lot with the other kids. I came home one afternoon, must be like
two weeks ago now, she was gone. The place spotless, a month’s rent for her
and
me on my pillow, but not even a note…” She looked over at him, said suddenly, “We partied a couple times with Zimmer and
his buddy, I never saw nuthin’ in either one of “em, but Vangie asked me.”
“Tell me about the buddy.”
“Bobby Farnsworth of Farnsworth, Fechheimer and Farnsworth. Mr. Cube.” Her sudden urchin grin shaved tenyears off her age. “Boooo-o-o-ring. I’m not really into IRAs and all that jazz, but like to him,
The Wall Street Journal
is
Rolling Stone.”
“Stocks and bonds?”
“Chicago Board of Trade all the way, baby.” She stopped in front of a run-down brick apartment building. “You walked me home
after all. It’s six floors straight up unless they fixed the elevator, but if you want a cup of coffee and ain’t afraid of
heights—”
“You don’t want to know me, Cindy,” said Dain. “I’m bad news. Even my cat won’t purr.”
She looked at him for a long moment, then nodded and leaned forward and up to kiss him on the cheek.
“Goodbye, Mr. Sad Man,” she said.
12
Before starting through the newspaper, Dain called Farnsworth, Fechheimer and Farnsworth. The receptionist sounded bored enough
to be doing her nails behind the switchboard. He told her, “I’d like to make an appointment with Mr. Farnsworth to discuss
setting up a rather substantial investment account.”
“Mr. Farnsworth Senior or Junior?”
“Junior.”
“Mr. Farnsworth Junior is in our San Francisco office for three months’ training. If anyone else—”
“No. But his San Francisco home phone number might help.”
He wrote it down, hung up. San Francisco. Could Zimmer and the woman, Broussard, also be in San Francisco? No. They would
be hiding in Broussard’s life, not Zimmer’s. But a good coincidence for Dain just the same. When the time came, Farnsworth
would be Zimmer’s best bet for moving the bonds.
But first, Broussard. Cracking the Chicago police computer with his laptop would take longer than direct action, so he quickly
scanned the morning newspaper, finally stopping at an item on the local news page.
COP IN COMA AFTER BRUTAL BEATING
When he got off-shift this morning at 4:00 a.m., plainclothes detective Seth “Andy” Anderson of Central Station made the mistake
of stopping off at a coffee…
Dain’s ballpoint pen underlined
Seth “Andy” Anderson
and
Central Station,
then hand-scrawled a letter on a sheet of hotel stationery cut in half so it was memo size. Dain used the half without the
letterhead, dating it five days earlier.
Andy:
I don’t want to go through channels on this one, since it’s about Vangie Broussard, that black-haired “exotic dancer” I been
humping since she left Chicago. I think she was involved in a 187PC out here a couple nights ago, and if she was, I wanta
bust it myself. I’ll be in Chi on the 14th, can you pull her package to give me a look when 1 get there? Thanks, pal.
He scrawled
Solly
below the note as a signature, then added a handwritten postscript:
P.S. I need a sweetener in the Department since you-know-what.
Dain addressed an envelope to Andy Anderson at Central Police Station, Chicago, then paused to run a mental check. It was
okay. Randy Solomon wasn’t due back from vacation for two more days, so he put Solomon’s SFPD return address in the upper
left corner, stamped it, set the date on a self-inking rubber stamp for five days previously, and canceled the stamp.
Finally, he put in the letter, sealed it, opened it againraggedly with his finger under the flap. He stuck the letter and an SFPD lieutenant’s shield in a leather carrying case into
the side pocket of the cheap, rather shabby suitcoat he had bought at the Salvation Army, and left the hotel.
Chicago’s Central Police Station was old, ill-kept, angry-looking, as if it never got
two weeks ago now, she was gone. The place spotless, a month’s rent for her
and
me on my pillow, but not even a note…” She looked over at him, said suddenly, “We partied a couple times with Zimmer and
his buddy, I never saw nuthin’ in either one of “em, but Vangie asked me.”
“Tell me about the buddy.”
“Bobby Farnsworth of Farnsworth, Fechheimer and Farnsworth. Mr. Cube.” Her sudden urchin grin shaved tenyears off her age. “Boooo-o-o-ring. I’m not really into IRAs and all that jazz, but like to him,
The Wall Street Journal
is
Rolling Stone.”
“Stocks and bonds?”
“Chicago Board of Trade all the way, baby.” She stopped in front of a run-down brick apartment building. “You walked me home
after all. It’s six floors straight up unless they fixed the elevator, but if you want a cup of coffee and ain’t afraid of
heights—”
“You don’t want to know me, Cindy,” said Dain. “I’m bad news. Even my cat won’t purr.”
She looked at him for a long moment, then nodded and leaned forward and up to kiss him on the cheek.
“Goodbye, Mr. Sad Man,” she said.
12
Before starting through the newspaper, Dain called Farnsworth, Fechheimer and Farnsworth. The receptionist sounded bored enough
to be doing her nails behind the switchboard. He told her, “I’d like to make an appointment with Mr. Farnsworth to discuss
setting up a rather substantial investment account.”
“Mr. Farnsworth Senior or Junior?”
“Junior.”
“Mr. Farnsworth Junior is in our San Francisco office for three months’ training. If anyone else—”
“No. But his San Francisco home phone number might help.”
He wrote it down, hung up. San Francisco. Could Zimmer and the woman, Broussard, also be in San Francisco? No. They would
be hiding in Broussard’s life, not Zimmer’s. But a good coincidence for Dain just the same. When the time came, Farnsworth
would be Zimmer’s best bet for moving the bonds.
But first, Broussard. Cracking the Chicago police computer with his laptop would take longer than direct action, so he quickly
scanned the morning newspaper, finally stopping at an item on the local news page.
COP IN COMA AFTER BRUTAL BEATING
When he got off-shift this morning at 4:00 a.m., plainclothes detective Seth “Andy” Anderson of Central Station made the mistake
of stopping off at a coffee…
Dain’s ballpoint pen underlined
Seth “Andy” Anderson
and
Central Station,
then hand-scrawled a letter on a sheet of hotel stationery cut in half so it was memo size. Dain used the half without the
letterhead, dating it five days earlier.
Andy:
I don’t want to go through channels on this one, since it’s about Vangie Broussard, that black-haired “exotic dancer” I been
humping since she left Chicago. I think she was involved in a 187PC out here a couple nights ago, and if she was, I wanta
bust it myself. I’ll be in Chi on the 14th, can you pull her package to give me a look when 1 get there? Thanks, pal.
He scrawled
Solly
below the note as a signature, then added a handwritten postscript:
P.S. I need a sweetener in the Department since you-know-what.
Dain addressed an envelope to Andy Anderson at Central Police Station, Chicago, then paused to run a mental check. It was
okay. Randy Solomon wasn’t due back from vacation for two more days, so he put Solomon’s SFPD return address in the upper
left corner, stamped it, set the date on a self-inking rubber stamp for five days previously, and canceled the stamp.
Finally, he put in the letter, sealed it, opened it againraggedly with his finger under the flap. He stuck the letter and an SFPD lieutenant’s shield in a leather carrying case into
the side pocket of the cheap, rather shabby suitcoat he had bought at the Salvation Army, and left the hotel.
Chicago’s Central Police Station was old, ill-kept, angry-looking, as if it never got
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