Dzinski didn’t like heights. But here he was, ten storeys up, trying to ignore the prickling urge to jump.
“Quite the view, isn’t it?” his client said, using that practiced, clipped cadence of a movie starlet.
“Sure is,” Dzinski said, turning away from the window.
“I’d have rather had a view on the river, but my husband preferred the city. He loved watching it move.”
He looked around the apartment, noticing a lack of male influence.
“He’s gone,” she said, the tang of before-noon gin wafting over. “I need you to find him. And have him sign the divorce papers.”