By Anonymous

I’m a private investigator. Before you picture a trench coat, fedora, and a half-empty flask of whiskey, let me squash that cliché — I wear jeans and t-shirts, and I might be standing politely behind you at Zabar’s while you buy nova.

I live on the Upper West Side. I have a graduate degree, and a mortgage on a co-op. To protect my career and my clients, I’m keeping my identity to myself.

Friends are fascinated by my detective work and press me for stories at parties. They want to hear glamorous tales about rooftops in Rome, car chases, and switchblades at the ready at midnight. My reality is far humbler and often more amusing. Most days, it’s about using the phone, searching the Internet, and watching perfectly ordinary people do perfectly ordinary things.

My first assignm

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