She walked into my office like a friend I hadn’t met yet.

I stared through the slats of my Venetian blinds and pinched a cigarette between my teeth. I don’t light it anymore, not since I read The Fault in Our Stars.

The poor bastard had more holes in him than my early crochet work.

Be warned, if you sneak up on me in the dead of night, I always sleep with my precious Smith & Wesson at my side. Those are the names of my two miniature poodles—they like to be scratched under the chin, and they’re my good little boys yes they are.

I have a hunch: The killer might just need some space right now.

Once, when I was a boy detective, I accidentally used my magnifying glass to burn an ant hill. I cried about what I’d done for three days.

Fellas, I’ve been framed. Now to place this watercolor self-portrait on my mantel!

I’m sensitive to the scent of gunpowder at thirty yards. I’m sensitive to the smallest micro-expressions in a suspect during interrogations. I’m sensitive to any kind of criticism, even when it’s constructive and well intentioned.

Now see here: I’m a private eye. But I’m also a public shoulder to cry on.

Yes it’s a ransom note with letters cut out of magazines, but you have to appreciate skilled scrapbooking when you see it.

Maybe there’s a clue in the bottom of that pint of ice cream? Today’s my cheat day!

Harvey “Zits” Malone had the sort of mug that a regular skin care routine could fix in a jiffy. And who am I to judge a man’s character based on his physical appearance?

The game is afoot. And that game… is bowling (with the bumpers up).

There was a puddle of blood—ten feet across—in the middle of the living room. Gosh, I hope they’re okay!

Police Chief McCuddy said I was meddling in affairs I didn’t understand. He told me to drop the case or else I’d get what was coming to me. I sincerely apologized and dropped the case.

This chalk ain’t for tracing cadavers, kid. It’s for hopscotch.

Manners are everything: Before I tail a person of interest, I always make a point of introducing myself.

This gumshoe needs orthopedics.

It’s good practice to wear gloves before examining a crime scene. Mine are white silk, and they go up past my elbows.

Ms. DuPont was the kind of dame who made my imagination run wild: My local librarian.

Where were you on the night of October the 17th?! Because it was my birthday party, and nobody showed. Be honest: Am I annoying?

Me oh my… Those legs—smooth, shiny, slender—were the kind of legs that could stop a man dead in his tracks. Not to mention that lacquered mahogany! I simply adore my new coffee table.

Mister, I’ll let you off with a warning this time. But no more murdering!