[ WP ] A private investigator tailing a politician discovers that his wife is involved with his target .

I had been trailing Johnson all the way to the Whiting Hotel. As he slipped into the lobby, I crossed the street to the park and picked the bench by the large maple. I unfurled the newspaper that had been tucked under my arm, and began to falsely peruse as I waited for him to emerge on the balcony of room 304. I had tracked him here before and knew that he was a dedicated cigarette enthusiast; hell I even knew the brand—Pall Malls. But that was my job and Johnson was my current occupation. Ever since his opponent David McCallister had come into my office and slid a check across my desk, instructing only, “ Find something. ” 
 
 I was a private investigator, detective for hire, gumshoe—whatever you want to call it. I had been tailing Johnson for two weeks and knew that he frequented the Whiting every Thursday around two o ’ clock to meet some bird. Infidelity wasn ’ t a death sentence, but it was a start—something to add to the repertoire. Finally, Johnson emerged on the balcony. He walked slowly to the edge, watching traffic for a moment before lighting a cigarette. His heavy form leaned on the railing; and with a tinge of malice, I hoped that the wrought iron would give way. 
 
 This was my second trip to Baker Park, but this time I had tucked a small pair of binoculars into my coat. `` Bird watching'' I smiled as I retrieved them from my coat and set them in my lap. As if summoned by my anticipations, Johnson turned from the balcony and beckoned for someone to join him on the overlook. I set the paper down, and raised the binoculars to my eyes. The woman that joined him paused, hesitated as she surveyed the world below, and then kissed him deeply. She was stunning with golden radiant hair, fair lips and a svelte frame. Even from my distance in the park I could see the piercing azure eyes that I had known so intimately. I watched Johnson ’ s fat and slovenly hands caress the form that for seven years had only known my touch. It was my wife, Erin. 
 
 I lowered the binoculars slowly, feeling numb and then a rising surge of anger that clenched my throat. I instinctively clutched the checkered wood of the.357 revolver holstered under my jacket. `` I am going to murder that mother fucker,'' I seethed. I thought of jumping from the park bench, racing to the Whiting across the street. I rejoiced in the idea of bounding up the stairs and pounding on the door, waiting for both to answer—watched the swath of shame march across my wife ’ s face, the fear and confusion blotting the bloated face of Johnson. I fantasized of pulling the revolver, unloading all six rounds until it clicked, clicked, clicked. Empty. 
 
 I stood up from the bench and calmly folded the newspaper. Instead of darting across Liberty, I turned the opposite direction. I walked into the office building nine blocks away, and bypassed the stammering receptionist that tried to delay my unwavering advance. I pulled the check from my wallet and slammed it on McCallister ’ s desk as he stared wide-eyed and mouth agape, the jabbering associate still talking in the phone held lamely to his ear. 
 
 “ This ones on the house. ” I said and left. 

