Frenchie had been my other half on the all-important outgoing message.
No reason to advertise your woman-alone status to every creep out there
dialing random numbers for kicks.
'This is Graham Szlipkowski.'
My wiggling resumed. In fact, it escalated to an outright scramble.
When Chuck realized I was serious about getting to the phone, he sat
up, clearly frustrated.
By the time I picked up, I heard Slip say, 'I'm sorry to bother you on
the weekend, but I need you to contact '
'Slip, it's Samantha.'
'You mean I made the cut? I've earned some honors in my career, but
'
'Slip, it's eleven o'clock on a Friday night. Get to the point.'
'I looked at the present you dropped on me this afternoon. Needless to
say, I want to check it out, the sooner the better.'
'So check it out,' I said, 'and tell me if you find anything.'
'That's why I'm calling so late. I want to track it down with the
banks tomorrow, but the bureau won't release the key to my investigator
without your OK.'
'That's fine. Whom do I need to call?'
'I'm sorry about this, but they need a fax.'
What a pain in the ass. I jotted down the fax number for the property
room and assured him I'd figure out something.
When I hung up, Chuck threw me a skeptical look. 'Why do I have a
feeling that I don't want to know why a defense attorney's calling you
at home?'
'Because you probably don't.'
'Most guys, their girlfriend gets a phone call from another man late at
night, it means one thing. If only I had it so good. Just promise me
you're not doing anything dangerous.'
'Hardly, unless you consider clerical work dangerous.' I tried to hide
my glee that he'd used the girlfriend word. Down the road, he'd need
to settle on more mature verbiage. For now, though, I reveled in the
general sentiment.
'Get back over here, then,' he said.
'Sorry. I've got one more thing to do. I can either drive to Kinko's
or figure out how to send a fax on my computer.'
'You have no idea how to use your computer, do you?'
'Sure. It's a giant typewriter with a button that puts me on the
Internet.'
'I'll make a deal with you. I'll send your fax and you turn off
Matthews and get your ass in bed. And no sleeping.'
It was a win-win situation.
OOl
Eleven.
I kicked Chuck out the next morning so I could get to work, but not
before convincing him to pull DMV photos of Larry Gunderson and Billy
Minkins for me.
At first he balked. 'My lieutenant will be all over me about Saturday
OT on Jackson,' he said, 'unless, of course, I can tell him why it was
essential.'
When that didn't get an explanation out of me about who Gunderson and
Minkins were and why I wanted their pictures, he finally relented. I
was ready to go by noon.
I'd get the pictures to Slip soon enough, but my first priority was the
downtown public library.
No doubt about it, the library crowd's an interesting one: Birkenstock
moms, amateur academics, and burnt-out hippie homeless people, all in
one quiet beautiful place.
I pulled the volumes I was looking for and searched for an empty table.
Finding a work spot was not an easy task, given my criteria: no
children, schizoids, or stinky people.
I finally dumped the books on a corner table, retrieved a county map
and the envelope from Jenna Markson from my briefcase, and settled in
for what I thought would be the first day in a full weekend of
research. As it turned out, the task at hand tracking down Gunderson's
stake in the urban growth boundary over the years was easier than I had
imagined.
