Author's Note:

I have used the English spellings of the Mews' Japanese names. Keep in mind Japanese speakers will probably pronounce Lettuce, Mint, and Pudding as 'Retasu,' 'Minto,' and 'Purin.'

Rated T for strong language; this is a detective story, after all.

Finally, A La Mode does not exist in my personal canon. So although all the Mews get screen time, there's no Beri. Just... no.

~Taidine

. Primus .

It was a dreary day, but at least my coffee was hot, and in this town that's the best you can hope for some mornings. With the clouds smeared across the sun like a burial shroud and the air clinging to my skin, damper than this morning's shower, I should have known it was going to be one of those mornings, but I took the coffee to be a good omen, and I was smiling when I walked up the stairs to my office. Shoot me – I'm an optimist.

I opened the door, wincing at the creak it gave. I was going to have to shell out some money to fix that soon. I could only hope I'd have enough after this month's rent. My secretary was sitting with his chair tipped back and his heels up on his desk, which always made me wince even though I knew the mahogany was faker than a con-man's diamond. "Joe-kun, all feet should be on the floor," I growled. He let the chair tip forward. "I meant yours!"

"Jesus, boss, you're crankier than usual this morning," Joe whined, taking his feet off the desk. I knew they'd be up again as soon as I left, but as long as he took them down for me and for customers, we could live in a state of compromise. "Want some cheering up?"

"Does it involve money or the termination of your contract?" I asked tetchily, sweeping up the mail on the surface of the desk to see if any of it was important. Junk. Junk. Junk. Bills I couldn't pay. I threw them all into the hearth – on principle, since there hasn't been a fire lit in that thing in the last century or so. I think the chimney's blocked up, and I don't really want to find out.

"Aw, come on, I have to get those out later," groused Joe, giving me a look that wouldn't have been out of place on a kicked puppy. "Cheer up. Not only am I staying with you for what looks like most of eternity, but you've got a client waiting in the office."

"A client? Why didn't you say so earlier?" I asked, instantly perking up. Maybe this one would even pay for my services.

"'Cause you were too busy reprimanding me," Joe answered, letting his chair tip down again with a thump and getting up to rescue the mail from the fireplace. "I don't like the look of him."

"No?" I asked. Joe had good instincts, whatever his flaws.

"Rich, slimy type. Thinks he's too hot to handle."

I laughed, a little giddy at the prospect of work – maybe even paying work. "I get it. You're jealous, Joe-kun. Guess I'll have to go see for myself then. Ja ne!"

The outer door was as flimsy as the rest of the building, but it had my name on the front in gilt letters and the words 'Private Investigator' below, just in case anyone hadn't known what kind of idiocy they were getting into. The inner door, to my office proper, was just as thin, without even the classy touch of a name. It swung open at a touch – at least this one didn't creak.

Well, there was a client waiting in the office, and one glance was enough to tell me he would be nothing but trouble. To start out with, he was one-hundred-percent melt-in-your-mouth gorgeous; blonde hair, blue eyes, tall and leggy, with a slender wiry frame that couldn't have appealed more to my Japanese-grown aesthetic. To continue, I knew him, and Joe couldn't have been more right – a man more cocksure, rich, and slimy I have yet to meet. I treated him to a long, slow, considering stare, then drawled in my most lethargic American accents: "Shirogane-san."

"What, that's it, Midorikawa-san?" He replied. "Where's my special squeak, and the blush you save just for me?" The statement was in flawless Japanese, and it had been long enough since I heard my native language that I had to consciously switch gears. The bastard was clearly trying to put me off-balance.

"Can it, Shirogane," I snarled back in English, deliberately dropping his honorific. "This is business, so tell me what you want to hire me for or get out."

"You've changed, haven't you?" he asked, leaning in close to look me in the eyes. His face was inches from mine – cue flower petals and swirly borders. Irritated, I snatched a manila envelope from the stack on my desk and interposed it between us.

"Yeah, I have." Alright, so back in the old days I'd had a major crush on Shirogane. I'd even say we were close, except he only had eyes for Ichigo, just like everyone else. He had never seen me as more than a tool. But the damn bastard knew he could use his looks to manipulate people, and I had been a naïve pigtailed little girl, so here we were fifteen years later and I guess it's only natural he would try the same moves on me. Not happening. Jerk. "Now, I'll ask you again. What the hell do you want?"

He leaned back against my desk, pushing down the manila envelope between us with one finger so he could regard me gravely over the top edge. "I've got a case for you. Two thousand a day plus expenses and enough to fix the spelling of your name on the office door."

"The office door is fine, but as long as that's dollars and not yen I'll consider it," I answered. The door in question read 'Retasu Midorikawa,' since a phonetic rendering of my name appeared exotic where the proper English spelling – 'Lettuce' – just looked like the main component of a salad. "What's the mystery, then?"

"You might want to take a seat," Shirogane told me. I crossed my arms over my chest. I could take it. He sighed. "Fine.

"Masaya Aoyama is dead."