“You’re the worst detective ever,” said my brother.
“What does that make you?” I shot back. “You’re WORKING for the worst detective ever.”
My brother Larry didn’t say anything. He just glared at the phone, which sat silently on his messy desk. It hadn’t rung in more than two days. And that had been a wrong number.
We’d been working together for three years, and we were starting to drive each other crazy. Larry came in to work with me, and we left together at the end of the day. And since we hadn’t had a customer all week, we’d spent a full eight hours every day cooped up together in our tiny office—and then all night watching detective reruns in the apartment we shared.