Harsh stripes of summer afternoon sun slanted into the office of Oreki Houtarou, Private Investigator. Even chopped into slices by the shadows of the blinds, even assailed by the thrumming of the electric fan cranked up to high, the beams were still so scorching that they raised the smell of wood and varnish off his battered desk and through the entire room.
Clearly, it was too hot to work.
The only protection he had against the heat was the electric fan, and with it running at full blast any paper in front of him would make a break for it, making it too much trouble even to read a book — or to write back to his sister, if there was any point in that when she was probably halfway up the Nile by now.
No, days like this were just there to be survived, and Houtarou was lounging in his desk chair on the edge of a nap. Occasionally he opened his eyes and glanced over at the couch that had served him for a bed since the messy breakup last year rousted him out of Mayaka’s apartment downstairs. People said it made the place look like a low-rent shrink’s office, but it was nice to have at a time like this. Still, he’d have to unplug the fan, haul it across the room, plug it into the other outlet... And the chair wasn’t really so bad...
The fan was so loud and Houtarou so nearly asleep that he barely heard two footsteps before the door opened — without a knock. He opened one eye to see if that meant what it usually meant.
He needn’t have bothered. “Hey, Sherlock,” came the familiar sunny voice.
Sure enough, it was Satoshi, wearing his policeman’s blues and an even bigger grin than usual — and that meant trouble. Not the bad, bring the revolver, “God, I hate when I’m right” kind, but trouble. The “Kiss your energy reserves goodbye” kind.
Well, it wasn’t like he didn’t owe Satoshi any favors. Plenty of cases would have been a lot more trouble without the beat cop who was an inch-by-inch map of the city plus three sections of the library poured into a pair of patent leather shoes, and most of his income came from the “consulting detective” jobs his friend wrangled out of the police department for him. Actually joining the force would be way too much work, and the salary would cost the department more in the long run, so the setup was better for everyone. And it was regular enough to pay the bills — since private clients regarded Houtarou as a last resort. He’d found that setting his price by how little he wanted a job was easier than saying “no” to someone’s face, but he had Scrooge’s reputation to show for it.
Today, though, it was too hot to work, and he was far enough ahead on his rent to keep Mayaka quiet even after the messy breakup... Even with Satoshi, maybe he could weasel out of it this time...
“So, whaddya want?” he asked.
“Hey, is that any way to talk to a lady?”
Houtarou pulled a deep breath and woke up as Satoshi cleared the doorway for a lady — of sorts. She was about their age, with a fresh face and long, shining black hair cut in an old-money style with squared locks at the sides — but then pulled up in a careless bun that had been jostled half-loose and lightly powdered with something Marie Antoinette would never have used. This lady was dressed in coveralls that were also smeared with dust. Her wide, bright violet eyes didn’t match the rest of the look, but they scanned the room drinking everything in as if this shabby office was the Eighth Wonder of the World.
At last those eyes lighted on the guy behind the desk, and she bowed too-politely. “Pleased to meet you — ah...” She glanced back to check the name on the door.
