningham.

As I left the office I remembered, for a change, to turn off all the lights. I went down the steps and out the door, then walked to the rear of the building. Included in the monthly rent is one parking space in a small lot in the back of the building. That is where I park my Camaro—black in color with a gray interior. I consider it one of my pride and joys in life. It has an eight-cylinder engine and a manual transmission. It also has a good car alarm so that when someone touches the car, the alarm actually talks and tells the person that the car has an alarm. I keep my gun—a Walter PPK .380—in the center console. During the summer when it's hot, I usually dress casually, and if I don't have a meeting with a client or need to meet with people for interviews, I sometimes wear shorts. I don't think having a "gun bulge" is appropriate. I also have a charger for my cell phone. In my business, a cell phone is almost as important as my ID or my gun. I usually keep the phone ringer off and put it on pulse. If I miss a call the voicemail will get it.

I climbed into the Camaro and reached over and fastened the seatbelt, which is the law in New Jersey. Pulling onto Atlantic Avenue, I headed north toward the lawyer's office, which was across the street from the courthouse. Did anyone else ever notice, the closer you get to the courthouse the more and more lawyers there are? Naturally there wasn't a spot to park out front of the office, so I did what everyone else in the city does: I double-parked, which isn't that bad on Atlantic Avenue, as there are double lanes going in both directions and a special lane for people making left turns. There is also parking on both sides of the street. We're talking a wide street here.

I ran into the lawyer's office, where the secretary was on the phone, left the envelope on her desk, and just waved back. She was usually on the phone talking, and this was our usual "conversation."

Returning to the Camaro, I turned right on North Carolina Avenue and headed east. One block later I made a right onto Pacific Avenue, and drove south. I drove a little slowly, which was keeping with summer traffic. I was thinking of Laura and how to proceed. I needed to check out the facts to see if there was a case. There are usually two sources of information that are reliable, and I use them both for quick facts. One is a friend of mine, Sergeant Andrew Brickman, one of Atlantic City's finest. We went to high school together and have remained friends. He respects that I keep my clients' identities secret as long as I give him any information that I turn up that may be useful to him, and he shares his information with me. The problem with this arrangement is that we both hold back. Andrew spends his time going back and forth between homicide and vice. He was working vice when I first met my second source, Sue Knight. Andrew was arresting her for prostitution one day when I showed up. To make a long story short, I was looking into a hit-and-run that she had witnessed. In her line of work you don't want a reputation for talking, but I was able to work out a deal with her. She gave me all the information she had; she even had a license plate number. I gave it to Andrew, he ran it, and we both tracked it down. Sue got off without seeing the judge, Andrew got credit for the arrest, and I got paid.

Since I didn't have Sue's number, I decided to give Andrew a call. He's not usually in the office, but I have his cell number. He doesn't usually answer it, but he's usually pretty quick about calling back—usually within five to ten minutes. If he couldn't help me, I could always find Sue on the street later that night. We became friends and talked from time to time. That's friends, people, not business associates.

Andrew called me back in record time, and we made arrangements to have lunch at the Atlantic Café. It was about that time anyway. I told him I'd meet him there in twenty minutes. I was right around the corner, but since the parking lot is usually full, I figured it was going to take me that long to find a parking place. The Atlantic Café was only a block away from the police station, so it was close for him, plus it was a hangout, and it doesn't hurt a PI to be seen talking to a detective. This is how acquaintances, or sources, are made.