Somewhere. I can’t get in to see him but I’m assured that Winston Mikela has met with him, or will soon meet with him, or has been contacted, or is on the way. On the way to where? I’d like to know. Sorry, sir. You should check with Detective Mooney. You should check with Detective Pazzano. You should bugger off and stop bothering people. Finally, after annoying about twenty hard-working cops — never a good plan — I manage to irritate my way to Norman Weed’s office door. “Shouldn’t you be in bed?” he says pleasantly. He’s wearing tweed today. It’s stylish, for him, various shades of heather and blue. “New jacket?” I ask politely. “My wife,” he says. “She’s got me on a diet. Says my old suits don’t fit me any more.” “I hadn’t noticed.” “Oh, yeah? Observational skills are rumoured to be a prerequisite in your line of work, aren’t they?” “I usually let Gritch do the serious looking,” I say. I give the overture a chance to die out before spreading my good arm, palm up.
