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and he’d turned over his notes, photographs, videos, or audio files. But that kind of work was bread-and-butter for most PIs, and he’d invested in some pretty esoteric electronic equipment to stay competitive with larger agencies. That he charged less than those bigger agencies gave him a certain advantage.
    His expectation was correct: the attorney had a client, a husband, who was convinced that the missus was cheating on him and wanted proof before he filed for divorce. Brixton didn’t care who slept with whom, no matter who they were, everyday Joes or hot-shot celebrities. The tabloid mentality that TV, newspapers, and magazines had adopted left him cold. But he didn’t write the rules when it came to divorces. A buck was a buck, and he’d been successful in rationalizing those assignments, and compartmentalizing them from real life, his own real life.
    He accepted the assignment, got an up-front on the fee, and left the office. He didn’t like the guy the moment they shook hands, sized him up as smarmy, one of those attorneys who’ll deliberately prolong a divorce case to keep the fee meter running. The guy had giggled rather than laughed, and spent part of the meeting telling Brixton about some of his juicy cases, which Brixton didn’t want to hear. It turned out that the husband who wanted his wife followed owned a fairly popular restaurant down on River Street. Brixton knew the place from his days on the PD, and had eaten there a few times since retiring. He wouldn’t go again.
    He debated grabbing a taxi back to the office but decided instead to stop in a bar and grill a block from the lawyer’s office building. It was a dark, quiet place, at the perfect time, too early for the happy-hour revelers and long after the lunch crowd had departed. The bar’s AC was operating full-blast, which turned Brixton’s damp shirt cold and clammy. He pulled off his tie and settled at the end of the long bar, behind which a sallow-faced man in his early thirties took care of business. Brixton ordered a gin and tonic and sighed. A wave of depression settled over him.
    It was a familiar feeling. He tended to be depressed. At least they’d told him he did, “they” being his ex-wife and two pop-psychologist daughters, his boss at the Washington, D.C., MPD, his chiropractor, primary care physician, and a few others including a nosy, chatterbox neighbor, the bartender at his favorite hangout down the street from his apartment, and Flo Combes, his current lady friend. He never argued with them; what was the use? It wasn’t as if bouts of the blues rendered him useless, curled up in the fetal position for days on end. If he was depressed it was because he had reason to be. Perpetually happy people got on his nerves. There was plenty to be depressed about. All you had to do was turn on TV at any hour, or spend your days as a cop dealing with the dregs of society.
    “You want another?” the bartender called from where he was drying glasses.
    “No. Hey, do I look depressed to you?” Brixton asked.
    He meant it as a joke, but the bartender looked at him as though deciding whether his customer was crazy and about to cause a scene.
    “Forget it,” Brixton said as he tossed down some cash and left, aware that the bartender was watching his every step, poised to reach for the baseball bat he undoubtedly kept behind the bar.
    Brixton walked slowly in the direction of his office. A police cruiser passed with two uniformed officers in it. It brought back memories and he smiled for the first time that afternoon.
    Half a block from his building he noticed the red pickup truck parked across the street, the driver sitting stoically behind the wheel, windows open, puffing on a cigarette. Brixton realized he hadn’t had a cigarette since leaving the attorney’s office and wanted one. Instead, he crossed the street and went up to the passenger side of the truck, leaned on the door, and smiled. “Hello,” he said.
    The driver was big