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Crawford with the Chicago Tribune, Mr. Malone,” he introduced as per protocol, “I understand before you became a city councilman two years ago, you were not a resident of this county.”
    Preening, the councilman said, “That’s correct. I moved here and immediately wanted to become involved.”
    Raising his voice, Scott said, “So involved, that in the last eighteen months you have invested in twelve rental properties along the proposed development perimeter—investments that are being underwritten by the same credit union that was a primary campaign supporter and spent a record amount to defeat the incumbent. Should we believe that your recent move to this part of town, the low interest loans, and land purchases are all in the name of ‘getting involved’?”
    “What?”
    “How long has the Xenex Corporation had these plans to own four city blocks by the Pier?”
    Barton Malone stared at Scott. His wrinkle free face appeared calm but something flickered in his eyes and his knuckles grew white as they gripped the edges of the podium. Scott stared back, hoping the man would wonder how much he knew. Money laundering or payment for services rather than bribery? On the first count he had only theory; on the other it was only a matter of time.
    The City Manager moved towards the microphone. With the television cameras still rolling, Scott launched one final question. “You’re not the mastermind behind the Xenex Corporation. Who are you fronting for?”
    It didn’t surprise Scott that the press conference came to a rapid close with his questions unanswered. He remained standing, half expecting some sort of parting jibe or at least a dirty look as the City Manager was ushered from the room. Instead, he was ignored. Even Jerry avoided his eye, and gathered up his tape recorder and hustled out.
    “You should learn to be more subtle,” Detective Blaine said.
    The cell phone on his hip vibrated, a quiet reminder to Scott of other pending conversations. “The Mob doesn’t scare me,” he said.
    “With that attitude, Mr. Crawford, you may find more than just your nose broken.”
    Only a couple of people knew about that history: a bit of a squabble over a garbage collection contract that hadn’t smelled right. A twist of fate with an enforcer for a Mob boss in New York named Aiello. Scott resisted the reflex to touch his own face and thereby confirm what could only be the Detective’s speculation.
    “I’ve done my own research,” the detective admitted, “be careful. You’re in Chicago now.”
    Cocking his head to the side, Scott asked, “Is that what you came to tell me? A phone call would have done.”
    “The last time we talked on the phone, you didn’t use all the information I gave you. I find that…interesting.”
    The detective made his exit, saving the reporter from having to respond. Scott stared at the door for a long time, a frown on his face. It was the vibration of his cell phone that returned his thoughts to the present.
    Stilling the intrusion, he flipped open the phone. “Yeah,” Scott said, walking towards the exit.
    “Darling,” crooned a familiar voice, “you’ve kept me waiting. You know how I hate that.”
    “Unavoidable, Marlayna,” Scott replied, searching his pockets for his car keys.
    There was an audible sigh on the other end of the line. “And here I thought you were desperate for information. I even began to imagine my payment the next time you’re in town.”
    “I told you I wasn’t coming back to New York.”
    The caller clucked her tongue against the roof of her mouth, making a clicking noise that Scott despised. “You’d be a fabulous editor. I need a successor. You never did let me counter the Tribune’s offer.”
    The hotel door swished open in response to his weight on the black mat sensor. “True.” He left the rest unsaid, unwilling to explain that Marlayna’s idea of “training” him was half his reason for leaving his last job in the first place.