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day; his jaw was set in frustration at all the distractions.
    “Most people call a press conference in the morning.” Scott looked at the man seated beside him, one of twenty-odd reporters in the hotel ballroom who added, “It’s going to be dark before I get this written up.”
    Scott twirled his pencil, his pad lay open to a blank page, not that he expected to write much. “Politicians like control. Then again, maybe what he has to say isn’t all that important. This is the second one of these my editor sent me to today.”
    “Well, don’t hold your breath thinking Barton Malone is going to be forthcoming. Scandal breeds silence.”
    “Maybe.”
    “I’m Jerry Grimes,” the man said offering his hand.
    “Scott Crawford.”
    There was a spark of recognition in the man’s eyes as the two shook hands. “I thought so. You’re new to the Trib, right?”
    He groaned inwardly at the same boring phrase. How long does it take to get over being the new guy? “The Tribune pays my salary.”
    A voice to his left said, “Nice to hear. Some of the crew here are double dippers.”
    Jerry turned to address the dark haired man who had interrupted them. “Now, Detective,” he grumbled, “last year’s investigation of the Sun Times, showed no evidence of wrongdoing. We print facts, not what we’re told.”
    “I wasn’t talking to you,” the detective said, his tone businesslike but dismissive. He cocked his head and gave Scott a long look.
    Returning the scrutiny, Scott saw a man dressed in plain clothes. He could have been a reporter, fitting the rest of the pseudo-uniform of Dockers and polo shirts. Still, he went with his gut. “Detective Blaine, I presume?”
    “Can’t get nothing by you.” The man smiled. “I figured you’d be here, Crawford. I’ve been following your articles on the City Council this last week.”
    Scott couldn’t help but wonder why the police officer he’d spoken with on the phone would seek him out. “I’m just getting started. Thanks for your help yesterday, on the Perelli matter. My network here isn’t large.”
    “But mine is,” the detective countered, “New York speaks favorably of you.”
    Scott looked away, surveying the ballroom, noting the presence of the television cameras and half listening to the hum of other conversations around him. Seemingly preoccupied, he said, “Specifically?”
    There was a pause. “Marcy Finch.”
    Was it professional courtesy that caused the man to leave off the title of detective from her name? Before Scott could ask how well Blaine knew Detective Finch, they were interrupted by a flurry of activity at the door with everyone turning to see the city council member walk purposefully towards the podium. Scott wondered how Chicago could pay for all its bureaucrats. Four suits dogged Barton Malone’s patent leather steps.
    ‘City manager, planning committee chairman, short-skirted girl that gets his coffee, and…bodyguard?’ Jotting notes on the pad of paper on his lap, Scott listened as the first questions were launched. He didn’t feel a need to focus too hard on the dialogue; he’d already heard the evasions from another member of the Chicago Pier and Exhibition Authority earlier today. Scott had been silent at that press conference.
    Accusations of bribery, the Perelli case, along with any more questions for Detective Blaine, would have to wait for a less public venue. Twirling his pencil, Scott looked up and studied the council member who spoke to the audience. Ten minutes had passed and the man hadn’t even broken a sweat. Impeccably groomed, Barton Malone looked like he belonged on a postage stamp.
    Jerry held his hand in the air like an expectant student, eager and excited. Scott mimicked the gesture, although his arm rose tentatively and only half as high. If everyone in town thought he was the new guy, he’d put it to his advantage and let the politician gamble on the rookie reporter.
    Sure enough, he got the nod.
    “Scott