I knew she was trouble the second she walked into my office and sat down in the chair in front of my desk. Rich, elegant, beautiful young women like that do not hire scruffy, down-at-our-heels, clearance-rack gumshoes like me for mundane crap, and I gazed at her sourly from the top of her expertly-coiffed head to the bottoms of a pair of black pumps that would cost me three month's salary if the months were very, very good. Her white London Fog trenchcoat rode up her thighs as she had a seat, revealing nothing but more dark-smoke stockings, and I wondered for a wild moment if she wore anything under it. She leaned forward and twisted a strand of brown hair around her finger, giving me a shy smile and a guileless blink from baby blues that didn't fool me for a second. I caught a whiff of understated and overexpensive floral perfume, and noted that the diamond on her left hand would choke a cat if she got careless with it.
Yep. She was trouble.