A Cat Among the Stool-pigeons. Episode 1.
Note: Dafydd is the Welsh equivalent of “David” and is pronounced “Davith”.

If it could rain any harder, we'd start finding fish as roadkill. I curled my tail up underneath my overcoat, pulled my fedora tighter over my ears and performed the trick I'd learned in the Navy of turning my pipe upside down to stop it getting drowned. I didn't mind that the entire building was smoke-free during the winter, even if I had to step out into sub-zero windchill, but these spring storms were just miserable. The old myth about felines hating to get wet was just that, a myth, but if I'd wanted to get this soaked on a regular basis I'd have stayed in Wales or in the Navy. I tapped my pipe out on the heel of my shoe and stepped around the corner to get back inside before I got so chilled that even the bottle of single malt in the top drawer of my filing cabinet wouldn’t take the edge off it. Even though this building was on the edge of the trendy warehouse district, the rent was cheap enough that I could afford the entire second floor. We were just slightly the wrong side of the tracks here, and given my line of work that suited me just fine. Elevator was out of service (again) so I climbed the stairs to reach the office.
Hanging up my coat and hat, I sighed. Liz, my secretary/receptionist was at it again. I swear she dresses like that just to make my life hell. Don't get me wrong here, she was perfectly within a "business casual" dress code, but a vixen with that many curves can look smoking hot in a sack. Today, having draped her jacket over the back of her chair, the tight skirt and almost sheer blouse were showing those curves to such a good effect that she could probably earn a lot more than I paid her at the "adult entertainment" establishments across the road.
"That's yet another reason smoking is bad for your health, Mr. Owen." she grinned.
"How many years have you worked for me now?"
"Four."
"Then don't you think you could finally get around to calling me Dafydd when there isn't a client here?"
Her golden eyes sparkled as she laughed. It was a running joke for us. At least once a week we'd have this exchange. 
"That wouldn't be proper, Mr. Owen. You wouldn't want anyone to think you were flirting with your secretary.”
"I suppose not, Miss Jackson. I suppose not. Flirting with my secretary would probably be considered sexual harassment." As could the way her body language was blatantly flirting with me, but it was all in fun and we both knew it. Besides, she was an exceptionally beautiful woman and so long as neither of us did anything about it, I wasn't going to object.
Back in the inner office, I poured myself two fingers of that fine single malt and stretched back in my chair before pulling it to my desk and settling down to some paperwork as the alcohol drove out the cold. This was shaping up to be a good month. Only two weeks in and the bills were paid, payroll covered and I had a couple of prospects that could turn into clients before the next month’s bills came due.
The phone rang once and I saw the light come on as Liz answered it - I could hear her through the door.
"Owen Investigations and Law Office... certainly, Sergeant. One moment." Then the phone on my desk rang again. 
"Sergeant Olson would like a word. Shall I put him through?"
Sgt Olson had been a homicide detective for 10 years, and we’d been friends for 5 of them, ever since we had ended up with adjacent season ticket seats at the local ballpark.
"Sure, go ahead.... Hey, Swede, what can I do for you?"
"'Fraid I need your help, Admiral. Does the name Marian Mitchell mean anything to you?"
"Whitetail doe, skinny, all leg and no curves. And don’t you think that joke is getting a bit old?"
Mike Olson and I were both ex-Navy. He was a Chief Bosuns Mate, USN and I a Commander, RN. As soon as he found out I was an ex-officer he started calling me ‘Admiral’ I only objected half-heartedly, because we both knew from experience that once the Chief gave you a nickname, it stuck. True to form, he totally ignored that part of my reply.
"That's her. Where do you remember her from?"
"About a month ago her husband thought she was playing both sides of the street, hired me to check her out. She wasn't, checked out clean. Gave him that report just over a week ago, he paid me and we were done."
"Looks like he might not have believed you. Somebody threw her out of her apartment window about half an hour ago."
"Her husbands out of town until tomorrow evening. Second week of each month he's down in Des Moines for work. Any sign of their daughter?"
"Didn't even know they had one. Haven't got into the apartment yet, building owner is being difficult about allowing us to kick the door in - he offered to pay for a locksmith rather than repairing the door and the Lieutenant was OK with that."
"So how did you know to call me?"
"She had your business card in her pocket."
"That makes no sense. She wasn't my client, her husband was."
"Can't help you there, buddy. Anyway, thanks for the info."
"Hey, so long as they hire me as a PI and not a lawyer I don’t need to keep things confidential."
"I hear that. Will I see you at the ball game Saturday?"
"Probably. See you then. Take care."
“You too. Bye.”
I really didn’t like the smell of this. Even though he was out of town and likely had a few dozen witnesses to prove it, the cops were going to consider my client the prime suspect. The fact that his wife was carrying one of my cards - which she could only have got from him - just made the waters muddier. I really didn’t like having this kind of itch that I couldn't scratch. So I was going to scratch it. I checked my holster, grabbed my car keys and went out to grab my overcoat and hat. 
"Need to make a quick run to check out a few things. Important stuff to my cell, messages for everything else. Ok?
“Sure, Mr. Owen. Is there anything I need to know about to decide what’s important?”
“Remember that guy who thought his wife was cheating? Somebody just threw that wife out a 15th floor window.”
“Ewww.”
“Likely won’t be pretty, no.”
The rain hadn’t let up.  Walking down to the basement garage I unlocked my midlife crisis. A metallic blue Jaguar F-type. Tucking my overcoat behind the seats and dropping my hat on the right one, I settled down on the custom leather and flexed my claws to loosen my paws up. The car detected my key fob in my pocket and purred to life at the touch of a button. The car was my one piece of vanity and ostentatious pride in my lineage.  Cliché, I know, but what else would a panther PI drive but a Jag with custom “GUMSHOE” plates? I could have leaned on my law license and gone with “SHYSTER” instead, but some other Minnesota lawyer had already grabbed that one.
The Mitchell’s place was only about 10 minutes away from my office in decent traffic. In this downpour it took me nearly half an hour, but I was able to find a parking spot only a block away. Lots of flashing lights and yellow tape and a popup shelter and privacy screen awkwardly covering a portion of the sidewalk, fencing and the apartment buildings landscaping. The broad-shouldered bulldog built like a linebacker and trying unsuccessfully to keep the rain off with an umbrella was Sgt. Olson. 
“Hey, Swede!”
“Thought you might take an interest. Lt. Anderson did too. He said, and I quote, ‘If that English PI friend of yours stops by, let him take an interest until he gets in the way, and then yank his license.’”
“He can’t have been talking about me, boyo, I’m Welsh.”
“Hey, at least he respects you enough to let you ‘take an interest’ even if he does think you get in our way.” Mike nodded to the uniformed officer nearby who lifted the tape and let us both pass. “Hope you didn’t eat too much for lunch.” If this guy said that I knew it was going to be ugly.
It was. 
Skinny she may have been, but Marian Mitchell had been quite a handsome woman, particularly for those folks who appreciated long legs on a lady. There was nothing handsome about her now. Those long legs were dangling from the fence towards the sidewalk, spread wide in some obscene parody of a sexual come-on, her body laying back on the neat landscaping, her face misshapen from the transmitted impact with a rock that had crushed in the back of her skull like an eggshell. To complete the sexual parody one of the railings of the fence had caught her just by the tail and driven clean through her pelvis. Now a good 14 inches of it stood above her body like some monstrous phallus. The ME was directing a couple of coyotes from the fire department where to cut the railing to remove the body. 
Marian Mitchell obviously had plans to go out today. She was dressed for the weather, in jeans and sneakers rather than her usual capris and sandals. She wore a light jacket over her usual t-shirt. I’d seen enough. 
“Can I get away with a look through the apartment, Mike?”
“Yeah, provided you follow the rules.”  I nodded. 
Thankfully this elevator was working just fine. 
This was a three bedroom split-level apartment. Quite a nice one. It was clean, tidy with the exception of the daughter’s room. No sign of a struggle, no hint of anything wrong apart from the body 15 floors below. It was like Mrs. Mitchell had simply stepped out instead of going over the small balcony outside her bedroom window. With one exception. Her purse lay by the side of the front door, I hadn’t noticed it as we came in because it was behind the open door, but now I did. 
“Keys in her purse, Mike?”
“Nope. Just her wallet, contents intact, a brush and a mirror and some other girl-stuff.”
I looked at where the purse had fallen, and at the pristine condition of the room. Defocus, let the ancestral predator back-brain come up with conclusions.
“Caught her coming out, either got lucky with a one-shot knockout, chloroformed her or hit her with a taser. Before she comes round, over she goes and the killer picks up her keys from where she dropped them, quietly locks up and walks away.”
“That, my friend, is why the Lt. doesn't mind you 'taking an interest' within limits. You've got good eyes. Care to exercise 'em some more?”
Standing in the doorway I scanned the outside view. Whoever did this had to have had a place to lurk. I could see three apartment doors and two entryways to the stairwells, but something kept drawing my eye back to the northern stairwell. I let my eyes unfocus and let the subconscious take over. Yeah, northern stairwell entry. 
“How many boots have been over this stretch of floor since you got up here, Mike?” Indicating the path between this front door and that stairway with a pointed claw.
“Dozens. Why?”
“Because THAT,” I said, pointing to tiny fragment of red and white paper, “Is from the cover of a taser round, and its nicely on the line between here and that stairwell door. You might want to have forensics rope off this area and look in more detail, unless the rest of the confetti has already been tromped out of here on those dozens of wet boots.”
“Fuck! Hey, you!” he pointed to a uniformed officer standing by the door. “Radio.” The young officer handed over her radio and Mike mashed the button. “Olsen for Lt. Anderson.”
“Go ahead, Swede. What you got for me?”
“He did it to us again, Sir. You want to get forensics back up here. Taser, and we have a good idea where the shooter was.”
“Crap, I'm going to be keeping that damn cat supplied with expensive whiskey until the next fucking decade!”
This was my running bet with Lt. Anderson. We'd made the bet just after that god-awful kidnapping on the East side. Any time he let me into a crime scene and I found something his team had overlooked, he bought me a bottle. If I failed to do so, I bought him one. I stole the mic. “Happy to assist you, Lieutenant.”
“Fuck you, you Welsh asshole. If you didn't keep giving us good info I wouldn't keep buying $150 bottles of booze for you!”
“The aged Oban is well worth every penny Lieutenant, but if your budget is getting thin I can suggest a few alternates.”
“Nah, it's still cheaper than your consulting rates. Forensics are on their way back, now give the radio back to Mike so I can set this up.”
I wanted to listen in but my cellphone was vibrating on my belt. 
“Owen.”
Liz's voice. “Mr Owen, you have a new client in your office. A Hannah Mitchell.”
Shit. 
“Tell my client I'll be back there in 30.”
“Yes, Sir.”
I hung up and looked over at Mike – I hated keeping him in the dark but I was damn certain Hannah would want the “Lawyer and PI” contract, so anything that passed between us would be privileged.
“Client issues. Got to go.”
“No problem. See you Saturday.”
…..To be continued.