"Christine, tell whoever's there to come back later!"

It was nearly pitch black inside the small office, placed neatly on the third floor of a New York building with a clear street view from the open window. The only illumination came from the street lamps, cars and colourful signs accompanying the sounds of a jungle. A concrete jungel, drawn with sharp edges in two colour pallettes - grey and blue. Grey as in the buildings rising up higher than anything else made by human hands, and blue as in the very sky said building tried to reach. Tonight the only blue outside was a blue Ford parked up on the sidewalk and the blue raindrops falling from the sky. They landed hard on the hard surfaces, the concrete and buildings. Some dripped down window panes, leaving a wet trail like a bloody murder.

The window of Richard Barker's Private Detective office, however, was wide open. Who forgot to close it wasn't important. At least to Richard, who woke up from the sound of a car horn, rain dripping down at the floor of his office and running feet outside. He spoke out to his secretary before he opened his eyes, rubbing them as he lifted his head up from the desk. Dark. Who turned off the lights? And where was Christine? The questions of guilt had become so permanent in Richard's line of work that he rarely asked it outside of his investiations, so only the latter question grinded his mental gears. Until it hit him.

"...That late? No wonder she turned it off and left me here..."

It was late in the evening, as told by the ticking clock over the entrance. It read 8:41, and the lack of light indicated it being PM. Perhaps not late for your average Joe, but for an seriously overworked and secertly drinking P.I.? It hadn't been his first time falling asleep on the desk, but tonight felt different. Richard felt it in his leg. The game leg, or was it a heacache? Richard stretched out his arms and neck, listening to the sound of feet going upstairs. They surely weren't ascending the stairs to Heaven, few who came to Richard Barker had the qualifications of angels. Least of all himself.

Richard pushed himself out from the desk, getting up on his feet and trying to wake up from his sleepy state. He looked down at the desk. Nope, no giggle juice in sight. What caused the headache then? Had Christine called a doctor on him? Probably not, doctor's rarely climbed stairs at a slow pace in high-heels, not at this hour. Richard got around to turning on some lights in his office, putting away an empty glass and a case file before he returned to his desk. The footsteps got ever closer. Someone wasn't going to the dentist, that was for sure. No, only gumshoes and lucky fellas got visited at this hour, and Richard was of the first.

The door opened with the sight of a woman. A dame with a striking beauty that could kill a man with just one bat of her eyes. Richard had lit a cigarette that now dangled lously from his lip, his eyes only briefly taking in the whole lady standing in the door. Yeah, she looked absolutely poured in that dress, like so many other clients who had walked in that door. Richard puffed his cigarette, taking it out with his hand and blowing out the smoke, before finally spoke to her. "You're lucky my secretary left early, or she'd turn you away. It's awfully late for you doll to come here, don't you think?" Richard placed the cigarette back in his mouth, leaning up against his desk with his hands rested on it. "Richard Barker, private detective if you couldn't read the sign. I take it you've come to the right place, miss...?"

“Oh,I don’t think your secretary would have kept me away Mr Baker,” the woman replied in a sultry voice as she stepped into the room. She wore a form fitted dress of black silk, tight enough to require the slit that snaked up her thigh to reveal her stocking beneath. Dark hair was elegantly coiffed shimmering slightly with the few drops of rain that had fallen on it in her passage from the taxi to the front of the slightly run down building. It was obvious to the P.I that she had come from somewhere, though where exactly remained a mystery.

She crossed the room and took a seat across the desk from Baker, lifting one leg to cross on her thigh before leaning forward and tugging the cigarette free from his lips. Holding it between two slender fingers she took a long drag and then allowed the smoke to stream out from between plump pouty lips. For a moment she seemed disinclined to speak, simply pondering the run down office and the somewhat disheveled man behind it. Reaching forward she taped the ash from the end of the cigarette into an overflowing ash tray, the action seeming to galvanize her into speaking.

“I need a man to find someone for Mr Baker,” she said at last, her tone containing a slightly ominas edge.

“I asked around, and I am told by…” she paused with another glance around the office, “reliable sources, that you are the man for that kind of thing. Outside rain began to rattle against the window pane with increasing intensity, pressaging the coming storm.

Richard let the lit cigarette dangle lously from his lower lip, his tired but focus eyes taking in the lady that now had stepped into his office. If the opened window hadn't given it away, the shimmering dark hair revealed, raindrops casting an unnatural light upon the lady's hair and face. The P.I. moved the cigarette from one side of his lip to the other, watching and listening to her as she took a seat in front of him. "No, not even if she wanted to. She's a jealous gal, afraid of dangerous people..." He commented flatly, whether or not she was the dangerous person was up for intepretation.

He did not expect her to snag the cigarette out of his mouth. She was elegant on his movements, smooth like a cat balancing a rooftop before jumping on a rat. But instead of claws, this lady had the lips that could kill a man. Richard pulled out another cigarette and lit it in silence, waiting for her to start talking. Finally, she did.

"Mr. Baker? I'm not into pastries, doll. I'm just a guy getting paid to do other people's laundry, if you get what I mean." Richard responded to her swift, if not empty answer. He stood up from the desk and walked over to a filing cabinet, feeling the lady's eyes penetrate him like daggers as she judged him and his office. Pulling out the filing cabinet drawer, Richard pulled out an half-empty bottle of booze and two glasses, walking back to the desk and putting the glasses down.

"How do you like your drink, ma'dam?" He asked her, filling one glass and leaving the other for her. "So, what do you want from me, ma'dam? If you've asked for a someone in my profession, "for that kind of thing", clearly there's something specific you want me to do. But on two conditions; First payment, and second your name."

Something about the young, radiant lady looked familiar to Richard. He'd surely seen her face somewhere in the big city, but where and when he couldn't tell. Too many faces to remember, too many dames one wanted to forget. Richard took a swig of his strong, dry drink and a puff of his cigarette, sitting ontop his desk as he looked down at the woman and her modern look. Rich, probably new money. "Do II know you from anywhere, miss..."

January smiled. How do you like your drink as opposed to do you drink. Prohibition at work. She tilted the bottle and poured two fingers of amber liquor into her glass before lifting it and swirling it to allow the vapors to express. It smelled cheap but she supposed that was to be expected.

"My name is January Endicott," she said after another exhalation of cigarette smoke. She tapped the ash from the tip of her cigarette again before continuing. The Endicott's were a powerful and politically connected Boston family who had moved to New York only within the last generation. They had made fortunes during the Spanish American War and expanded their holdings during the great war selling arms and armaments to the Allied Powers.

"I don't imagine we have moved in the same circles Mr Barker," she observed with a touch of aristocratic disdain, but she reached into her handbag and produced a roll of crisp banknotes clipped with a silver pin and a neatly folded news print, the New York Times several days old. The top story showed a photograph of an austere looking man with thinning hair and sharp features, his face framed by a pair of wire rimmed glasses. The headline read: Met Director Killed in Robbery and the first line identified the man as Henry Endicott, the Director of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. A second photo showed Endicott with his family, including a woman who was obviously January, although there was little resemblance beyond hair color.

"I wan't you to find out who killed my father Mr Barker, and why."

It was a welcomed change of appearance to see the young lady, still unnamed, give Richard a smile that hadn't involved sarcastic remarks of sensually-dripping seduction. Clearly his relationship with the bottle of imported Canadian whiskey had resonnated with her, though the private detective couldn't help but notice her smelling it. It was faint, but it was the type of reaction when unsure of what you had just smelled. Well unlike January, who's name she had now given, Richard didn't drink because he liked the taste.

Richard puffed another breath of smoke as January finally began answering his questions, giving her another good look up and down. The detective looked as if he was thinking hard and methodically to place her face, smoke idly drifting out of his half-closed mouth. "Not frequently at least, Miss Endicott..."

The private detective continued to look at the lady as she produced a bundle of cash and a newspaper. He elected to ignore her overly-priviliged jab at his lack of qualifications for high society. If she payed him well, he wasn't going to jab back at her. For now. Instead Richard accepted the newspaper she handed him, for the moment reading over the top story alongside January's job-description. So, so original; Who done it and why?

"First of all, Miss Endicott, I'm sorry about the loss of your father. His reputation and standing proceeded him, even to low-cultured gumshoes like me..." Richard said to January, both hands holding the newspaper before him as the cigarette continued to smoke in his pursed lips, eyes scanning the front-page for any information of value. To the wealthy socialite of a lady, it was clear that Richard had done this many times before. He may have looked shabby and rough around the edges, but he was not lazy. "Secondly, why do you suspect he was murdered for specific reason?"

Richard leaned off his desk and grabbed a chair beside January, holding out the newspaper in front of her and pointing at various parts of the article. When he looked back and forth between her and the photograps, he saw the resemblance in their hair. Other than that, she looked as distant an Endicott as Richard could have been himself, but she sure was not bad to behold. "According to the article he was killed during a robbery of the museum, an accident. Why are you suspicious?" He asked her, pulling out his cigarette and looking frankly at her, a hint of a devious smile found on his lips. "Because I am so myself. You could say a lot about the New York Times and their milking of news, but this? No suspects, no mention of where or when he was found, and most importantly..."

Richard rose up from the chair and wandered over to the window, looking out of it as if in deep thought. The neon lights of the street cast a glowy sillouette around the hard-boiled detective. "What where a bunch of murderous brutes trying to steal during a packed exhibition-season, and why hasn't the cops found them? Miss Endicott, did your father have any enemies? Anyone who would want to hurt him? I may not have known your father personally, but from what I gathered, he wasn't the type of man to get into trouble."

The detective let the smoke cast a colourful aura around him as he asked those questions, turning around to look back at January with a sincere look on his face. He was a hard-boiled gumshoe, but something in the man spoke of understanding what she was going through, even if she was coping with it well. "You can consider your offer accepted, Miss. I'll find the dagos who killed your father, or you can count the drinks on the house."

January blew out a stream of cigarette smoke, in the airless room the blue grey miasma clung around her head like a halo. For a long moment she said nothing, merely peering out of the window to organise her thoughts.

“The police say that it is robbery,” she agreed in a tone without any hint of agreement. Her pouty lips pursed in memory of the bland assurances passed on to her by fat irish policemen that they were doing everything they could and that they would let the family know as soon as there was anything to tell.

“And yet, within ten feet of where papa was found, there was a display of Ottoman jewelry of incalculable value behind a simple glass case. Not to mention they would have had to walk past a dozen such treasures to reach the spot my father was murdered,” she explained, holding the cigarette between two fingers to facilitate another sip of the whiskey.

“In fact, the only thing that was missing was his briefcase, he took it with him everywhere,” she expounded. While it was possible there had been money in the briefcase, it certainly paled in comparison to the gaudy riches that lay close at hand.

“As for enemies.... My father was a very private man Mr Barker, he never talked much about the past. Lately though…” she drummed her fingers on the coffee ring covered table top, her expensive manicure clicking like a typists keys.

“Lately he has been up nights, late night meetings in his study, strange phone calls. Mama told him more than once that he seemed like his old self again, though she didn't sound complimentary about it,” January confided. She hadn’t thought anything of it, absorbed as she was in the endless round of parties and social life of New York and with her other pursuits.

“I told the police all this of course,” she clarified crossing her legs and allowing her face to take on a pettish look.

“At first they were very interested, but within an hour or so they were doing their level best to sweep it under the rug.”

"His briefcase. How curious." Richard said out in the smokey room, his words nearly piercing the thick smoke that the two lonely smokers gave off, even though they had the company of each other. To the detective the mention of Ottoman jewelry and the like didn't raise any thoughts in his mind, but the briefcase? Flicking of some ash into the ashtray, surrounded by a typewriter with a half-written report, a pile of newspapers and Richard's hat, the detective looked down at January again. She was onto something. Clever kid, she might get places, even without her razor-sharp looks.

"It would seem we're on the same train of thought then, Miss Endicott. If you're asking for my opinon, and I assume you will sooner or later, something smells fishy of this whole mess. I don't want to sound rude, but to me it looks like someone or something from his past is involved here. That and the briefcase. " The detective downed another sip of his whiskey, the last one, and poured himself another glass. He was used to drinking the hard stuff, years upon years of experince weighing down on him. The same memories that reminded him that the cops were far too keen to sweap these kinds of cases under the rugs of a public afflicted with memory loss. He though didn't forget. He remembered all too well.

"If you don't mind, honey, I'd like to start on the case in the morning. The museum, where he was murdered is probably where I'll begin my investigation. Unless you have something more you can tell me, any and all of the smallest details you can think of, there's not much a common shamus like me can do. You'd probably need some rest, after all that's happened." Richard said frankly to January, putting down his glass after another sip and giving her an understanding look. People would behave the wildest of ways at the loss of someone close, even if they didn't know so themselves. Richard guessed that January was the partying type, dancing and flirting her way out of the sorrow that followed Death.

Richard stood up from the desk and wandered over to the illuminated window again, idly smoking the rest of his cigarette as he listened to her fingers restlessy tapping on his desk. Turning to look at her, he chuckled and grinned at the young and beautiful lady with a silver spoon in her mouth, before looking out and down at the rainy street. "You'd be a mean receptionist with those fingers, doll. Ever considered working a typewriter?" he asked, finishing the stump of a cigarette and throwing it out the window."Anyway, you'd better take the backdoor out. Frontdoor doesn't open easily outwards in this rain, you see. I hope to see you again soon, Miss January Endicott."

January stood and set her glass, still half full, down on the coffee ringed tabletop. With a negligent gesture she stubbed out her cigarette and stood, smoothing her black dress over her thighs.

“Very good Mr Barker,” she told the PI before heading for the door. She paused when she reached it, her elegant figure framed by the frosted glass window. She paused in the act of opening the door and glanced back at Richard.

“One more thing Mr Barker,” she added with a smile as sweet as honeyed poison.

“I will be along for the ride for every detail of this case. Meet me at Carlito’s tomorrow at Noon. Do not be late.” Without waiting for a response, she stepped out into the hallway and was gone.

The New York sky was no happier for daylight. The tumultuous storm of the previous day had given way to a bleak day light, swept frequently by chilly cloudbursts. A veil of rain crowded chided the sun to a glow that made competition for the ubiquitous streetlights without truly supplanting them. Carlito’s was a small but very exclusive bistro whose chief claim to fame was its proximity to the Metropolitan Museum. January would have preferred the open air, but even beneath the dubious shelter of an umbrella that was a bad idea. Instead she sat at a booth by a window that overlooked the Museum, its imposing edifice a familiar sight. How many times had she passed through those concrete columns with her father for one museum event or another. So caught up was she in her reverie that she didn’t notice the men approaching her until two figures slid into the booth beside her.

“Ah Miss Endicott, a pleasure to see you again,” came the oily and familiar voice of Detective Golding. He was a slightly overweight man with a face that a weasel wouldn’t trust and demeanor to boot. He constantly ran his right hand through his oily looking brown hair in what he probably imagined was a smooth gesture. Beside him was another man with angular teutonic features and round wire frame spectacles whom she did not recognise. Both men wore trench coats, although the latter fellow’s was a tailored affair which she doubted Golding could have afforded.

“I did not ask you to sit down Detective,” January said in a voice which might have fogged a paine of glass with its chill disdain. The policeman chuckled greasily.

“Just a few questions for you Jan…”

“Miss Endicott,” January snapped, her eyes flashing with anger. How dare this grasping toad address her so? The silent man’s face twitched in what might have been either amusement or irritation. Golding spread his hands in placation.

“Miss Endicott… we are just trying to clear up a few matters regarding your fathers death,” he smirked. January arched a sculpted eyebrow.

“Grown tired of sitting on your behind wasting tax payer money?” she sneered.

“Now Miss Endicott, we have been working tirelessly to bring your fathers killers to justice,” Golding declared ironically, barely managing to contain a snicker.

“We?” she asked, turning her attention to the silent man in obvious demand. Golding cleared his throat and appeared momentarily nervous before his natural expression slid back into place.

“This is Mr Mueller a…. consultant of sorts I suppose you would call him, he is simply here to observe,” Golding explained. January cut her eyes between the two men before moving to stand.

“I think you can address any questions you have to my lawyers…” she began but before she could stand, Mueller, if that was his name reached across and seized her wrist.

“You vill answer our quvestions,” Muller snarled, the demeanor of icy politeness slipping from his face.

“You will take your hands off me at once,” January demanded, her anger blazing as hot as her icy calm had frozen0.

“Or vhat Frauline?” the German asked. There was a distinct metallic click from beneath the table as January drew back the hammer on the little deringer she had surreptitiously slipped from her purse. The German froze, clearly recognizing the sound for what it was, even if the gun was out of his immediate view.

“Or else all manner of unfortunate things might happen.. Mien Herr,” she simpered.

Even when the storm had passed over New York the previous night, somehow those persisten clouds managed to squeeze out a few more raindrops on what could have been a sunny day. Relatively sunny, it was fall after all. And New York City. The only time the sun was shining here it was still a nuisance. Richard didn't really mind, his nose never liked being baked in the sun after he got that scar of his. It wasn't the rain he was seemingly annoyed at as he found the Metropolitan Museum in his sight and the bistro January had instructed him to meet her at.

It was the fact she had forced herself into his investigation. He didn't do partners, hadn't for years and certainly not in the company of a glamorous young lady with a look that could both kill and smooch you.

Richard had been at the Carlito's before, if his memory served him right. Past cases made the high-society bistro a good place for reconnaissance and a hold-up in-between his working hours. To food was decent enough he suppossed, if pricey. Richard passed by the large window frame that gave a clear view of the museum from the bistro's inside, giving a passing look for his employer - and reluctant partner. If he was told not to be late, he had to wonder what kind of person January herself was. Was she the overjoyed party-animal who was late to everything, or had the sense of maturity he felt in her the day before hinted at a grown woman?

He wasn't surprised to see her sitting in a booth, though the company she kept made him raise a questioning brow. Not only the greasy Detective Golding of the local NYPD presinct and the unknown straight-looking fella in a trenchcoat with his hand gripped tightly around January, but also the gun pointed at them. If January was anything at this moment, she was certainly not a damsel in distress. Good, that meant Richard didn't have to be her knight in shining armour in some fantastic love story.

"Ey Goldie, what the Hell are you doing here at out of places?" Richard shouted at Detective Golding in a seemingly friendly manner, pushing the door open and making his presence known to the trio he'd much rather be solo. But if they all knew that they were being watched, less chance that someone was willing to do anything stupid.

"Richard, is that you? You slick sonov'a bitch, fancy seeing you here too. What you'd do, finally decided to spend your life cooking instead of snooping?" Golding shouted back to Richard, sweat pouring down from his overly-sized hat and greasy hair that. Clearly he was getting nervous. Whatever plan he and the German had had earlier, it was falling to shits quicly. "We were just...discussing something with Miss Endicott. But you haven't..."

"As matter of fact, yes I have had the pleasure of being introduced to Miss Endicott. Why the Hell do you think I'm here for, you Israeli greaseball?" Richard's friendly demanour changed into the fast-paced New York tounge, standing with a powerful pose above the Detective. The other man in the trenchcoat was sending daggers into Richard with every word he spoke. "And who's the Hun? Didn't think the NYPD liked dealing with foreigners after last year's little escapade?"

"Well Richard...I..." Golding was at a loss of words, knowing perfectly well that a gun was being pointed at him. Golding knew, Richard knew, the German Müller knew. The German spoke up in Golding's stuttering, still clutching January's wrist. "Herr Richard. This is..."

"That's Herr or Mister Barker to you, Heinie. And I wasn't talking to you."

"Why the hostility, ol' Dick? Mr. Müller works as a consoltant for me in the investigation on Janu...Miss Endicot's father's death."

"Consoltant? Come one, Berth, you know you haven't had a consultant since you tried getting that Italian guy to help you lose weight. And Herr Müller?" Richard was fast getting tired of Golding bullshitting him and the German's unfriendly look at him. One thing annoyed him ever more thought. "If you want to be a smart cookie, I'd suggest you let go of Miss Endicot's wrist. I think we can all agree you'd look less than flattering with a hole in your gut, right?" Richard said in a matter-of-factly tone to the German, eyeing the table where a presumable gun was being held towards them. Richard shot both of the men a growing smile again, before looking at January in her fiery look. Not bad.

"Good afternoon, Miss Endicot. Hope I'm not too late. It was nice of Detective Golding and Herr Müller to keep you company until I arrived. Now, have a nice day both of you. Don't mind the rain."