Free Hit by Tara Moss

she said under her breath, but the freaked-out accountant couldn’t hear her. She left the man to his paranoia and, with a faint rustle of leather on leather, stepped through the door of Marian’s office, on which was written:
    MARIAN WENDELL AND ASSOCIATES PROFESSIONAL PRIVATE INVESTIGATIONS
    A bell chimed to alert Marian that she had a visitor. A closed-circuit camera would confirm Mak’s identity to her boss as she walked in.
    ‘Be with you soon, Mak,’ came Marian’s booming voice from down the hallway.
    ‘Okay,’ Mak called back, and took a seat in the waiting room.
    She made herself comfortable, taking her stiff leather jacket off and looking for something to read. She sifted through a couple of newspapers and a selection of out-of-date magazines in a stack on a glass coffee table in the waiting area. The Australian Women’s Weekly, New Woman, Woman’s Day, National Geographic, Cleo —the plethora of women’s titles was there for Marian’s strong female client base, the women who came to her with problems of errant husbands orsuspicious work practices and wanted a ‘private dick without the dick’, as Marian put it. Having read each of the old magazines twice over on previous visits to the office, Mak found a copy of the previous day’s Australian newspaper and perused it instead, speed reading articles on business and federal politics, the sale of Telstra, troops in the Middle East and handshaking on plans for a bullet train between Sydney and Melbourne.
    After a couple of minutes Marian stepped out of her office and waved Mak in.
    The infamous Marian Wendell was a woman of perhaps sixty-five years, and birdlike in size compared to Makedde’s Amazonian stature. She had big auburn hair that almost seemed to dwarf her features, and a penchant for expensive, glamorous clothing. She had been a very attractive woman in her youth, as evidenced by photos on a filing cabinet, and in her later years she still took great pride in her appearance and presentation. Marian’s hair was always meticulously dyed and styled and her make-up flawless; and, though a bit outdated, her wardrobe was flattering and well maintained. Marian had a handsome office—a practical space cluttered with neat files, but also a soothing space, with the distinctly feminine touches of a ceramic aromatherapy oil burner on the wide working desk, along with a crystal vase that was always stocked with yellow roses, and a romantic-looking Art Deco statue of a nymph on asquare display table taking pride of place in the room. Behind it, an Aboriginal dot painting of muted earthy tones depicted a giant serpent of the Dreamtime. Another wall was entirely covered by an impressively jumbled floor-to-ceiling bookshelf. From one tall window there was a view of the Sydney cityscape. Not a postcard of the Opera House exactly, but an impressive view nonetheless. It was a far cry from the dark, masculine quarters of a Philip Marlowe or a Mike Hammer.
    ‘This guy in the hallway freaked out when he saw me step out of the elevator. I think he figured you’re doing work for bikie gangs now.’
    Marian laughed.
    Mak was used to being misunderstood. The expression ‘looks are deceiving’ was not the exception but the rule for her. Marian, at least, thought it helped her protégée to look past the appearances of others to see their true nature. Perhaps that was right.
    ‘You are my secret weapon,’ Marian said, clearly pleased with her new agent. ‘Mrs Anderson was very happy with the result. Her husband was so embarrassed at being caught out that he’s agreed to half of her demands already.’
    ‘I am glad she was pleased,’ Mak replied.
    When it came to domestic jobs, not all clients were happy with an investigator’s results. The truth could hurt— a lot. Which was one of the many reasons Marian discouraged marital jobs from male clients. A woman might see evidenceof her husband rooting the secretary and respond by getting a good lawyer, while a