My name is Sam Grit. Like the sign on my door says, I’m a private investigator. Some refer to us as private dicks, snoops, gumshoes, flat-foots. I don’t give a damn, as long as I get paid my fee. A hundred smackers an hour. I’m one of a dying breed. There are only a few of us Dicks left here in San Francisco. There’s still work when the coppers are either too busy or don’t place a high priority on cases like missing persons, marital infidelity, kidnapped dogs, cats, etc.
But, not long ago, I received a call from the City District Attorney. “Sam, it’s District Attorney Leland Campbell.” I knew right off that whatever he was about to tell me had to be really important. I grew up with Lee, and he never addressed himself to me with his full title. I had to ask him to speak up because he was almost whispering. “Sam, Chief O’Halloran was found floating in the bay early this morning.” “Was he dead?” I asked. “He was deader than a eunuch’s prick,” said Campbell.