Undercover and between the sheets

By Donald Winchester
Private Eye

It's been a crazy few weeks -- Al Davis' birthday party-crazy -- since I went undercover again. See, life is that way when you choose the path I've chosen, and all I can do is soldier on. Poor Cheryl thinks I'm on a business trip to the East Coast, and I even hired a kid to shout something about clam chowdah in the background every time I call my lovely wife. His accent is thick -- thick as chowdah -- and I'm pretty sure Cheryl doesn't suspect.

These are the things that have to be done when you're Donald Winchester, Private Eye.

It wasn't so long ago that I was in Mexico, following around the great Tony Romeo on assignment from the greater Jerry Jones. The plot has gotten more complicated -- the rules to Magic: The Gathering-complicated -- since then. For now I am tracking the greatest celebrity on the face of the planet, Thomas Edward Patrick Brady. They call him Mr. Perfect. The facts are these:

Ever since the Patriots sealed their ticket to the Super Bowl, becoming the first 18-0 team ever to walk the earth, the paparazzi has been on Brady like huffing addicts to cans of Glade. To distract them, the clever Brady -- Dennis Hopper in "Speed" clever -- took a stroll down the block with a walking boot and has missed the first few team practices. People think he's hurt. But I know better. A man who called himself Willy B came into my office and told me to follow Mr. Perfect, to discover the truth behind his sudden disappearance. Willy B hid behind a hoodie and looked ominous -- Ghost of Christmas Future-ominous -- and I feared what would happen if I did not comply.

I've traced Mr. Perfect to his old stomping grounds in San Mateo, California, and I found him sight-seeing with a lovely woman. From afar, I fully expected it to be his faux-French fox, Gisele. She's hot -- chicken broaster-hot -- and I wouldn't have blamed Mr. Perfect for taking a field trip with his mademoiselle. But then, I got closer.

You see, Mr. Perfect is caught in a web of lies and deceit. For his new arm candy is none other than the siren Jessica Simpson, the same temptress who ruined Tony Romeo's aim for success. After following the happy couple to a bistro, I saw them temporarily part ways, as he went to buy her a gift at a jewelry store and she perused an adjacent shop, looking for new shoes. Who do you think I discovered in that same shoe shop with the evil-seeking Simpson? I think you know. But let me tell you.

His face was still red from last weekend's game in Green Bay -- Clifford the Dog-red -- and he still wore that colorful hat. Fit right in with the San Francisco locals. It was Tom Coughlin, of course, Simpson's co-conspirator. There was foul play afoot, and Donald Winchester had seen it all before.

I saw them cavort and share a laugh, and then Coughlin returned to the shadows and Simpson returned to Mr. Perfect. He gave her a necklace and she squealed with delight -- Ron Hunter after IUPUI made the NCAA tournament delight -- but I knew it was all for show. The fix was in.

I was about to radio in my findings to my new employer -- the dark and mysterious Willy B -- but I was apprehended by Michael Strahan and Osi Umenyora. They're terrifying -- Tobin Bell in the Saw series-terrifying -- and I was thrown into the back of a van, never to be seen again.

And so I'm locked in a room somewhere on the West Coast, hoping this message reaches Willy B in time. Someday, Donald Winchester, Private Eye, will be free to tell his story, but when? And how? Will it be too late?