He pulled at his beige trench coat collar. He didn’t like the wind. He didn’t like that it messed up his ironed dress shirt and expensive haircut. Sure, he could get his mother to cut his hair, but then he would have to see his mother.

Light footsteps came down the stone-paved alleyway. He didn’t bother turning. The scent of lilac and cigar gave her away. And if that wasn’t enough, her sarcastic tone clenched it.

“Are you going to a costume party? Let me guess: Sherlock Holmes?"

“Funny,” he replied, reminding himself not to hit a woman. “Did you bring it?”

She pulled an envelope out of her purse. “So does this make me Watson?”

“You can’t be Watson. Watson was married.”

“You want my help? Don’t dig a hole for yourself, Rainford.”

“If it gets me out of this god-forsaken wind, I’m okay with it.”

He opened the envelope. Its contents were disappointing.

“There’s only a business card in here.”

“Good work, Holmes.” she said, turning on her heel. “You should be a detective.”