funeral or wake information listed on the obit. The BOC probably hadnât released the body yet. Thierry offered a madeleine from across the counter. I bit into the scalloped cake and started for the office. âPerfection.â
Hmmm. Perhaps a complimentary background report on Keith Nawisko would release my Haix boots from the evidence locker.
â Atténds, Maisie.â Thierry removed a folded piece of paper from his apron and held it up. âFrom Cash.â
I eyed it dubiously. âWhat is it?â
âA list of the chores?â
Oh brother.
Â
It took me an hour and a half to finish Cashâs thrall duty. I cleaned his room, his bathroom, paid his bills online, put away his laundry, made his Saturday morning tee time, and e-mailed the rest of his foursome with the requisite sign-off: Please e-mail your answer to Maisie McGrane, personal secretary to Mr. Cash McGrane.
Finally, I set up in the workstation next to Momâs office and logged on to what the McGranes called the family system. Since Mom, Da, and all my brothers spent their entire lives working with and around unpleasant and dangerous people, we subscribed to several stealthy, expensive, and not entirely legitimate information brokers.
After pulling and printing the hundred pages the system had to offer, I went through Amalgamated Transitâs event pages, vision blurring as I skimmed through the names in the photos searching for Nawisko. Johnson, Kolarov, Andersen, Boyko, Peterson, Lindgren, Verba . . . A prime requisite to hold transit union office seemed to be possession of a Slavic or Scandinavian surname.
The printer kicked into high gear as I queued up pictures of Nawisko, screen pulls of his Facebook account, the unionâs org chart, and summary backgrounds on all the Local #56 board members. I added them to Nawiskoâs obit and system reports. By the time Iâd finished, the file was an inch thick.
Time to work my vic. Mayoral staffer Thorne Clark. I tracked down his SSN and loaded it into Integral Search. A set of gear icons began spinning on the monitor.
âWhat are you doing?â Flynn asked from the doorway.
âInvestigating. You put Thierry on obituary duty, so I thought Iâd help out. Background and financials on Nawisko.â I waved the manila folder. âDonât worry, I wonât tell Da.â
âMaisieââ His voice was tired and loaded with warning.
âDid you know bus drivers make $28.64 an hour? Which is nothing compared to how much Nawisko pulled down as an officer of the Local #56.â
Flynn came over and hiked a hip onto the desk. He ran a hand over his eyes and sighed. âWhy are you a meter maid?â
I cleared my throat and tried not to wince. âTo prove I donât have a âpathological need to be likedâ and that Iâm not âtoo thin-skinned to deal with a hostile publicâ so I can reapply for reinstatement to the Academy.â
âSo, to combat the psych review you took the most vile job you could find?â
âYeah.â
His lips curled in a rueful smile. âThat just might work.â He picked up my research and flipped through it. âThis is good, Snap. Real good.â He closed the folder and tapped it against his palm. âBeen at it long?â
âCouple hours.â
âYou could do this professionally.â
âIâm no desk monkey.â
âArenât you?â He reached over and clicked the mouse. The monitor woke up with Integral Searchâs series of mini-windows showing Thorne Clarkâs social networking for the past thirty days. He scrolled through some of Clarkâs Facebook musings and said absently, âYour boots are in the mudroom.â
âThanks.â
âFor what itâs worth, I think you got a raw deal.â
Me too. A tear bubble expanded in my throat.
âHowâd you like to be an unofficial consultant?â Flynn held up