After a soggy hour or so, I arrived in Oakland Lane, a quiet suburban street in Astoria Heights. As I made my way through the suburban neighbourhood, the rain continued to fall with a gentle persistence, casting a dreary pall over the neatly manicured lawns and quaint houses lining the streets. Each house stood as a testament to the suburban ideal—white picket fences, neatly trimmed hedges, and cheerful flower beds adorning the front yards. It’s so colourful and stereotypical that it’s enough to blind me. Mrs De Laney's house, nestled among its neighbours, was no exception. A modest two-story abode with a fresh coat of paint and a welcoming porch. The sound of my footsteps echoed against the wet pavement with a plop as I approached the front door, my senses attuned to the subtle symphony of raindrops falling against the eaves. I raised my hand to knock, the dull thud echoing in the stillness of the afternoon. Moments later, the door swung open, revealing Mrs. De Laney standing before me. Her warm smile belied the weariness in her eyes, her dark skin glowing with a quiet resilience.

"Mr. Wolf, thank you for coming," she greeted me, her voice tinged with a hint of apprehension. Mrs. De Laney always dressed nicely whenever she had visitors, I was no exception, but today she was worse for wear. Her hair, which was always tied with a bun, was loose and looked as if they were uncared for days or weeks. Her eyes spoke of restless nights.

"Mrs De Laney," I acknowledged with a nod, taking in her appearance with a practised eye. Fatigue was very much evident in her features. "May I come in?"

She stepped aside, gesturing for me to enter. "Of course, please, come in," she invited, leading the way into the cosy confines of her home. I made sure to dry the soles of my shoes using the carpet behind the door before entering. As I followed her inside, the scent of home-cooked meals and the soft glow of lamplight enveloped me, wrapping me in a sense of comfort amidst the storm outside.

“Would you care for a hot meal first? Should help warm you up after walking for quite some time in the rain” She gestured her hands towards the small dining room on the far side of the room where the kitchen was. She prepared lunch in such a way that made her look like a chef at a not too fancy-but cheap restaurant.

“No thanks, Mrs De Laney”, I lied; my mouth was already watering at the aroma of roasted turkey and beef curry. “We should proceed to the topic at hand”

Taking a seat in the living room, I listened as Mrs De Laney recounted her suspicions, her voice laced with uncertainty and fear. She talked about how one night her husband didn’t even care to look her in the eyes. Then he would always bring her expensive jewellery one day a week when she didn’t want any of it. Then ending by telling me that the spark they once had was no longer there. Cheesy much. Despite lacking concrete proof, she couldn't shake the feeling that her husband was hiding something from her, a sentiment that resonated with me more than I cared to admit.

As she finished speaking, I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees, my expression stoic and unreadable. "I understand your concerns, Mrs. De Laney," I replied evenly, my voice a calm counterpoint to the turmoil brewing within me. "But without tangible evidence, it's difficult to proceed."

Mrs. De Laney's eyes pleaded with me, her desperation palpable in the air. "I know it's a lot to ask, Mr. Wolf, but I can't shake this feeling. This feeling of being kept from information. Since we got married, and even before that, we were always honest with each other. He always knew whenever I was lying, but I only did that for laughs and giggles, but now… He’s acting unlike himself, distant. Whenever he smiled at me, it would feel hollow, forced… He looked so guilty of something. I knew that very moment that there was something wrong, I thought maybe that it was just the stress of work. Then the neighbours started whispering that he was bringing someone else home. I didn’t believe them, especially when you didn’t find out about anything the last time. But after you left, he started buying me expensive gifts like perfume, towels, and necklaces that I never asked for. I didn’t want any of those. I just wanted him to be like he used to be. To love me as much as I love him and God. But then when I went to Mrs. O’Shaghennessy’s house to ask if she saw anything happening in my house if I was gone, she’d say no.”

“You mean the neighbour that told you your husband brought home another?” I inquired and she nodded.

“Yes. I was confused because she kept telling me that she must have imagined it. She sounded distressed as if I caught her stealing or something… Then I noticed she had a new expensive-looking TV in her living room. She always wanted a new one to replace the older model but didn’t have the money. Yet somehow… She managed to get one. Probably a gift from her granddaughters. Then I found the scarf that I had never seen before under my bed, and I just couldn’t shake the feeling off anymore… Please, help me find the truth. Mr. Wolf, you’re the only one I can trust. Even if it all turns out that I’m just being paranoid… That I’m just losing my mind and blaming my husband for it…  I will still pay you the agreed payment and a bit extra for your troubles."

I sighed inwardly, relenting to the unspoken plea in her eyes. Despite my reservations, I couldn't turn away from someone in need, especially when their gut instinct was screaming for help (And because I needed money to pay the rent). "Very well," I conceded, my tone firm but resigned. "I'll do my best.”. As I stood up from my seat, I walked up the stairs towards her bedroom where she found the scarf. I could feel Mrs De Laney’s eyes watching me as I made my ascent, I could feel her silent plea for help but also her anxiousness, as if she was hoping that I’d find nothing to back her up and tell that she was just being paranoid.

I stood in front of the bedroom door. I'd been here before, during my first case for Mrs. De Laney, but back then, I admit I didn't give it my all. Doubts lingered in the back of my mind, doubts I couldn't afford to entertain now. With rent looming over me like a storm cloud, I needed to solve this case and fast. But before I could dive into the investigation, I needed to use my greatest asset: my senses. Now, I'm not one to brag, but I have a particularly acute set of senses. My hearing, sight, and taste are sharper than most. And while my sense of touch may be nothing out of the ordinary, my sixth sense more than makes up for it. But out of all my senses, my nose was my greatest weapon. Think of me as a human bloodhound or, better yet, a Wolf.

Pushing open the door to the couple’s bedroom was a breeze, quite literally. I couldn't help but envy the smoothness of her door, devoid of the creaks and resistance that plagued mine. Stepping inside, I took in the sight of the room, painted in pristine white like the summit of a snow-capped mountain.

A king-size bed dominated the space, adorned with luxurious and expensive-looking pillows. The thought of sinking into such a bed was enough to lull me into a state of blissful slumber. My own bed, in stark contrast, was a relic of ages past, worn and weathered. Like me. A golden-yellow lamp cast a warm glow over the room, perched atop a burnished brown drawer that stood sentinel on the left side of the bed. Another drawer, longer and more substantial, occupied the opposite side, its contents a mishmash of everyday items and personal effects. From a handheld mirror to a fancy lava lamp. There was a vase of roses there, too, but judging from how stiff and unrealistically colourful it is, it must be plastic. One of the drawers was left slightly open and I could see a G-string slightly sticking out of it. Guess that’s where she keeps her underwear. Hopefully, I wouldn’t need to open that drawer for this case. Wouldn’t want to make myself uncomfortable. Not that there’s something wrong with her appearance, on the contrary. Mrs De Laney is quite a beauty. She’s about in her mid-thirties and has smooth long black hair, deep blue eyes, olive skin and long muscled legs. Quite rare to see a woman that’s five-foot-eight look both cute and sexy. She’s hot and judging from how her neighbours look at her body during my first case when I interviewed them with her, I’m not the only one that thinks so. Even more than that, she’s kind, modest, and humble. It just makes me wonder: Why on earth would her husband cheat on her?

Closing the door behind me, I couldn't help but notice the heater positioned strategically near the entrance. It explained the warmth that enveloped the room, a stark contrast to the chill that permeated the rest of the house. Judging by the looks of it, the heater is quite expensive, as with most items here, unlike mine, it sounds like an old Ford engine. I also noticed that this was newly installed because I had never seen this before on my first visit. Mr De Laney sure likes to spend his money on stuff like this. It's a waste, really. I approached the bed, and the scarf that Mrs De Laney found was lying there. Retrieving it, I gave it a once-over, noting its lack of distinguishing marks or labels. Yet, the fabric spoke volumes—it was no ordinary scarf.

I've seen my fair share of rich clients flaunting their fancy accessories, like fur coats, sparkling dusters, and one of those hats made from a beaver’s fur or something, even in the heat of summer, so I know some fancy-schmancy item when I see one. This scarf reeked of wealth, the kind that belonged to someone with more money than sense. And while the De Laneys may swim in a tub of riches, they weren’t loaded enough to buy the material possessions Mrs. De Laney described to me earlier. Mrs De Laney herself wasn't one for extravagance either. She valued honesty and love over material possessions, a rare quality in these parts. Sure, the De Laneys lived in a wealthy neighbourhood, but Mrs. De Laney's distaste for ostentation was palpable. She wanted nothing more than to live a simple life with her husband, a sentiment I couldn't help but respect. After all, she is expected to carry. She didn’t tell me herself but I knew she was based on deduction. Call me sentimental, but there's truth in her words, and I'd be a fool not to see it.

As for Mr. De Laney, Patrick, well, he was a different story altogether. His penchant for luxury was evident in every corner of their home, from the fancy lamp to the lavish heater, to the newly set TV in the living room I noticed earlier. And then there were the gifts—expensive jewellery and trinkets that appeared out of nowhere, like a guilty conscience in tangible form. I would have thought that someone was blackmailing the poor bastard and threatening him but after I found out about all of this it just didn’t make sense. Mrs De Laney mentioned his sudden generosity started right after my initial investigation ended. Coincidence? Not bloody likely.

I may not be married myself, but I'm not blind to the ways of the world. Why would a man shower his wife with expensive baubles if he knew she had no interest in them? Heck, the old cheap copper necklace that Mrs De Laney always seemed to wear as a gift from her parents spoke volumes.  It didn't add up, unless… Unless he had something to hide. Guilt was a powerful motivator, but a distraction? Now that was a different beast altogether. And I had a sinking feeling Mr. De Laney was all too familiar with its allure. With suspicion narrowing in on Mrs. De Laney's husband, I raised the scarf to my nose, focusing my senses on the faint scent that lingered upon it. It was subtle, barely perceptible to the average nose due to how long this Scarf must have been under the bed before Mrs De Laney found it, but to me, it was as clear as day. My olfactory prowess had never failed me before, and it wasn't about to start now.

Closing my eyes, I drew in a deep breath, allowing the scent to fill my lungs. But I didn't stop there. I went further, expanding my senses to encompass the entire house. After sniffing the scarf, I took another deep drag by inhaling through my nose, taking in the scent of the room. From the cold, wet aroma of the rain outside to the mouthwatering smell of a hot meal wafting up from downstairs, I took it all in, each scent painting a vivid picture of the world around me. Yet amidst the cacophony of smells, one stood out like a beacon in the night, like I had hoped it would—a perfume so potent and cloying that it bordered on offensive. It wasn't just any perfume, but one of unmistakable quality, the kind that lingers in the air long after its wearer has departed. It was coming from the scarf, its scented trail almost completely gone.

I wrinkled my nose in distaste. I always hated strong perfumes, their overpowering presence grating on my senses like nails on a chalkboard. Even in its faint state, this particular scent was enough to set my teeth on edge. But there was something else, a secondary scent lurking beneath the surface. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but it was there nonetheless—a lingering reminder of something that had passed through this room not long ago. The vague scent was a perfume and it was the same as the one on the scarf. If I had been here minutes later, I would have lost this trail.

Opening my eyes, I found myself staring at Mrs. De Laney's drawer on the right. With a resigned sigh, I shoved the scarf into my coat pocket and made my way over. Running my fingers along the smooth surface of the varnished wood, I pulled open the drawer that housed her collection of unopened perfumes. It was a sight to behold—Puketown, USA, population: me. The drawer was filled with six expensive-looking bottles, each one more garish than the last. Mrs De Laney had mentioned her husband's sudden penchant for showering her with gifts, but I hadn't realised the extent of it until now.

With a heavy heart and a sinking feeling in my gut, I knew what needed to be done. If I wanted to track down the elusive scent from earlier, I'd have to subject myself to the torture of sniffing each and every one of these godforsaken perfumes. Bracing myself for the inevitable onslaught, I removed the cap from the nearest bottle and brought it to my nose, taking a cautious sniff. Just a jiffy. A small kiss of a sniff. What followed can only be described as inhaling a bottle of rubbing alcohol through a straw right into my nasal cavity, then magnifying it a hundredfold. It was like a punch to the sinuses, a vicious assault on my olfactory senses that left me reeling in agony. My greatest weapon is also my greatest curse.

"Bloody Hell!" I muttered, pinching my nose shut in a futile attempt to block out the offensive scent. It was no use. The perfume had already seeped into every crevice of my being, leaving me gasping for breath and cursing my own misfortune. Mrs De Laney either didn’t use them because the scent was too strong or she just didn’t like perfumes. Either way, I respect her a lot for not using them when I arrived. She had more sense than I gave her credit for, that's for sure. Lesson learned—never mess with high-end perfumes. Bugger Shuck!

With a grimace, I placed the perfume back in the drawer and closed it tight to prevent even an atom amount of its scent from leaking out of the drawer. In all honesty, it was a delightful smell for everyone else, just not for me.  The following investigations held nothing of value in terms of information. I checked the bathroom, the study room and even the attic, which was surprisingly much more appealing than my office. I checked the couple’s room once more and decided I had enough, closing the door behind me as I heard the latch click before descending the stairs, hands tucked casually in my pockets. Mrs. De Laney awaited me anxiously on the sofa, her nervousness palpable as she bit her fingernails.

Catching sight of me, she made a move to stand, but I waved her back down, preferring to keep things casual.

“Did... did you find anything, Mr. Wolf?” she asked, her voice betraying her anxiety as she stared deeply at me.

I sighed inwardly, clearing my throat before responding. I made a point of avoiding direct eye contact, not out of sympathy for her plight, but rather to spare her any unnecessary discomfort. You see, I have a bit of a reputation when it comes to locking eyes with people—it tends to elicit reactions ranging from intimidation to fear and to outright panic. I’ve encountered countless people who either back away from me or turn their head and body three-hundred-sixty degrees when I lock eyes with them. Call it a quirk of mine. I’ve mastered looking directly at the bridge of people’s noses to give the illusion I’m looking at them in the eye which I did with Mrs. De Laney, sparing her the full force of my "Death Stare." It wasn't that I enjoyed making people uneasy; especially potential clients, I just don’t know if there was an off switch to it.

“Not much, I'm afraid. However, I did detect a scent of perfume that didn't match any of yours. Have you been using any perfume or cologne lately?” I inquired, keeping my tone neutral and professional.

She shook her head, her unease evident in the way she shifted in her seat. “I haven't. I don't really have a need for them. Just stay at home, cook meals, do laundry, you know... I wouldn't have any use for my husband's gifts unless we were going out, but that's been quite sometime now...”

I nodded, understanding dawning on me like a slow-burning revelation. The pieces were fitting together, forming a mosaic of betrayal and deceit that Mr De Laney had woven around his unsuspecting wife.

“Let's entertain the possibility of his infidelity for a moment. How could he have brought someone over while you're here all day?” I posed the question, my tone grace as I studied Mrs. De Laney's reaction.

“You're right... The only time I'm not here is when I go grocery shopping or when I’m in Yoga classes but that only takes an hour at most…” Her brow furrowed in deep thought, and then her eyes widened as realisation dawned.

Her gaze shifted to the coffee table in front of her, where a half-empty glass of water, a handheld vacuum cleaner, and a small stack of magazines and papers sat. As she began sifting through the pile, her hands trembling, I raised an eyebrow, curious as to what had caught her attention.

“What is it, Mrs. De Laney?” I prompted gently, removing my fedora and running a hand through my hair.

She remained silent but handed me a slip of red paper with a shaky hand. Taking it from her, I scanned its contents with growing interest. To my surprise, it was a voucher for a VIP treatment at a place called "Beauty Rejuvenation Spa," the ink still fresh. It seemed this voucher had been used recently. I had a sinking feeling I knew where this was heading, but Mrs. De Laney felt compelled to explain.

“My husband gave me this as a gift last month... He said it was from his boss as a bonus for his long-awaited promotion. He wanted me to experience something pleasant for once, a taste of the life he envisioned for us...”

“The life of luxury,” I interjected, connecting the dots.

She nodded, her eyes misting over with unshed tears. “But I told him I didn't want any of that. Just him and me... He insisted, and I relented. I went to the spa, and it was nice... just a bit of fun. But when I returned that evening, he had the house decked out and a cake waiting for me to celebrate his promotion. I was happier celebrating with him than I was at the spa...”

“I think I understand everything up to this point so let me summarise: “The next morning after celebrating his promotion, one of your neighbours reported seeing someone entering the house with your husband. You confronted him about it, but he denied the allegations. When you couldn't shake off your suspicions, you decided to call me to investigate. Initially, we found nothing, so we put the investigation on hold, hoping that if anything turned up, I could pick up where we left off. And then your husband's behaviour took a turn for the worse—he started coming home late, showering you with expensive gifts and material wealth you never asked for, and growing increasingly distant. Then when you ask your neighbour for help or if she saw anything again, this time she acted strange as if she was covering for something along with having a new and expensive television just when your husband got a raise. That's what prompted you to call me again today, in the hopes of finally putting an end to your suspicions.”

Her silence spoke volumes, confirming my summary. Mrs De Laney's trembling hands clenched the fabric of her worn jeans as tears streamed down her cheeks, dampening the denim. She wore a simple light blue blouse, denim pants, comfortable slippers and a pretty copper necklace dangling on her neck. Her voice came out in mumbled sobs, choked with emotion as she struggled to hold back her tears.

"We... we started with nothing, Jacob," she murmured. I straightened my posture when she started calling me by my given name. "My parents... they didn't approve of Patrick. Said he had no ambition, no future. But we... We proved them wrong. Worked hard, struggled together... and things got better. We built a life, a future... together." Her voice faltered, a sob escaping her lips before she continued, her gaze distant as she recounted their journey. "We faced so much... together. But now... now that we're supposed to be stable, successful... it's falling apart. I don't... I don't want to believe he's cheating. I don't... want to believe any of this. But my gut... your investigation..." Her words trailed off, lost amidst her tears.

I watched her silently, the weight of her pain hanging heavy in the air. Despite the stoic facade I often wore, I couldn't help but feel a pang of empathy for her. The unravelling of a marriage, the betrayal of trust—it was a pain I knew all too well, albeit a bit different.

My hand instinctively twitched, a reflex to reach out to her, to offer even the smallest bit of comfort. But I caught myself just in time, pulling back before she could notice. Bugger Shuck, Jacob! What the hell are you doing? Hasn’t this woman been hurt enough? Stop letting your emotions show and act professionally!

I forced my hand back into my pocket, clenching it into a tight fist to contain the emotions threatening to spill out. I couldn't afford to let my guard down, not now. Not ever. Speak, Jacob. Just speak and be straightforward. That’s what she needed from me—calm, collected professionalism. I exhaled deeply, releasing the pent-up frustration that had been building inside me. Running my hand through my dishevelled hair once more, I donned my fedora before speaking.

"Where does your husband work, Mrs. De Laney?" The words left my mouth in a monotone voice, halting her tears. I observed her gaze shift downward, then slowly rise to meet mine, her eyes reddened from crying.

"He's the vice president of a financial firm called Titan Capital Dynamics in Midtown Manhattan," she replied, her eyes drifting to the dining table where the once-steaming food had turned cold and stale. "He's usually home by now... But he mentioned having an important meeting with the CEO today, so he'll be back much later..."

"I see... Please provide the exact location."

"What are you planning—" Her question was cut off as our eyes unexpectedly locked. I quickly looked away, but the damage was done. She stared at me, and I stared back. In that moment, her eyes widened, her mouth opened and her feet jolted by a mere inch then she recoiled against the sofa.

Fear can be a powerful tool. It can turn enemies into obedient slaves, rivals into subordinates, and hostility into submission. Those who lock eyes with me are left with no explanation, no reasoning, just a sudden warning to be weary or intimidated by me. But for Mrs De Laney, it was different, it wasn’t a senseless feeling or reaction, fear altered her perception of me. I could see it in her sunken eyes; I was no longer Jacob Wolf, Private Detective. I was something far more menacing. Something incomprehensible, something to be wary of. Something to be afraid of.

Adjusting my fedora down to shield my eyes, I cleared my throat before speaking in a composed manner.

"I have no intention of harming him... or you, Mrs. De Laney, if that is what you are thinking" I reassured her, placing my hands in my pockets and casting my gaze downward. "I simply want to help resolve this case once and for all. But to do that, I need to speak with Patrick myself... Please, I only seek to assist you." It had been some time since I'd spoken with such sincerity, but I needed her trust at that moment. I needed to locate Patrick and bring an end to this ordeal else this might impact my perfect streak of solved cases.. However, I doubted she would comply. How could she, after our eye contact? She would likely terminate our arrangement, pay me off, and rid herself of my presence to find solace. Then, her hand emerged, holding a torn piece of paper. I glanced at her, focusing on her forehead to avoid her gaze, but it seemed I needn't have worried about meeting her eyes again. Now, her gaze was fixed elsewhere on my body, though I couldn't discern where exactly—probably my hand or wrist.

"Take it... I've written down his location for you, " she offered, and I stared at her, my expression blank. “It’s raining pretty hard, call a taxi… I’ll pay for it”

I accepted the slip of paper with Patrick’s location in Midtown Manhattan, my senses are keenly aware of Mrs De Laney's subtle shift in demeanour. Her offer to cover my ride didn't go unnoticed. Under the influence of my Death Stare, she seemed reluctant to deny me this small favour, and if it brought her even a modicum of comfort, I saw no reason to refuse. After summoning Francis, my trusted taxi driver who happened to be nearby, I bid Mrs. De Laney farewell.

"Thank you, Mrs. De Laney. I'll see what I can find," I said as I headed towards the door, the sound of tires splashing through rain-soaked streets signalling my ride's arrival. Well, the signal was pretty obvious. His car has one of those horns that plays La Cucaracha. As I swung the door open, Mrs. De Laney spoke up.

"Mr. Wolf... If you find evidence of his infidelity..." Her voice faltered briefly as she gathered her courage. She kept her gaze fixed on her lap, but I couldn't help but focus on the back of her head. Though I owed her enough respect to face her while she spoke, I avoided meeting her eyes. "Please... don't seek revenge on my behalf..." Surprisingly, when she looked back up at me, there was no trace of wariness in her gaze, only unwavering determination. "I may not know much about you beyond your profession, but... I feel compelled to say this... So, please refrain from harming him."

I met her gaze in silence, fighting the urge to lock eyes with her. Not out of a desire to instil fear, but rather to understand her perspective. What did she see when she looked at me? Was I viewed as a saviour, a harbinger of bad news, a mediator, or a catalyst for further discord in her marriage? I couldn't discern the answers solely from the space between her eyes. With a slow nod, I replied, "If I uncover evidence, I promise not to punch the lights out of them. That satisfaction should be yours to claim.” My words elicited a small smile from her, and I returned it in kind before tipping my fedora in her direction and exiting her home. Francis, the friendly Italian taxi driver I'd met a year prior, awaited me in the driveway inside his car, his hand waving and headlights blinking. I entered the cab and immediately felt dizzy from the scent of leather and air fresheners. That's why I prefer walking.

"Luckily I was in the neighbourhood Mr. Wolf. Hate to see youz walk all the way there unda' this storm" Said Francis, he had this way of speaking in an Italian accent that made it sound like he's a New Yorker. I don't mind, I was told I sound British at times or have a European accent by my past clients.

"If I knew  the amount of air fresheners you use in this car, I would have actually chose to walk there" I replied and he gave me a loud laugh, louder than a gun firing.

"Good one, Mista' Wolf! A fat joggah' puked olova' the back seat earlier this mornin'. Managed to remove the stains, not the smell. Hence the air fresheners. You can open the windows if you want?"

"Open them" I replied immediately and the windows on both side lowered. The smell of rain is nicer than the car. After that, Francis started driving to my next destination.

Susan O’Hara De Laney. I admired her resolve. Despite glimpsing something unspoken in my eyes, she trusted my commitment to the case. She’s a strong woman, and any man would be fortunate to have her as his wife. Those who would dare cheat on her are more insane than inmates in Gotham's asylum. Admittedly, the thought of confronting her husband stirred a desire to deliver a punch to that shmuck's face. Well, there's only one way to find out.