The Casebook of Justice and Dixon. The Case of the Legal Eagles, Part 1.

The name is Justice, Jack Justice.

It has been said more than once, in terms more poetical than I was likely to muster, that

the heart wants what it wants.

This is true enough as makes no odds, and not the sort of thing which requires a lot of

introspection.

Where it tends to run into a certain amount of trouble is when one or more hearts want things

that are mutually exclusive, if not downright contradictory. It is from this conundrum that a thousand ships are launched, that enterprises of great pitch and moment their currents turn awry,

and from which private detectives are often gainfully employed to sort it all out.

As an example that leapt to the top of mind on this gray morning, with the cold rain pelting against the window

panes in the mighty world headquarters of Justice and Dixon private investigations,

what my own heart wanted most of all, was to have remained under the covers,

within the sanctuary of a certain marital bungalow with someone soft and nurse-shaped,

who had been working a week of nights and had been much missed in all that time by yours truly.

This was at odds with the wishes of my partner's shriveled icy heart, which wished resolutely to remain in business for some reason, which alluded me, and desperately needed

the steely resolve of the company's most experienced investigator to ensure that result,

whether the girl detective cared to admit it or not.

For today we were in that rare state of grace of having a third human in the room,

who sat dripping all over the second best chair in our parlor,

under the watchful and suspicious gaze of King, the crime-fighting dog deluxe,

whose own heart wanted nothing more than to maintain the uninterrupted occupation of the very best chair, whatever some interloper may wish to the contrary.

The interloper in question was a man of medium build, which I often tend to estimate a little

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