The only thing better than complaining about the bitter cold of winter was complaining about the endless heat of summer.
“You’re here, Mr. Jones, because a woman in a red dress told you to be here. Because she cried in your office and then offered you a lot of money and sweet sorrowful lies. The same reason you do everything.”
This was tropical, the kind of heat that filled a room and hung on your shoulders like a hot wet blanket. The kind of heat that feels like drowning if you breathed too deeply. The kind of heat that Jones P.I. hated most.