Perpetual Motion by Jeff Fulmer Page A

next to her. As he fell into his window seat, he rubbed the
rubble on his chin, wishing he had taken the time to shave.
    “Tough trip to Vegas?” she asked.
    “You could say that. Easy come, easy go,” he
said casually, like money was no object. He was, after all, flying
first class. “How about you? Were you here for business or
pleasure?”
    “Business, I’m afraid,” she said, turning to
look at him. “I’m in the insurance business.” She smiled
pleasantly. “I know, exciting stuff.”
    Seeing her close-up and full in the face
confirmed his initial suspicions. She was, in fact, beautiful.
Cool, smart, sexy, even age appropriate. And, if he wasn’t
mistaken, he detected a hint of danger lurking behind those cat-eye
frames.
    “Do you live in LA?” Cynical asked
hopefully.
    “No, I’m just going to do a risk analysis
report for a company we’re underwriting.”
    “You’re an actuary?”
    “Close enough. I warned you, it was
exciting,” she said playfully. “I’ll probably be in LA for a couple
of days before heading back home to Maryland.”
    That was a bit of bonus information Cynical
noted as the flight attendant came up the aisle. “Would you like a
drink before we taxi out?”
    “I’ll have a mimosa,” the woman replied.
    The attendant looked at Cynical.
    “Screwdriver.”
    While they waited for their pre-flight
beverages, the woman opened the magazine she had placed on her lap
when Cynical had arrived. Not ready to let the conversation die
just yet, he put out his hand.
    “Cynical.”
    “Excuse me?”
“Cynical Jones,” he repeated. If nothing else, his name was an
ice-breaker.
“Oh,” she said, taking his hand. “Amanda Wilkerson.”
    Her hand was soft, yet surprisingly firm, and
full of long elegant fingers. Glancing down, he noticed she wasn’t
wearing a diamond on her other hand.
    “Please tell me your mother didn’t name you
Cynical?”
“No. I just picked it up along the way.” He shrugged. “It seemed to
fit.”
    “What do you do?” she asked. “Professional
gambler? Hit man?”
    “Close,” he said, already liking her sense of
humor. “I’m a private detective.”
    She stared at him, as if waiting for the
punch line.
    “Really,” he reassured her.
    Reaching behind him, he pulled out his wallet
and handed her a business card. In plain black type it read,
“Cynical Jones, X-Detective” followed by a phone number and a post
office box.
    “What does the ‘X’ mean?”
    “Oh, it’s an inside joke, mostly between me
and myself,” he said. “I used to be a detective with the LAPD. But
no more. Hence the ‘x.’”
    “Here you are.” A hand descended from above
with bright orange drinks.
    Cynical looked up with a “thanks” at the
flight attendant before she buzzed away to deliver nectar to the
other first class flowers.
    “Mind if I keep this?” Amanda asked with the
hint of a smile on her lips. “You never know when I might need a
good x-detective.”
    “Please do.”
    Giving his seatmate a sidelong look, Cynical
settled back in the soft leather chair, took a sip of the drink,
and buckled his seat belt. Maybe he had this all wrong; maybe
flying first class wasn’t so bad after all.

CHAPTER
15

     
    Conversation flowed between Row 5, seats A
and B, looks lingered and, despite ample seat size, elbows lightly
touched. Amanda was a good listener, or maybe Cynical just needed
to talk. Another round of drinks at high altitudes probably didn’t
hurt either. In a short amount of time, he had talked more about
himself than he had in years.
    “It’s a cliché, but Ilene and I grew apart,
if we were ever really together,” Cynical said. “We were both
miserable, so I finally called it. I wasn’t prepared on how tough
splitting up could be. She got a good attorney and really kicked me
around.”
    “It was during all that mess that I was
involved in a shooting while on the job.” He hesitated; then
clarified. “I was the shooter. The suspect made a move