Nearly a week before the night I found myself ready to kill a man in cold blood, I was angling for the security of a job that paid up front.
Which is why I was grateful for the business of any client. Especially the man who huffed his way into the offices of McNee Investigations.
James Robertson stuffed himself into the sixties-style recliner I'd picked up a few weeks earlier at the Salvation Army store on West Marketgait. He was sweating, even though it was a cool day. As if he'd swum across the Tay rather than taking the bridge. The handkerchief tucked into the breast pocket of his suit jacket looked damp.
I offered my hand. His was slick and threatened to slip from my grasp.
It wasn't his size, even if he was a large man. No, the sweat came from agitation. Robertson was tense, his muscles practically humming they were stretched so taut.
