The Secret (Watty Award Winner) | ✔️

Twenty Three - O'Reilly

Ch23 - Detective Thomas O'Reilly

Retired detective-turned-investigator, Thomas O'Reilly, sat behind his large mahogany desk, listening to his new client's tale of woe with an amused expression on his face.

The detective took in the man's perfectly manicured nails, neatly coiffed hair and lean physique. He observed the expensive, tailored suit he wore and the articulate way he spoke. He also noticed the almost elegant manner in which he carried himself.

What a flake! O'Reilly snorted discreetly, removing the cheap cigar from his mouth. He covered his laughter with a cough and ran a hand over his balding head. This guy is - no doubt about it - an over-privileged snob who believes the world owes him a favor. He had seen it hundreds of  times before.

Mr. I'm-Too-Good-For-Everyone is a little different though, he admitted to himself, inspecting his own bitten-to-the-quick nails. His story is almost entertaining! It's as if he believes his own bullshit.

He'd had to bite the inside of his cheek on several occasions during their meeting to keep himself from laughing out loud. Finally, he'd just stopped listening all together. He had no choice! He didn't want to anger this new client with such an uncouth reaction to this pathetic sob story. Admittedly, it was sometimes difficult keeping his opinions to himself - especially when it came to the upper crust of society. He had a knack for spotting them.

This pompous man before him continued to babble on and on about some allegedly untrustworthy young housewife and a residential fire with a missing body. Her body, of course. The fire investigation, so far, had come up with literally nothing - other than a blaze that had been started under "suspicious" circumstances.

The sad truth was, if Mr. My-Shit-Don't-Stink's wife was missing without a trace, it was probably because she wanted to be missing. And it really wasn't very difficult to see why she would choose to disappear, judging from the looks of her highfalutin' husband. But try telling Mr. Important that.

I'd bet my left nut he's a sneaky, controlling son-of-a-bitch!

O'Reilly stared at the picture the client had presented. Boy, was this girl a beauty!

Typical, he thought with a knowing huff. She'd probably gotten sick of Mr. Hot-Shot here, and found herself some hard-bodied boyfriend. Betcha he's a young stud, too - and just as delicious as she is. Latino, no doubt. All women want a macho Latino lover, hovering above them in bed with their brown skin, slicked back hair, whispering words they don't understand.

O'Reilly knew how the women favored beefcake's with sexy, mysterious accents. Those men could sing 'Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star' in their native tongue and the ladies would probably still cream their panties!

Women - nothin' but  a bunch of hussies! he thought, shaking his head in disgust. It really was no surprise to anyone, except to the good detective, why there was no Mrs. O'Reilly.

Honestly, he didn't care who he worked for, or what kind of stupid case he took on. Money talked. And this dude had plenty of it, he could tell. He had a nose for sniffing out the green stuff. Yep, O'Reilly could spot a richie a mile away, and he was never wrong.

The detective cleared his throat when he realized that Mr. Overly-Confident was finished speaking. He hoped he hadn't been lost in thought for too long. It wouldn't do to have the client think he wasn't paying attention to him, even if it were the truth.

"So, your house went up in flames - a complete loss - and your pretty, young wife is missing?" O'Reilly questioned, fiddling with a gnawed on pencil, lying on his disheveled desk.