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Authors: marshall thornton
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firm in the loop,” Brian said as though that explained something. “He’s a paralegal.”
“I see,” I said because I couldn’t think of anything else.
“Nick works for a law firm, too. He’s an investigator.”
“We have an investigator at our firm. I think he’s an ex-convict,” Franklin said casually. I just smiled at that, though I knew perfectly well the investigator had to be clear of felonies for at least ten years in order to have a license. The point wasn’t that their investigator was an ex-con. The point was Franklin didn’t like me.
Despite the unpleasantness of the conversation, the dinner was actually good. When I finished I went into the living room and hung out on the sofa, which was basically my “room.” Terry had taken his dinner into his bedroom and Hart to Hart was on television. The ridiculousness of the show made me giggle a few times. Franklin and Brian cleaned up and I could tell that Franklin was chafed that I wasn’t doing the dishes. But even in the living room I could hear him bossing Brian around, and that wouldn’t have flown with me so I didn’t feel bad. I fell asleep sometime during the local news.
As I took the last sips of my morning coffee, I tried to focus on Jimmy’s case. The main thing I needed to do was discover who their informant was. From the transcripts I’d read, the informant knew a great deal about Jimmy. He was close to Jimmy. Close enough to steal or copy some kind of datebook or a series of datebooks, or diary, or journal. Of course, I needed to sit down with Jimmy and ask him about that, but it seemed a good idea to make a little progress first. I wanted to study the files I’d put together and read through everything again, but I didn’t think that would yield much. I knew what I needed to do; I just didn’t want to do it. I finished off the coffee, tossed the Styrofoam cup into my trash basket, and pulled my overcoat back on. It was time to go down to the Loop.
Operation Tea and Crumpets was working out of the Federal Building on Dearborn. From the information in the files, I knew that the interviews were taking place in their office on the twenty-third floor. What I wanted to know was who went in and out of the building, but even before I went down, I knew that was going to be difficult. I took the Jackson/Howard down to Jackson, and when I climbed up out of the subway I was right at the Federal building plaza staring at the big red bird by Calder.
The Federal Building was a black monolith by Mies van der Rohe of forty-some floors; across the street was the Courthouse, another van der Rohe building of only thirty floors, though much wider. Just beyond the Calder was a mammoth, one-story Post Office made of the same black metal used in the other two buildings. I was looking for someplace to watch the lobby of the federal building. My options were limited.
I circled the building. Across Jackson was a hundred-year-old, sixteen-story brick building. I eyed it seriously for a few minutes. If I could rent an office on the second floor then I’d be able to watch the entrance to the Federal Building. But that was a big if. Even if an office was available, I had no way of knowing if the landlord would go for something short term. And, if they somehow learned that I was watching the Federal Building in order to keep tabs on a Federal investigation, they might not feel too comfortable. I considered the Post Office for a moment. Like most Post Offices there were long lines most of the day. I could slip from long line to long line, keeping my eye on the Federal Building the whole time. But I figured sooner or later someone would notice me hanging around and ask me to buy some stamps or get out.
Walking into the lobby of the Federal Building I quickly saw that there were even fewer possibilities in there. In fact, there barely was an “in there.” The lobby, enclosed in two-story glass windows, was nothing but a shiny floor, some pillars,
“I see,” I said because I couldn’t think of anything else.
“Nick works for a law firm, too. He’s an investigator.”
“We have an investigator at our firm. I think he’s an ex-convict,” Franklin said casually. I just smiled at that, though I knew perfectly well the investigator had to be clear of felonies for at least ten years in order to have a license. The point wasn’t that their investigator was an ex-con. The point was Franklin didn’t like me.
Despite the unpleasantness of the conversation, the dinner was actually good. When I finished I went into the living room and hung out on the sofa, which was basically my “room.” Terry had taken his dinner into his bedroom and Hart to Hart was on television. The ridiculousness of the show made me giggle a few times. Franklin and Brian cleaned up and I could tell that Franklin was chafed that I wasn’t doing the dishes. But even in the living room I could hear him bossing Brian around, and that wouldn’t have flown with me so I didn’t feel bad. I fell asleep sometime during the local news.
As I took the last sips of my morning coffee, I tried to focus on Jimmy’s case. The main thing I needed to do was discover who their informant was. From the transcripts I’d read, the informant knew a great deal about Jimmy. He was close to Jimmy. Close enough to steal or copy some kind of datebook or a series of datebooks, or diary, or journal. Of course, I needed to sit down with Jimmy and ask him about that, but it seemed a good idea to make a little progress first. I wanted to study the files I’d put together and read through everything again, but I didn’t think that would yield much. I knew what I needed to do; I just didn’t want to do it. I finished off the coffee, tossed the Styrofoam cup into my trash basket, and pulled my overcoat back on. It was time to go down to the Loop.
Operation Tea and Crumpets was working out of the Federal Building on Dearborn. From the information in the files, I knew that the interviews were taking place in their office on the twenty-third floor. What I wanted to know was who went in and out of the building, but even before I went down, I knew that was going to be difficult. I took the Jackson/Howard down to Jackson, and when I climbed up out of the subway I was right at the Federal building plaza staring at the big red bird by Calder.
The Federal Building was a black monolith by Mies van der Rohe of forty-some floors; across the street was the Courthouse, another van der Rohe building of only thirty floors, though much wider. Just beyond the Calder was a mammoth, one-story Post Office made of the same black metal used in the other two buildings. I was looking for someplace to watch the lobby of the federal building. My options were limited.
I circled the building. Across Jackson was a hundred-year-old, sixteen-story brick building. I eyed it seriously for a few minutes. If I could rent an office on the second floor then I’d be able to watch the entrance to the Federal Building. But that was a big if. Even if an office was available, I had no way of knowing if the landlord would go for something short term. And, if they somehow learned that I was watching the Federal Building in order to keep tabs on a Federal investigation, they might not feel too comfortable. I considered the Post Office for a moment. Like most Post Offices there were long lines most of the day. I could slip from long line to long line, keeping my eye on the Federal Building the whole time. But I figured sooner or later someone would notice me hanging around and ask me to buy some stamps or get out.
Walking into the lobby of the Federal Building I quickly saw that there were even fewer possibilities in there. In fact, there barely was an “in there.” The lobby, enclosed in two-story glass windows, was nothing but a shiny floor, some pillars,
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