Free Time's Up by Janey Mack Page B

funeral or wake information listed on the obit. The BOC probably hadn’t released the body yet. Thierry offered a madeleine from across the counter. I bit into the scalloped cake and started for the office. “Perfection.”
    Hmmm. Perhaps a complimentary background report on Keith Nawisko would release my Haix boots from the evidence locker.
    â€œ Atténds, Maisie.” Thierry removed a folded piece of paper from his apron and held it up. “From Cash.”
    I eyed it dubiously. “What is it?”
    â€œA list of the chores?”
    Oh brother.
    Â 
    It took me an hour and a half to finish Cash’s 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 Mom’s 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 Transit’s 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 union’s org chart, and summary backgrounds on all the Local #56 board members. I added them to Nawisko’s obit and system reports. By the time I’d 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.
    â€œWhat are you doing?” Flynn asked from the doorway.
    â€œInvestigating. You put Thierry on obituary duty, so I thought I’d help out. Background and financials on Nawisko.” I waved the manila folder. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell Da.”
    â€œMaisie—” His voice was tired and loaded with warning.
    â€œDid 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.”
    Flynn came over and hiked a hip onto the desk. He ran a hand over his eyes and sighed. “Why are you a meter maid?”
    I cleared my throat and tried not to wince. “To prove I don’t have a ‘pathological need to be liked’ and that I’m not ‘too thin-skinned to deal with a hostile public’ so I can reapply for reinstatement to the Academy.”
    â€œSo, to combat the psych review you took the most vile job you could find?”
    â€œYeah.”
    His lips curled in a rueful smile. “That just might work.” He picked up my research and flipped through it. “This is good, Snap. Real good.” He closed the folder and tapped it against his palm. “Been at it long?”
    â€œCouple hours.”
    â€œYou could do this professionally.”
    â€œI’m no desk monkey.”
    â€œAren’t you?” He reached over and clicked the mouse. The monitor woke up with Integral Search’s series of mini-windows showing Thorne Clark’s social networking for the past thirty days. He scrolled through some of Clark’s Facebook musings and said absently, “Your boots are in the mudroom.”
    â€œThanks.”
    â€œFor what it’s worth, I think you got a raw deal.”
    Me too. A tear bubble expanded in my throat.
    â€œHow’d you like to be an unofficial consultant?” Flynn held up