I read the article in disbelief. Why would anyone want to murder a billionaire?
Last night, the CEO of a respectable pornography firm was found dead in his Fifth Avenue apartment. Why?
Sure, the man had flaws. For starters, he was French, which means he probably never shaved his damn legs. And a lot of his movies alienated the asexual community. But the sheer violence of this crime was enough to outrage anyone.
I’d been dreaming about my ex, reliving that moment when I’d summoned enough balls to ask her out on a first date. When she finally agreed, I surprised her by taking her to one of the nicest McDonald’s in New York.
I was on my best behavior that night, but God knows I wasn’t a prince. I’d hardly said a word throughout the meal because I was too busy leering at my hamburgers like some horny teenager. But Kate was an old-fashioned girl, accustomed to men who objectified pieces of meat.
It was 3 o’clock on a Sunday afternoon. I knocked on the door for what seemed like five seconds. I remember thinking, “What gives?”
Finally, a little girl opened the door. From the look on her face, I could tell she’d been crying.
“Mommy says no more reporters.”
“Save the guff,” I replied. “I’m here to find out who murdered your father.”
I muscled my way into the kitchen and was greeted by the victim’s bawling widow. From the look on her face, I could tell she was still in the process of crying. I’m not made of rubber, so I placed my warmest hand on her shoulder and said, “There’s no need to cry, Mrs. Patterson. I’ll find out who butchered your husband.”
Before viewing the crime scene, I sat down and asked a few questions: