Lipstick

When I got back to my office, she was sitting in the better of the two chairs I kept for clients. She was wearing an expensive-looking outfit in gray, lipstick in a particularly intense shade of red and a worried expression.
I had her story before I'd taken off my coat. There was a man. There were pictures. She had once imagined herself to be in love with the man. This was no longer the case. She wanted the pictures back, he wanted money. Lots of money.
She wanted me to persuade the man to give up the pictures. I got the impression that she didn't expect me to rely on my charm and magnetic personality. I explained that I wasn't that kind of Private Eye. I was more the tracing-long-lost-relatives kind of Private Eye. I hardly ever had to break arms in order to look at residential directories or phone books.

After she left, I got to thinking about her story and, later that evening, I paid a visit to the Picture-man's apartment. Maybe my persuasive manner would be enough - I'm a pretty charming guy, after all. There was no answer when I knocked on his door but the door swung open. So I peeked inside. The decor was pretty spiffy - the ambience tending to the oriental - but the eye tended to be caught by the body lying on the rug that looked like it had cost more than my car. He had a bullethole in his forehead that looked like a third eye. His other eyes were wide open. He looked surprised. I was surprised. We were both surprised.

In the kitchenette, two used glasses stood on the side. One of them had a smear of lipstick. It was a particularly intense shade of red.