Phone.<br/><br/>Phone?<br/><br/>"Ah, shit!" he cursed, tumbling suddenly out of his desk chair, addled and hardly awake, stumbling to the landline telephone that perched on the corner of the coffee table across the small, though tastefully decorated lounge. The phone didn't pop up with a caller ID, causing him to hesitate for a second, unsure whether or not to answer. More often than not, the calls were harmless, but in his line of work, he had become no stranger to threats and prank calls.<br/><br/>All the same, he couldn't afford to miss a call; business had been slow recently, predominantly because he was incredibly picky in which cases he would pursue. Far too often did people call him, demanding he find out if their spouse was cheating, or where their missing dog could possibly have run off to, and it downright infuriated him. God-dammit, he was smart, he knew what he was doing, and he was capable of so much more. And he wanted to be entertained. Challenged. If he wanted to spend all day hearing about adultery, custody battles and drug addictions, he may as well quit his job and watch Jeremy Kyle all day.<br/><br/>Taped, blue-tacked or pinned to the wall above his desk were newspaper clippings, photographs and articles from the internet, all kinds of things related to his work - cases he had solved, or tried to, cases he had followed, cases he had dreamed of solving. Crime, real crime. That was his interest. His fascination. The psychology of criminals, their actions, their behaviours, their 'works of art'; that was what really interested him. He might have tried for work with the police, but nothing available seemed to really float his boat. Too many regulations, too much paperwork, not enough of the really juicy bits.<br/><br/>Clearing his throat, he picked up the phone and prepared himself for what he assumed would only be yet another disappointment, "Hello, you've reached Dean Fuller, Private Investigator," he chimed in his best business voice, "What is the nature of your enquiry?"