A Body to die for

Page Six item—with flattering photo (thank God)—hangs framed on the wall in my Times Square office.
    “Did you like the picture?” I couldn’t help asking. “Oh, yeah. It was great. Nice smile. Very nice.”
    I reappraised this stinky jogger. He wasn’t hard on the eyes. Around twenty-six. Good legs, too hairy though. His nipples poked at his shirt like turkey thermometers. His sandy blond hair was darkened with sweat. The hazel eyes were outlined by long, girly lashes. The overall look was scruffy, like a dog or a kid after playing touch football. And he was hitting on me. “Not interested,” I said. “Take your banana wedgie somewhere else.”
    He blushed and rearranged his shorts. “I think you’ve misunderstood me,” he protested. “I’m married. While you are an extremely attractive woman, you’re really not my type.”
    But I was every man’s sexual fantasy. Surely he knew. “And what type might that be, asshole?” I asked.
    “Well, you know. Someone who works out.”
    “You think I don’t work out?”
    “Do you?” he asked, shocked.
    “As a matter of fact, I do.” I burn a million calories a day, lifting crumpets to my mouth. And chewing. Melts fat like crazy.
    “I’m sorry,” he said. “I have to stop offending you. This just isn’t turning out the way I wanted it to. I wanted to come up to you, say that I saw your picture, and then, well, you know.”
    “What, jog off into the sunset?” I asked.
    “Hire you,” he said, shyly.
    “And you just happened to know that I’d be walking along this stretch of pavement at this particular hour on this Tuesday night in June?”
    “It was a spontaneous decision,” he said. “I saw you, and the answer to my problem was suddenly clear.” He paused, crossing his arms over his chest. “It’s my wife. I think she’s cheating on me. With a bald guy.” His brow furrowed with the confession. Genuine or not, he seemed concerned. I hadn’t taken a case since the big TV caper, and my funds were nearly depleted. I’d planned to start looking for work as soon as I could get my belongings unpacked in my new apartment with Max. That particular project was moving as quickly as continental drift.
    “Who’s your wife?”
    “Ameleth Bergen,” he said proudly.
    “Is that supposed to mean something to me?”
    “You haven’t heard of Ameleth?” he asked, surprised.
    “It’s a big city. I don’t think we run in the same circles.”
    “I just run along the Promenade.”
    “Who is she, Jack?”
    “How’d you know my name was Jack?” I didn’t, but shrugged mysteriously. “Either you’re an incredible detective”—natch, I thought—“or a tennis fan.” He searched my eyes, hoping.
    “Love all,” I said.
    He smiled modestly. “Oh, I’ve won my share of trophies, but I guess you know that already.” Max followed tennis. I made a mental note to ask him about this guy, Jack. Bergen? Didn’t ring a single, tiny bell. Maybe he had another last name.
    “Ameleth didn’t change her name,” I bluffed.
    “Why should she? She’s her own person,” he answered defensively.
    I waved him off. “I’m sure she is.” Like I needed a lesson on being your own person.
    “She’s got a profession, you know,” he said. “She has business contacts. If she changed her name, they’d be confused.” Sounded to me like this was a sore spot for Jack.
    “You’ve been married for a while?” I asked. At least long enough for her to go elsewhere for action.
    “Two years. Ameleth owns and runs the Western Athletic Club on Pierrepont Street. Right around the corner. Four clay courts. I’m the head pro.” Wonder how he got the job. The Western Athletic Club was the place where downwardly mobile Brooklyn Heights yups gathered to inflict pain on themselves and discuss it later over a carrot cocktail by the natural juice bar. Max toured the place a couple weeks ago and signed up on the spot. The club was one of the reasons he agreed to move to Brooklyn from the Upper East Side.
    “I’ve heard of the place,” I said. Max’s year membership set him back $1,200, plus another couple hundred for a one-time-only initiation fee. To me, it seemed like a lot to pay for the privilege of lifting heavy metal objects. This Jack must be rolling. I said, “I take three days’ fee up-front, and you pay expenses.”
    “Starting when?”
    “Right now.”
    “You’ll start the investigation tonight?” he asked, obviously pleased.
    “You’ve got