as a key investigator for me, a task that he accomplishes without even leaving his desk.
Sam has mastered cyberspace and can navigate it to find out pretty much anything. He is simply a genius at hacking into government
agencies, corporations, or any other entity naive enough to think it is secure. If I need a phone record, or a bank statement,
or a witness’s background, all I need to do is put Sam on the case. The fact that it’s not always strictly legal is not something
that has kept either of us awake nights.
I set the meeting at nine o’clock, because I’m due in Hatchet’s chambers at ten thirty to give him an update on what is happening
with Waggy. It’s a meeting that was arranged before I took Steven on as a client, and I’m hoping the new situation will at
least get me off the Waggy hook.
I’m in the office at nine sharp, and Sam arrives ten minutes later. Sam always has a disheveled look about him, and it’s exaggerated
in the summer, when he’s hot and sweaty. Today is a particularly stifling day, and he comes in looking much the worse for
wear. Sam has often said he would rather the temperature were ten than eighty.
“Hot out there,” I say after he has grabbed a cold soda.
He nods. “You ain’t kidding. Summer in the city. Back of my neck gettin’ dirty and gritty.”
Sam and I are practitioners of a juvenile hobby we call “song-talking,” during which we try to work song lyrics into our conversations.
Sam is a master at it; if they gave out rankings in song-talking he would be a black belt.
He’s opened with a Lovin’ Spoonful gambit. Fortunately, I am somewhat familiar with it, so hopefully I can compete. I nod
sympathetically. “Isn’t it a pity. There doesn’t seem to be a shadow in the city.”
He doesn’t miss a beat, walking over to the window and looking down on the street. He shakes his head sadly. “All around the
people looking half dead, walking on the sidewalk, hotter than a match head.”
“You’re too good for me,” I say. “You ready to start the meeting?”
“If we have to,” he says, with some resignation.
“I need some help on a case.”
He brightens immediately. “You do? Why didn’t you say so?”
“I just did. That’s how you found out about it.”
“I mean when you called me. I figured you wanted me to do some boring accountant stuff.”
“Sam, you’re an accountant.”
“And you’re a lawyer, but I don’t see you jumping for joy on the judge’s table.”
“Bench,” I say. “The judge sits behind a bench.”
“Whatever. What do you need me to do?”
“Find out whatever you can about Walter Timmerman.”
“The dead drug guy?” he asks.
I nod. “The dead drug guy.”
“What do you want to know about him?”
“Ultimately, I want to know why he’s not still a live drug guy, but don’t limit yourself. I want to know about his money;
how he earned it and where he spent it. I want to know who he spoke to on the phone in the last month before he died. If he
sent e-mails I want to see them, if he traveled I want to know where he went and who he went with. Basically, anything you
can find out about him interests me.”
“What’s the time frame?” he asks.
I just stare at him and frown. He knows that everything is a rush.
“Okay,” he says. “I’m on it.”
“Thanks, Sam. As always, I appreciate it.”
He shrugs. “Hey Andy, you just call out my name, and you know wherever I am, I’ll come running.”
I’m pretty sure he’s doing James Taylor. “Winter, spring, summer, or fall?” I ask.
He nods. “All you have to do is call.”
This could go on forever, so I attempt to end the conversation, though I can’t resist a final jab. “Okay, Sam, we’re done
here. My body’s aching and my time is at hand.”
“No problem,” he says. “But Andy…”
“Yes?”
“Remember, you’ve got a friend. Ain’t it good to know? You’ve got a friend.”
Hatchet is handling an
Sam has mastered cyberspace and can navigate it to find out pretty much anything. He is simply a genius at hacking into government
agencies, corporations, or any other entity naive enough to think it is secure. If I need a phone record, or a bank statement,
or a witness’s background, all I need to do is put Sam on the case. The fact that it’s not always strictly legal is not something
that has kept either of us awake nights.
I set the meeting at nine o’clock, because I’m due in Hatchet’s chambers at ten thirty to give him an update on what is happening
with Waggy. It’s a meeting that was arranged before I took Steven on as a client, and I’m hoping the new situation will at
least get me off the Waggy hook.
I’m in the office at nine sharp, and Sam arrives ten minutes later. Sam always has a disheveled look about him, and it’s exaggerated
in the summer, when he’s hot and sweaty. Today is a particularly stifling day, and he comes in looking much the worse for
wear. Sam has often said he would rather the temperature were ten than eighty.
“Hot out there,” I say after he has grabbed a cold soda.
He nods. “You ain’t kidding. Summer in the city. Back of my neck gettin’ dirty and gritty.”
Sam and I are practitioners of a juvenile hobby we call “song-talking,” during which we try to work song lyrics into our conversations.
Sam is a master at it; if they gave out rankings in song-talking he would be a black belt.
He’s opened with a Lovin’ Spoonful gambit. Fortunately, I am somewhat familiar with it, so hopefully I can compete. I nod
sympathetically. “Isn’t it a pity. There doesn’t seem to be a shadow in the city.”
He doesn’t miss a beat, walking over to the window and looking down on the street. He shakes his head sadly. “All around the
people looking half dead, walking on the sidewalk, hotter than a match head.”
“You’re too good for me,” I say. “You ready to start the meeting?”
“If we have to,” he says, with some resignation.
“I need some help on a case.”
He brightens immediately. “You do? Why didn’t you say so?”
“I just did. That’s how you found out about it.”
“I mean when you called me. I figured you wanted me to do some boring accountant stuff.”
“Sam, you’re an accountant.”
“And you’re a lawyer, but I don’t see you jumping for joy on the judge’s table.”
“Bench,” I say. “The judge sits behind a bench.”
“Whatever. What do you need me to do?”
“Find out whatever you can about Walter Timmerman.”
“The dead drug guy?” he asks.
I nod. “The dead drug guy.”
“What do you want to know about him?”
“Ultimately, I want to know why he’s not still a live drug guy, but don’t limit yourself. I want to know about his money;
how he earned it and where he spent it. I want to know who he spoke to on the phone in the last month before he died. If he
sent e-mails I want to see them, if he traveled I want to know where he went and who he went with. Basically, anything you
can find out about him interests me.”
“What’s the time frame?” he asks.
I just stare at him and frown. He knows that everything is a rush.
“Okay,” he says. “I’m on it.”
“Thanks, Sam. As always, I appreciate it.”
He shrugs. “Hey Andy, you just call out my name, and you know wherever I am, I’ll come running.”
I’m pretty sure he’s doing James Taylor. “Winter, spring, summer, or fall?” I ask.
He nods. “All you have to do is call.”
This could go on forever, so I attempt to end the conversation, though I can’t resist a final jab. “Okay, Sam, we’re done
here. My body’s aching and my time is at hand.”
“No problem,” he says. “But Andy…”
“Yes?”
“Remember, you’ve got a friend. Ain’t it good to know? You’ve got a friend.”
Hatchet is handling an
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