From the way Ellie hustled into my office and fussed with the crooked blinds, I could tell our latest visitor was going to be the sort you handle with kid gloves.

For six long years as receptionist at the agency, Ellie has waged war on those blinds every time some Very Important So-and-So has come in for a consultation. On every occasion, she's suffered the ignominy of defeat. At this point, her struggles are more of an advance warning system than anything else and she's practically a modern-day Paul Revere, ringing her little bell. I don't tell her this, of course. I don't think she'd appreciate the sentiment.

The grand and imposing Somebody in question was a woman of about 50 or thereabouts, wearing a tan suit that said business and an expression that said she was used to getting her way. As it was, I already had cases begging for my attention like half-starved mutts, so I wasn't inclined to go out of my way to get her on the hook, especially if she was the sort who liked to play high-and-mighty with the lowly Synth detective.

I'd been in Diamond City long enough to know the type. They descended from their perch in the Boxes every so often to rub shoulders with the hoi polloi, but they never let you forget that you were slumming it and that if they had their way, we'd be out rotting in the Fens with the ghouls and the mercs and all the other Goodneighbour castaways.

The lady pursed her lips and gave me an incredulous look. "You're Nick Valentine?"

I suppose she'd missed the sign out front, the big one with flashing neon letters.

"None other. Is this the part where we introduce ourselves?"

"Margery Gaines."

She kept staring at me, ignoring my attempt at a handshake. Humans have a way of forgetting standard politeness protocols when they're confronted with a genuine Synth in their nice, cozy haven of Diamond City.

Mind you, I'm a peculiar-looking fellow on the best of days, what with this rubber mug and my titanium frame showing through where the skin wore down or got nicked with bullets. Luckily, I'm a snappy dresser.

"Well, Ms. Gaines, what brings you to my office? It doesn't take a sleuth's powers of deduction to see you don't often visit Diamond City Market."

"It's Mrs. Gaines," she said, a little too quickly, and from the way her body bristled, I could tell her problem was marital in origin.

If there's one kind of case I can't stand, it's affairs of the heart. Give me a burglary or missing-persons, even a homicide, done cold and clean – I can work through that stuff and usually wind up doing a little good. When romance comes into the picture, that's when things get messy and I want to get the hell out.

"Mrs. Gaines," I repeated, feeling a touch of annoyance. "Now shall we cut to the chase? Not that I'm not enjoying the pleasantries and all."

"It's a confidential matter. You must promise your utmost discretion."

"Of course, of course." I gestured to the chair. "Why don't you take a seat and tell me a little more about Mr. Gaines, hm?"

Her eyes widened, her forehead furrowing. "I didn't say -"

"You didn't have to. It's written all over your face. Now what's the man done to upset you?"

"He's been traipsing off to Goodn-n-neigh-" Her lip trembled and tears came gushing out of her baby blues, which were not so cold and judgmental now.

For the first time since she'd come pushing through my office door, I felt sorry for her. Chronic sympathy is one of my worst afflictions and I've always been a particular sucker for crying dames. It's a quirk in my programming I'm certain the Institute wasn't aiming for when they cobbled me together out of scrap metal and Wonderglue.

"Shhh, it's alright. Take your time."

I handed her my cleanest handkerchief. It's embroidered with the initials 'NV' and a little pink heart with an arrow through it – a nice touch, if I say so myself. The first thing one learns in the detective racket: always keep a freshly laundered hankie in one's consulting desk, even if you don't have tear ducts. Not a day goes by that someone isn't sitting at my desk, sniffling into one of those cotton rags, though sometimes it's Ellie getting a no-good beau out of her system.

Mrs. Gaines accepted the hankie, dabbing at the corners of her eyes. It took a moment for her to reclaim her composure.

"My husband, Gregory, makes trips throughout the Commonwealth for his enterprise – accompanied by his bodyguards, of course. He says he's negotiating contracts for his chems business and until recently, I've had no reason to inquire further. He's very successful and he doesn't take well to others poking their noses into his affairs, even if they're part investors, as I am."

I nodded, wondering about the nature of Mr. Gaines' business. The chem trade was as unsavoury as it got, even if the fellow in question were sticking to the relatively 'clean' side of the industry – stims, Radaway, Rad-X, Med-X – the stuff that the doctors needed to patch folks up when they got into rough scrapes or were looking to change their old face for something a little fresher.

Chances were, if Gaines was trading throughout the Commonwealth, he'd been dipping his toe into murkier waters. Hardcore chems, the stuff that could make you cough up blood into your morning glass of brahmin milk or turn you into the kind of nutbar who skins his best pal to make a new suit of clothes. If so, we weren't just talking bodyguards here, we were talking a personal army at his beck-and-call, ushering him from one irradiated hellhole to another, the sort of toughs who thought taking on your typical raider gang was a lazy Sunday. To me, that said Gunners, loud and clear.

"One evening, I was helping Gregory out by taking his suit out to the cleaners for a wash. I look in the breast pocket of his coat and I find this note."

She handed me the note and I scanned my visual receptors down the page. The handwriting was nicer than most you see in the Commonwealth, where people haven't found much time to devote to their penmanship.

To my Diamond City Gem,

It's been so long since you came by the Third Rail to see little old me. It's been like a nuclear winter without your loving arms around me.

Tell wifey you've got some big deal in the works and we can take a little vacation, huh? You give me the sign and I'll be at in Room 166 at the Rex, waiting just for you, hot stuff. I'll make sure to wear that necklace you bought me...and once you arrive, nothing else.

Don't forget to bring those special goodies of yours so we can trip the light fantastic.

Xoxo,

Your Atom Bomb Baby

It was pretty damn incriminating. I could see why the 'wifey' in question was calling in the big guns to investigate.

"Mind if I hold onto this?" I asked her.

"Of course," Mrs. Gaines said. "It's disgusting, is what it is. It shows Gregory has been consorting with the lowest sort of person in the most repugnant of places."

"Goodneighbour is a rough-and-tumble neighbourhood," I conceded. "For some folks, that's part of its charm. I wouldn't advise you go there yourself."

A snooty type like her wouldn't last five minutes in that genteel company before someone would've stuck a knife in her and hustled off with her caps, her watch and her fillings. I had to give her credit for taking this job to the professionals - even if it meant it wound up on my already full plate and I wasn't so enthusiastic about delving into matters of the heart.

"You know the guy's a bad egg," I said. "You sure you want to dig around in this? It might be better just to toss the ingrate out on his ear and wash your hands of him."

"It isn't so simple," she said. "There's money to be considered. My investment and... other funds. If I have to leave, I'm not going to do it empty-handed. I need...leverage."

That's the thing with these marital jobs. You peel back the layers of hurt and betrayal and at the core, it's always about caps. Sometimes the caps are supposed to be a hard-won vengeance for all the years of misspent fidelity and sometimes they soothe wounded pride, but in the end, they're just caps. I've got memories of a time when you could find them littering the gutters, dented and forgotten, and people would've thought you were touched in the head to be hoarding the damn things. Now, they're the be-and-end-all and you see folks kill for them or starve in the gutter for want of them. It's a hell of a world, is all I can say.

The lady must've caught the look of distaste crossing my face, because she frowned and crossed her arms over her chest. "Are you going to take the job or not? I pay well, Mr. Valentine, and I always keep my promises."

"No question, you do, Mrs. Gaines. I'm not doubting that. It's just I've got a backlog of cases right now and a few of those are disappearances. High-priority stuff."

I was exaggerating just a touch on that last point. Most of the cases in my backlog were all sewn up by now, but there were still a few where questions lingered or a trail had gone colder than a January in Nantucket. If another sort of case had walked through my front door, I'd have been chomping at the bit.

"I'll pay you double your usual rate," Mrs. Gaines said.

"Now, look, I'm not trying to put a fix on you for caps. I take my given rate, plus expenses incurred in the course of the investigation. Nothing more, nothing less. I'm not trying to gouge you. But I do have other matters on the go and I need to clear this case with my partner."

She looked startled. "A partner? You didn't say anything about a partner."

"Well, no, Nora's not on the sign yet. She's been working with me on a consulting basis. Best damn partner I've ever had. You got nothing to worry about with her, Mrs. Gaines. She's the soul of discretion."

"Hmph. Alright. I suppose I'll have to...trust your judgement on this matter." The lady rose from her chair, holding the borrowed handkerchief between thumb and forefinger. It was clear she didn't know what to do with it.

"Keep it." I had the gut feeling she'd be crying more tears before this business was through. "Where can I contact you, Mrs. Gaines? I'll need to reach you to follow up about the case."

"I'm in the penthouse apartment of the Green Diamond Highrise. If I'm not in, you can leave a Holotape message with my butler, Hadfield."

Mrs. Gaines drew her dog-fur stole around her, squared her shoulders and marched out the door with as much dignity as she could muster, even though I could tell her ego had been punctured by the mere fact of talking to me like I was a flesh-and-blood person. Some folks got over the Synth thing pretty quick. Some people never did. I had a feeling this lady fell into the latter camp.