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Ovid 9 - The Private Eye By The Professor I felt as if I was running a nursery. Court had been in session all morning, and Ovid now had four new children - real children, that is - who needed to be integrated into their new lives. It wouldn't have been so bad if they had all been part of one trial, but the four children were the result of three separate trials. Where four separate men had once been, there were now four children, ranging in ages from six to twelve. Two were boys and the other two were girls. Only one of the girls remembered who she had been before, and she wasn't very happy. They never are at first. I certainly wasn't happy that fall day nearly a year before when I exchanged my life as a college student - a male college student - for the life of a wife, mother, and administrative assistant to Ovid's most powerful individual - the Judge. Of course, now I wouldn't trade back for anything. Even on tough mornings like this one, I really enjoyed my job. And I enjoyed being Cindy Patton, wife and mother of two - well two and a fraction - children. No matter that those two children had been fraternity brothers of mine. So was my husband for that matter. None of them remembered their previous lives, though. But the one growing inside me now would be a whole new person. I experienced a warm glow just thinking about that as I sat down at my desk. Funny, but as a male, I never thought much about having children, and of course I never thought I'd be bearing one. Now though, it seemed the most natural thing in the world. It had to be the hormones. I looked down at myself. Nothing showed yet. But the doctor had assured me that I was most certainly pregnant. Of course, it wasn't all joy. At times, I was quite frightened about being pregnant. But I was assured by other women that it was natural. Besides, they reminded me, I had already had twins. If only they knew the truth - that I had never actually borne the twins in spite of what most people in Ovid remembered. "Can we put a road block outside of town?" a woman's voice muttered from behind me. "I don't want one more speeder to defend for a month." Susan Jager plopped down in the chair in front of my desk. As the official Public Defender for those who appeared before the Judge, she had reason to be more tired than I. The best she could hope for with her clients appearing before the Judge was a promise of a happy new life. In my experience, no one had ever left the Judge's court as the same person who had entered. And in addition to the case load the Judge gave her, she had her own clients as well. Besides, pregnant women get tired easily, and Susan was as pregnant as I was. A fine pair we made - two former men now on our way to being natural mothers. "It wouldn't do any good," I laughed. "If Officer Mercer put up a road block, we'd probably just have another plane fall out of the sky." She sighed, "True. Is it my turn to buy lunch?" "No, it's mine!" a cheerful voice called out from nowhere. Then with a pop, a willowy redhead was sitting on my desk, her short green skirt a perfect match for her bright green eyes. "Hello, Diana," I said calmly. I had seen too many similar entrances from the goddess Diana to be surprised at her dramatic entrance. "Just Di today," she explained with an Irish lilt in her voice. "Di Mooney. I thought I'd buy the two of you lunch before popping off to the old sod." "Business in Ireland?" Susan asked. "Funny business," she said with a grin. "His name is Sean. After the last few days, I need a vacation." I suspected most of the gods felt the same way. It had been a tense few days in Ovid. Now though, the mood was much more relaxed after the events of the weekend. The Judge had been in a fine mood all week and planned to be gone for the next few days. Our session that morning - Tuesday - had been the last planned for the week. Most of the other deities had taken some time off as well from what I had heard. "And you just wanted to buy us lunch before you left," I said. I knew, of course, that it wasn't the only reason for her largesse. "Well..." she began, pursing her beautiful lips, "I suppose I would like to hear the whole story before I go." "So would I for that matter," Susan chimed in. "Vera over at March's said something about it yesterday. I guess I missed all the excitement last weekend." "Yes, she was here for the story yesterday morning," I explained. "In fact, just about every deity in town has been in for this story." That was unusual, too. Most of the gods didn't bother to come to me for the tales. I suppose after a few thousand years, tales of the Judge's transformations were a little dull. Of course, Diana never seemed to tire of them. "Shouldn't we have lunch first?" I suggested coyly. "After all, Susan and I are both eating for two now." "Only if you'll settle for fast food," Diana answered, equally coy. "But we go to the Greenhouse if you hear the story first?" I bargained. "Sure." I smiled, relaxing into my trance-like state. "Okay, girls, here we go..." ***** There were times, I thought with a heavy sigh as I stared at my incoming basket, that I wished the life of a private detective was a little more like it was in the old Sam Spade movies. I tried to imagine myself in a wilted suit, my tie loose as I sat with my feet on the desk, tempted by the open bottle of bourbon in my lower desk drawer. Maybe there could be some brassy jazz playing in the background, drowning out the din of afternoon Los Angeles traffic two floors down on a warm summer day. The only thing in the real world that matched my fantasy was that it was a warm summer day. In fact, it was hot and humid, but that was outside. In my office, it was cool and dry as the sound of the air conditioning hummed over the background music which sounded like the elevator music version of something ELO did back in the early eighties. Outside my window was Chicago, not Los Angeles, and even if the window hadn't been sealed shut, I don't know how much of the traffic noise I could hear on Wacker Drive some twenty stories down. As for my attire, I wore a navy double-breasted blazer and charcoal gray slacks, and everything was neatly pressed and stylish, as befitted an associate of Charles McKenzie and Associates, one of Chicago's premier private detective agencies. And there was certainly no bottle of bourbon in my desk drawer. If there were, I would probably have been fired in a heartbeat. That was okay though, I was strictly a beer drinker, and never at work. Actually I wasn't really the Same Spade type anyhow. One of the reasons I had gone with the McKenzie offer when I left the Chicago police force was that they specialized in business clients rather than the more tawdry divorce work of some of the other firms. Oh, we did a little divorce work, but most of our clients were the various law firms that populated the Loop - some of them in our building - and insurance companies. Actually our largest insurance client owned the building we were in. It was at One Wacker Drive. Although not as prestigious as some other buildings, it was a good address. It looked good on the business card. And from Charles McKenzie's office, you could see most of the major buildings in the Loop. Even my humble office looked down on the Chicago River with a nice view of Marina Towers. And if I wanted that jazz music, House of Blues was just a few blocks away. My only real complaint with the job was the paperwork. It was almost as bad as working as a cop. It seemed as if I sat behind the desk covering my butt (and the firm's butt) with paper at least two hours for every hour I spent in the field. "Jeff, do you have a minute?" I looked up suddenly at the sound of Charles McKenzie's voice. I hadn't even heard him at the door. "Sure, Mac," I replied, happy for any excuse to avoid paperwork. Besides, Mac was a good boss. He treated his associates more like human beings than many of the PI firms did - or so I had heard. That didn't mean Mac was a soft touch. He could be hard as nails when he needed to be. Like most of us in the firm, he had come up through the ranks as a cop. More than one person had been fooled by his silver hair and fatherly appearance. Mac eased into my office, followed by another man who I didn't know. The stranger was about as tall as Mac and me - six one or so - and looked to be just a shade into his forties. He was balding slightly and had the suntanned look of a man who spent time out of doors. His suit was dark and expensive, and looked rather lawyerly. If I had been a betting man, I would have bet that he was indeed a lawyer, and a successful one at that. I wouldn't have been surprised to find that his tan came from sailing his own boat on Lake Michigan. "Jeff Riley, meet Franklin Ridgeway," Mac said formally. I rose and took Ridgeway's hand. "Mr. Ridgeway is an attorney." "The Franklin Ridgeway of Block, Patterson, and Ridgeway?" I asked, knowing the answer. Surely there could only be one Franklin Ridgeway. The man whose hand I was shaking was one of the most prominent attorneys in Chicago. He had been involved in a number of high profile cases, and almost always on the winning side. He represented some of the top companies in Chicago. "That's right," he acknowledged with a firm grip. We looked each other straight in the eye as we shook hands. Looking into his dark brown eyes was almost like looking into an abyss. They say the windows are the eyes to the soul. If that's the case, I thought Franklin Ridgeway's soul had to be darker than the pit of Hell. But, of course, he was a lawyer. I motioned to the two chairs before my desk. When we were seated, Mac began, "Mr. Ridgeway has an assignment he would like us to undertake." "I see," I said as noncommittally as possible. I had assumed that was the case. He didn't just come up to see the view from my window. The fact that the great Franklin Ridgeway had made the pilgrimage all the way over to our office from his lakefront offices meant that this assignment was going to be a doozy. "Mr. Riley - " "Jeff," I interjected. Ridgeway smiled. "Yes, Jeff then. I represent a group of investors with large international interests." "Who are they?" I asked bluntly. I saw Mac grimace. Sorry Mac, I thought, but I like to know who's holding the leash. Ridgeway didn't miss a beat. He didn't even blink. "I'm afraid the identity of my clients must remain confidential. I have been authorized to assure you though that they are not involved in any illegal activities, nor will they ask you to do so. I have a sworn affidavit on their behalf that verifies this." I settled back in my chair, striking what I hoped was a skeptical pose. "So what do your clients want?" "One of their associates embezzled a large amount of money from them last year." "How large is large?" I asked. "Thirty million dollars," he replied without hesitation. I nodded. "That certainly is a large amount of money." "And they want it back." "I'm sure they do," I agreed. "But there's more, isn't there? Thirty million is enough to get Federal and state authorities on the case, even if he's had a year to hide. Why involve a private investigator?" "I told you he was sharp," Mac said to Ridgeway with a proud smile. "Yes," Ridgeway agreed without real conviction. "I'm sure that's why my clients specified Mr. Riley - Jeff - for this job." I was suddenly curious. "Your clients specified me specifically? Why? Do I know them?" "No," Ridgeway explained, shifting a little uncomfortably, as if he had been charged with explaining something he didn't fully understand himself. "My clients are most insistent that you handle this matter for them. They didn't explain why. I, of course, checked you out on my own. You had a promising career with the Police Department. You were a homicide detective." It wasn't a question, but I said, "That's right." "And yet you gave it all up when - " "Right again," I said, cutting him off. There were some subjects not open for discussion. That was one of them. He picked up on it and moved on. "My clients have reason to believe that their associate fled and is currently residing in Oklahoma." I'm sure I gave a surprised look. Embezzlers with thirty million to throw around generally leave for some other part of the world - someplace where extradition is difficult if not impossible. Then they cover their tracks, bribe a few local officials, hire a private guard or two and live off the interest. Let me see, thirty million at eight percent a year is over two million. Most good embezzlers can live on that. "Why Oklahoma?" I asked, genuinely curious for the first time. "I honestly don't know," Ridgeway replied. When a lawyer says "honestly," look out. But for some reason, I believed him. He seemed as genuinely puzzled as I was. This case was beginning to sound interesting. "Okay," I said, "let's say the embezzler is in Oklahoma. It's a big place - too big for one private detective to find him. Why not just tell the authorities? At last check, there were plenty of law enforcement officers in Oklahoma." Ridgeway was becoming uncomfortable. Obviously he had dangled big bucks in front of Mac, and so as the hired underling, I was supposed to smile and take orders. In the three years I had been in Mac's company, I had never been that sort of person. Mac knew it, but obviously Ridgeway didn't. "Look, Jeff," Ridgeway began with a sigh, "I don't pretend to understand why my clients do the things they do. All I can tell you is that they are very successful, and they are legitimate. They seem to have insights that have made them wealthy beyond anything you can imagine. And yet they still manage to keep their names out of the newspapers. Now there's something in Oklahoma that they want handled, and they want you to handle it. Besides, the police haven't found him in a year, according to my clients." "So I'm supposed to go charging off to Oklahoma and bring back their embezzler," I surmised. Who did they think I was? The Lone Ranger? Ridgeway shook his head. "No, you don't have to bring him back. They just want you to finger him." "I thought you said he was an associate of theirs," I pointed out. "Surely they know what he looks like." "He looks like this," Ridgeway said, opening a file and passing a photo to me. It wasn't a terribly good photo. It showed three men displaying the results of a day's fishing. The man in the middle, the tallest, was circled. He looked a little like Tom Sellick with curly dark hair and a mustache, well trimmed, and an easy smile. I noticed he had the most fish, too. "But he may not look like that now." So he had invested in a makeover, I thought. Try a little plastic surgery here and there. Maybe shave off the mustache or grow a beard. Wear contacts to change his eye color. Still, he couldn't change his height. He looked to be about six-two or so. He shouldn't be that hard to find. There was still something I wasn't being told, but I could live with that. It was part of the challenge. Like most good detectives, I liked a good puzzle. Back in my homicide days, I had quite a reputation for putting together vague clues and coming up with a murderer. After a few successes, I seemed to get all the really hard cases. I even managed to solve a majority of them. Of course, there was an eventual cost, one that drove me from the force, but there was nothing I could do about that now. So when I left the force, what else could I do but become a private cop? The Rileys had been cops ever since they had immigrated to Chicago back in the last century. It was in my blood. I just couldn't be a homicide detective after... "All you have to do is find him. Others will bring him back," Ridgeway was explaining. So okay, I was curious. In fact, I was more than curious. I was mystified. Our investigations did not come cheaply, and however much was being offered, it was enough to have Mac excited. My services had been specifically requested, and I couldn't for the life of me imagine why. And all of this just to identify - identify; not detain - an embezzler who didn't even have sense enough to leave the country. "When do I start?" I asked, watching with faint amusement as both Mac and Ridgeway seemed to relax a little. ______________________________________________________ Ridgeway pulled a packet out of his folder. "You start today. There's an American flight to Tulsa from O'Hare later this afternoon. We've made hotel reservations for you tonight in Tulsa. Then tomorrow, you drive along the last known route of our embezzling friend. There's a map in the packet of where you need to concentrate your search. My clients seem to be certain he's somewhere in the area on that map." "How long do I have?" I asked, accepting the packet. I took a moment to look at the map. It was a detail of an area east of Tulsa and north of Muskogee. I had never been in that part of the country, but I at least recognized the names of those towns. My only real knowledge of that part of the country came from watching Twister. "As long as you need," he replied, rising to his feet. "A phone number is in the packet. You are to call it when you've identified our target." "Is it your phone number?" I asked. That rated me a small smile. "No." Mac ushered him out while I inspected the packet. When Mac returned, he was still all smiles. "Great work, Jeff. You really impressed him, and Ridgeway doesn't impress easily." "Neither do I," I told him as he plopped back down into the chair he had vacated a short time before. "Something about this smells, Mac." He began to laugh. "I wouldn't worry about it. Ridgeway might be a snake, but his record is clean." "He reminds me of Al Pacino in the Devil's Advocate," I muttered. "I'm surprised his suit doesn't smell of brimstone. I tell you, Mac, something about this isn't right." He got a little more serious as his body tensed. "What do you mean?" "Well, for starters, why hire us? This isn't the type of case we would normally take on." "No," Mac agreed, "but now I have the talent on staff to track someone down - you. After all, you are the cop who tracked down Louie Capella." I shifted uncomfortably. It was a matter I didn't like to be reminded of. The look in Mac's eyes told me he already regretted mentioning it to me. Still, I answered him. "Louie Capella was hiding out right here in Chicago. He and I grew up here. Finding him was like playing hide and seek in my old neighborhood. I knew all the good hiding places. The only thing I know about Oklahoma is that it's north of Texas." "Eastern Oklahoma is a lot like downstate Illinois," Mac explained. "It's mostly low hills and farm land. The further east you go, the more hills and trees you see." "So how far east in Oklahoma am I supposed to go?" I asked, slumping down in my chair with resignation. "About as far east as you can go it appears," Mac answered with a smile. He knew I was intrigued with the case. He had seen me like this before. "One question though, Mac: why Oklahoma?" Mac frowned. "What do you mean?" I leaned forward and said, "Look, supposed you stole thirty million dollars from somebody. Where would you go?" Mac thought for a moment. The idea actually seemed to bring a little smile to his face. Well, we all have our little fantasies. "I don't know," he finally admitted. "I'd probably try for South America. There are plenty of places to go there to avoid extradition." "Exactly," I agreed. "There are some other places in the Middle East, and there's always Cuba and North Korea, but they aren't exactly hospitable to Americans - even Americans with money. South America is where I would head, too. The point is I would get out of the country as quickly as possible." "Maybe this guy isn't that bright," Mac suggested. I sneered and leaned back in my chair. "Come on, Mac. He was smart enough to steal thirty million dollars. Guys that smart don't stick around, especially for a year. You're acting as if he's some kind of a moron who robs a convenience store, then leaves his wallet on the counter for the police to find." Mac looked a little uncomfortable. He saw where this was leading. "You don't think there is any thirty million dollars." "What did they offer, Mac? A ten percent finders fee?" Mac squirmed in his chair. "Eight percent," he murmured softly. "You should have held out for ten," I told him. "Even at that, I hope there's a minimum fee if no money is recovered, because I think that's all we're going to get." "There is," Mac told me, "but why are you so sure there's no money here?" "Because the only way Ridgeway's clients would be coming to us instead of pressing the authorities is if the money was dirty," I explained confidently. "Ridgeway is too good a lawyer to get mixed up in dirty money. He doesn't need to. His client list looks like the Who's Who of Chicago. He may even know that there isn't any money to be found. In fact, I suspect that's the case. A year has gone by, so our friend has had plenty of time to hide the money. His clients aren't after the money; they're after the man. And whatever he did, it isn't something they can count on the authorities to be concerned about." "Even if you're right, we still get a good fee," Mac pointed out. "I still expect you to go to Oklahoma." "Oh, I'll go," a said with a chuckle. "If for no other reason, I'm curious." "Well," Mac said with a sigh as he rose to his feet, "be careful." "I always am," I replied. "Don't worry about that." After running home to pack, then fighting afternoon Chicago traffic, I barely made it to O'Hare in time to catch my plane. I was pleasantly surprised to see they had ponied up the First Class fare, so I was to ride to the outback in style. A nice cold beer in hand as we reached cruising altitude, I managed to settle back and read the file on my embezzler - if that was what he was. Peter Allison had quite a resume. He had picked up an MBA at Harvard after a liberal arts education at one of the name Eastern private schools and embarked on a career in mutual fund management. He hit the bricks running, and in his first two years, he became the most successful fund manager at Janus. He had opted three years ago to leave Janus and go to work for a private investment fund. I found it interesting that there was virtually no information about the private firm he went to work for. Apparently his new employers valued their privacy above everything else. Since many of the cases I had worked on since joining McKenzie had involved high finance, I was aware that this was fairly common. A hotshot fund manager would often opt to go to work for a private fund, usually getting a little piece of the action. A little piece could be worth several million in the bull market of the nineties that seemed to have no end. So now our pal Allison was sitting on top of the world. He had no family and, unfortunately, there was very little in the file about his personal habits. I had a picture of a man who lived for his work, though. He made money. It was both his occupation and his hobby from all accounts. The picture I was getting was not the picture of an embezzler. People embezzle because they can't make enough to fund their dirty little habits legitimately. Drugs, gambling, women (or men) are the common reasons for embezzling. Allison didn't seem to fit that profile. By all accounts, the guy made more money - both for himself and his clients -than he could ever need. Maybe he just snapped. Maybe the pressure got to be too much for him. But no, that would describe a man who would chuck it all and head for the beaches in Brazil. That isn't what Allison had done. And that brought me back to my earlier question: why Oklahoma? According to the file, Allison was a born and bred Bostonian. He had solid if not affluent New England credentials and absolutely nothing to connect him to Oklahoma. Well, I thought to myself, I had always liked tough cases, particularly when it involved tracking someone down. I had certainly gotten what I liked. What was the old saying? Be careful what you wish for - you might get it? I had been handed a case where nothing made sense. Then I had to track down a man with only the knowledge that he had apparently taken an escape route into the farm country of Oklahoma. To make it worse, he had apparently disguised himself, possibly by plastic surgery. If I got this guy, I was going to treat myself to a case of imported beer and a vacation. Maybe I'd do some fishing. I hadn't done that since... well, in a long time. As the plane dropped down through the thick summer air, I got my first real glimpse of Oklahoma. Spread out below was a panorama of hills and trees I had not expected. Oh sure, there was plenty of farm land, too, but I was used to the flat expanses of land around Chicago. This reminded me more of some of the hilly, forested areas in Wisconsin where I used to fish with... With Mary. I closed my eyes in resignation. As much as I tried to push memories of Mary - and Trisha - out of my head, I couldn't do it. I could still hear Mary on that last fateful fishing trip. I had three whole days off and we had decided to enjoy them on a fishing trip in Wisconsin. I could still hear Mary squealing with delight as a slight tug on her line became a whir of line being let out as a big one ran with it. I could still hear little Trisha laughing with glee as Mary nearly fell overboard trying to reel the monster in. I could still hear our mutual groan as the line snapped, freeing out mysterious fish to fight another day... I was brought back to the present as the wheels of the plane touched down in Tulsa. I looked around, hoping no one had seen the tears in my eyes. Tulsa was hot. Sure, Chicago was hot in the summer - often hot and muggy. But Tulsa brought new meaning to the word "hot." As I stepped out on the curb to catch a shuttle to get to my rental car, I felt as if I had stepped into an oven. I had been smart enough to dress casually, but even without a tie, I felt like I was being cooked by the blistering Southwestern sun. The humidity was high, too, causing me to marvel at how so many presumed natives were bustling about in coats and ties as if it were a cool spring day. I guess it's whatever you get used to, I mused. It was even hot the next morning when I started my pursuit of the contradictory Mr. Allison. I checked out a white Ford Tauris at Hertz and tried to get the lay of the land from the girl behind the rental desk. She shook her head when I showed her the map of the area I was heading for. "I'm from that part of the state," she told me with her soft Oklahoma twang. "There's not a whole lot out that way. It's mostly farms, small towns and such." Then she looked at me with her big brown eyes and asked, "You got some business out that way?" "Yeah," I said in my best Phillip Marlowe voice, "I gotta meet a guy out there - about business." She looked at me a little oddly. Oh well. She was only about twenty or so. Odds were she'd never even heard of Phillip Marlowe - or Humphry Bogart for that matter. What was this world coming to? An hour later, I was east of Tulsa off the interstate and cruising the back roads of Oklahoma. According to the map, my fugitive could be anywhere along this part of my route. The problem was there wasn't an anywhere to look, unless he was hiding under a pile of hay or in the middle of a cornfield. I hadn't seen anything but farmland for the last twenty miles. My plan had been to check with local police departments -to see if anyone fitting Allison's description had moved in over the last few months. A single city-type guy would stand out in a small town -even with plastic surgery. But there were no towns in sight, and many of the farmhouses I had seen were deserted. Apparently like Illinois, the small family farm was disappearing as farmers cultivated more and more acres with less and less people. It was odd. I hadn't even seen a single billboard or a road sign. I assumed I was still on the right road, for I hadn't seen any junctions indicating I had left my highway. The road was a good one - two lanes freshly black topped with a freshly painted yellow line down the center to warn against passing on the winding, hilly course. Maybe hiding in a place like this wasn't such a bad idea, I thought. There were hills and lakes galore and not a lot of people. If you could find a cabin buried in the woods over by one of those lakes, you might be able to hide out in plain sight for quite a while. I doubted if any of the local residents would be very helpful to someone from the big city disrupting their privacy with a search for somebody who was just minding his own business. This might turn out to be tougher than I thought, I realized. Just when I thought I was hopelessly lost, I saw a road sign. It wasn't one of those green and white ones you see on the interstates. It was just a small sign white with black letters that proclaimed that Ovid was three miles away, presumably straight ahead. I pulled off the road in front of the sign, searching for the Oklahoma map I had purchased at the airport to supplement the sketchy map the car rental companies give you. It was a current, highly detailed map, but I could find no Ovid in the index. I knew roughly where I had to be, but none of the roads in that area seemed to lead to a town called Ovid. Well, it was probably just a wide spot in the road, I thought to myself. I had seen places towns up in the woods of Wisconsin that were nothing more than a gas station that also served as a post office and grocery store. That was probably all there was to Ovid. Still, it was a starting place. I'd pull off there, get some gas and grab a Coke, and ask about my missing man. It was nearly noon, so maybe I'd get lucky and there'd be a little caf? there where I could get some lunch. When I had traveled half the distance to Ovid, I realized that it was more than a wide spot in the road. In the distance, I could see evidence of a fair-sized town. I could see trees and houses, and church steeples rising out of the artificial forest all towns create. The road was widening, becoming four lanes in width as small roadside businesses began to come into view. Apparently the mapmakers at Gousha had screwed up. I would have bet they had gotten a few nasty notes from the Ovid Chamber of Commerce. But where the mapmakers had failed Ovid, the weatherman had smiled upon the town. It had been hot and muggy with a serious buildup of ugly clouds as I had left Tulsa, but those clouds seemed impotent in the little valley that held Ovid. It was almost as if they were barred from entry into the valley as they roiled and blustered just beyond the low hills near Ovid, leaving the small town basking in the bright light of a summer day. I might have been born and raised in the city, but I wasn't completely unfamiliar with small towns. Between my law-enforcement career and a passion for fishing which had often taken me to small towns in Illinois and Wisconsin, I knew small towns fairly well. Ovid was more prosperous than most of them. Everything seemed neat, clean and freshly painted, as if the town was getting ready for some big event. Most small towns in the Midwest were in decline. Farming took an ever smaller percentage of the workforce, drying up markets for merchants in smaller communities. I had visited many small towns where half the businesses had been boarded up, or where buildings had burned down right in the middle of the business district and weeds or empty parking lots had taken their place. Not so in Ovid. As I made my way into the heart of the town, I saw a prosperous business district. Shop windows were full of goods, parking spaces were filled with newer cars and trucks, and the people walked about with a sense of purpose. But upon closer observation, there was something odd about the people. Some of them - most, in fact - appeared strangely transparent. No, that wasn't the right word. I couldn't see through them. It was almost as if the mind couldn't quite reconcile their existence with reality, if that makes any sense at all. It had to be a trick of the light, I thought to myself. After driving through the cloudy Oklahoma morning, perhaps the brightness of the Ovid day was playing tricks on my eyes. With a little luck, I found what I was really looking for - the police station. First as a police officer and later as a private detective, I had learned that it was wise not to snoop in another jurisdiction without informing the authorities that I was there. It smoothed potentially ruffled feathers and often gave the local police a feeling that you were, if not part of their team, at least rooting for their side. The Ovid Police Department made its home in City Hall. No big surprise there. In a smaller community, it was common for all city departments to be located in the same building. City Hall was fairly impressive for a small town, though. It was a two-story building faced with granite and sporting small but well-done Doric columns. The US flag hung next to the Oklahoma flags, rippling in the gentle summer breeze. There were well- tended flowers in front of the entrance. Once again, Ovid showed signs of remarkable prosperity. As I stepped from the car, I was pleased to note that the breeze was actually a pleasant one. Oh sure, it was still hot out - as hot as I had expected. But it didn't seem quite as muggy in Ovid. Perhaps the breeze had lowered the humidity a tad. In any case, it was comfortable. I liked Ovid - that was my first thought as I stepped out of the car. The oak trees near City Hall were green and full and looked as if they had been there forever. The grass was green and soothing, smelling of a recent cutting. I could hear birds in the trees, gently singing to each other. What a change from the Loop! I found myself wondering where the best fishing spots might be. "Can I help you?" The voice was calm and pleasant, and completely unexpected. I turned suddenly, looking into the face of a police officer. He was tall and slender without being thin. His eyes were shielded by mirrored sunglasses, and the rest of his face was impassive in a way that only a police officer can manage. His gray-blue shirt was neatly pressed, as were his dark slacks. His nametag read "Mercer," and his gun belt looked almost even with his belt, but there was a sag at the holster allowing him to draw quickly if he need to. In short, he looked like a police recruiting poster. He was standing next to a police car. I hadn't noticed it when I had pulled into the parking lot, but then again, I had been focused on the building. Still, I mentally kicked myself. I was usually more observant. How had I missed the car? "I was just on my way in to your department," I told the officer. I extended my hand. "I'm Jeff Riley. I'm a private investigator from Chicago." The moment of truth had arrived. How would this police officer treat me? As a contemporary? As a slime ball? It all depended upon the officer. He looked like a pro. Pros were usually willing to take you at face value. This one was no exception. Slowly but deliberately, he extended his had. What is the perfect handshake? I couldn't have answered that question before I shook hands with Officer Mercer. His handshake was firm and warm, and there was something about it that made it sincere as well. He favored me with a small, tight smile. "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Riley. I'm Officer Mercer. Now what can I do for you?" ______________________________________________________ I reached in my shirt pocket and produced a picture of my fugitive. "I was hired to find this man," I explained, handing him the picture. "A bad one, is he?" Officer Mercer asked casually. "Not real bad," I replied. "Supposedly he embezzled a large amount of money. The people who say he took it hired me to find him." I could feel Officer Mercer's eyes bearing down on me. "You sound like you don't think he took the money." I shrugged as casually as I could. "As I told you, I'm a private investigator. The agent who hired me has a reputation of being honest. But I'm not a police officer." "Any more," Officer Mercer finished for me. "That's right." No surprise there. It's easy to spot a cop. I would have pegged Officer Mercer as a cop even if I had seen him in swim trunks at the beach. He studied the picture. "A man like this would stand out in a crowd," he observed. "Yes he would," I agreed. "He would have been through here some time during the last year. Have you seen him?" "I don't know anyone who looks like this," Officer Mercer said carefully. "It's possible he doesn't look like that," I told him. He looked up at me suddenly with a quizzical expression. "He may be disguised," I clarified, and Officer Mercer nodded. "You're welcome to check around," he said at last, handing the picture back to me. "That's neighborly of you," I nodded with a smile. "I'll try not to step on any toes." "That would be a good idea," he agreed. With that he nodded, and walked into the City Hall building. It was as much as I could reasonably hope for. I didn't expect him to recognize the picture. That was have been too easy. But he had given me the opportunity to check around. That meant I could talk to motel clerks, gas station employees, and waitresses along the highway. If just one of them had spotted my guy and had any idea where he had been heading for, I might have a chance of finding him. That was the way it usually worked. It was always tedious, checking with everyone who might have seen your man, but it was all part of the job. My first stop was a motel. I could kill two birds with one stone. I'd be busy the rest of the day checking with Ovid's residents, so I might as well spend the evening. The best looking motel out on the business strip was a place called the Ovid Inn. It wasn't fancy, but I hadn't expected a Hilton. The lobby of the Ovid Inn was as plain and simple as the rest of the place. The fanciest item in it was a sign resting on the worn registration desk that said "Z Procter, Proprietor." Z Proctor was a thin fellow with even thinner hair, gray matching a small mustache. I was a little disappointed. I had hoped for one of the little weasely guys Bogart always ended up intimidating. "Need a room?" he asked with the soft twang I had noticed from nearly everyone in Oklahoma. "Sure do," I replied, hoping I sounded sufficiently folksy. He seemed to be sizing me up. "Some of the beds are pretty short. I'm not sure I got one long enough for you." "I'll make do," I assured him, pulling out a credit card and laying it on the counter. He shrugged. "Okay, take number twenty seven." He slid the key across the counter, scooping up my credit card all in one swift motion that would have made a magician blink twice. "You let me know if the bed's too short, though. I'll see what I can do." "There is one thing you can do for me," I said as casually as I could. The guy brightened. Apparently he lived to serve. "What would that be?" I pulled the picture out of my pocket. "Ever see this guy?" He studied the picture for a moment before saying slowly, "No, don't think so. Looks mighty tall. Friend of yours?" "Let's just say we have mutual business associates," I replied, putting the picture away. "Can't help you there," he said, shaking his head. "But you let me know about that bed, all right?" Actually I thought as I inspected the room, the bed was a little short, but it would do. The room was nothing special. I was neat and clean with cheap pine furniture and artwork that looked as if it had been left over from a starving artist's sale. It would do, though. I'd only be in Ovid for a day or so, unless I got a lead that checked out. I checked the TV schedule to see if there were any decent detective movies on. No such luck, though. I always enjoyed them even though they were so simplistic. I mean, I realize they only have a couple of hours to tell a story, but most detective work isn't as clear cut as they show it in the movies. The detective always seems to stumble on just the right clue at just the right moment. Then he takes a straight and obvious trail back to the killer. There are no loose ends, no hotshot lawyers to get him off on a technicality at the trial, and no bleeding heart politicians to rake him over the coals for doing his job. I might spend weeks in this little backwater area of Oklahoma. I might show my picture of the runner a thousand times and not get one good lead. Or the next guy I talked to might lead me right to him. Oh well, I was on the clock. The agency would be paid for my work even if I turned up nothing. Our mysterious clients would have been better off going to the authorities. I took a quick shower and got into a clean shirt and slacks. Even though the weather wasn't as hot and sticky in Ovid as it had been in Tulsa, I needed the shower and the change. It was time to sample Ovid's nightlife. No, I wasn't a partying kind of guy. I just wanted to check out places my fugitive might have patronized. Maybe he stopped for a burger, or maybe he tried one of the local bars looking for a little female companionship. Either way, he might have left a trail. Odds were good he would have stayed on the main highway strip. That cut down the number of places I needed to check. I was hungry anyhow, so I stopped off at Rusty's Burger Barn just as the sun was going down. It was your typical small town fast food joint. I guess Ovid wasn't important enough to rate a McDonald's. Instead of golden arches and a nine gazillion served sign, the neon sign in the window of Rusty's just said "Rusty's Best Burgers". I stepped in the brightly-lit building and looked around. It was neat and clean and about fifteen years out of date, just like every other small town burger joint I had ever see. There were a few customers eating, but I got the idea Ovid was the sort of place where you went home and had dinner with the family. There was one thing that troubled me, though. Looking around, I noticed that many of the patrons had that same oddly transparent look I had noticed when I had first arrived in Ovid. I had chalked it up to a trick of the sunlight, but there was no sun now. I don't mean I could see through those people; I couldn't - not really. But there was this odd feeling that if I really concentrated hard, I could see objects behind them. I resolved to have my eyes checked when I got back to Chicago. "Be right with you," a perky young waitress called as I slid into a booth. She was young and brunette. I guessed her age at about nineteen or so. She was a little transparent as well, but seemed perfectly normal. It had to be my eyes. I ordered a Rusty Burger and fries from Maxine - that was what her nametag said her name was. And I showed her the picture when she brought my food. "I'm not sure," she said uncertainly. My heart quickened. "Not sure" was better than "no". Then I was doomed to disappointment as she shrugged and laughed. "We get a lot of people just passing through. I sometimes remember the cute ones, and he's cute. I don't think I remember him though. I know he's not a regular." I had the same results everywhere I tried. There was no luck at any of the cafes or convenience stores or gas stations up and down the strip. At last, I was down to one last place: Randy Andy's. Bars didn't seem to do a thriving business in Ovid. Oh, there were a couple of little ones I had checked, but they were practically deserted. If this were Chicago, every little neighborhood bar would be doing a brisk evening business with factory workers and other working stiffs melting the heat of the day with a cold brew. Not so in Ovid, though. Randy Andy's was the only bar on the strip big enough to show up on radar. If my fugitive was the sort of guy who might be looking for the ladies, it was the most obvious place. I had saved it until last because it was the most promising. That might seem contradictory, but I was a stranger in town. If I showed up at Randy Andy's early, I'd be met with suspicion by a group of patrons who were mostly sober and reserved. Late at night, only the serious drinkers would be left. Everybody was their friend as long as they agreed to buy a round of drinks. There was nothing special about Randy Andy's. In fact, it was a lot quieter than I had expected. It looked as if there had been a crowd earlier from the debris a sweet young redhead was cleaning up. She didn't seem too happy about it either. A couple of guys were playing pool in back. They had an appreciative audience: two so-so looking twins who seemed more interested in the balls in their pants than the ones on the table. Other than that, there were a couple of what looked like regulars at the bar, hunched over their drinks while the ferret-like bartender pretended to wipe off the bar. There were a couple of parties in the booths. They were all wearing bowling shirts and looked as if they had just come in to share a pitcher or two after their match. They were being served by a nice-looking waitress. She was even better looking than the redhead. She had long, dark hair and a body that was enough to make my mouth water, complete with full breasts and long, shapely legs. There was a tattoo of an eagle on one ankle, and it seemed to be in flight as she turned on her heels with a practiced move of a woman who is well aware that her every move is enough to make a grown man cry. I had slipped into one of the booths and caught her eye. She smiled and headed my way, her short, tight red dress doing little to contain her curves. "What'll it be?" she asked in a sultry, sexy voice. "Whatever's on tap," I replied. She nodded and turned to get my beer. I might order several just to get a view of her wonderful ass wiggling back to the bar. When she returned with my beer, I said, "Do you have a moment?" Her eyes drilled into me. I could see what she was thinking: just another perv who wants to make time with the waitress. "It's nothing like that," I told her. "I just need some information." Her eyes narrowed. "Like what's my name?" "It's Sly," I replied, surprising her. "I heard the bartender call you that when you got my beer," I then explained. "Look, I'm the only experienced waitress here tonight and the Borland twins and their dates," she motioned to the group at the pool table with a nod of her head, "are getting a little low on beer." "I don't think beer is on their minds right now," I commented. Sly turned and looked at them. The mating dance was nearly done. One of the guys had just run the table and was getting a congratulatory hand in his pants as a reward. The loser was being consoled in a similar manner. She grinned. "Maybe you're right. Okay, it's a little slow right now anyway. Besides, Misty can handle orders for a while," she said, nodding at the redhead. She sat down across from me. "Now what did you want to know?" I wanted to know a lot of things, like if she was in a relationship, but I had a job to do. I pulled out the picture, wondering how many times I'd have to show it. "Have you seen this guy?" She looked at the picture. I could see in a moment that she had seen him before. I couldn't believe how lucky I was. The first day and I might have a lead. I kept quiet. I could see she was deciding how to answer me. Finally she said slowly, "I don't think so." Her voice lied, but her eyes told the truth. What was she hiding? "Are you sure?" I asked. She looked up at me suddenly. "Look, who are you? You're with them, aren't you? You know I want nothing to do with you or your people. Haven't I made that clear to you? I'm happy here. I've got a life. I don't just do this; I write books - children's books. And - " "Wait a minute," I said, holding up my hand. "Slow down. Who are 'them?' I don't know what you're talking about. I've already talked to your police, so I'm not doing anything wrong here." If I thought she had looked surprised before, I was wrong. Now she looked surprised, her eyes and mouth wide. "You've talked to the police? To Officer Mercer?" "Of course," I confirmed. "I'm looking for a man who stole from my client. Here." I pulled out my ID and showed it to her. She looked at my PI license and then at me. "Now have you seen this guy?" She thought for another moment before answering, "Yes. He was in here maybe a week or so ago." A week ago? But Ridgeway had said the money was taken last year. And he had indicated that the embezzler had changed his appearance. Now this woman was telling me that he had been in the bar only a week ago with his original face. I looked into her beautiful eyes. "Are you sure about that?" "Of course I'm sure," she replied angrily. "You think just because I'm a waitress in a bar that I'm some kind of a ditz?" "Of course not," I assured her carefully. Of course, from experience, most waitresses I had met in bars like Randy Andy's weren't exactly rocket scientists, but I wasn't about to tell her that. Besides, she was right, I had to admit. I had been thinking of her as the average cocktail waitress, and that was a mistake. Even in the short time I had talked to her, I should have realized there was more to her than met the eye. Hadn't she said that she wrote books - children's books? I was a little rusty at this sort of an interview. I wouldn't have made the mistake of stereotyping her if I were still with Homicide. "It's just that I was given to understand that he might have disguised himself before then." She studied me with a practiced eye before saying, "You know, Mr. Riley, your client may have withheld a lot of information from you." I shifted uncomfortably. I had been thinking the same thing. "Let me give you a piece of advice," she continued. "First, are you happy with your life?" What a strange question. Was I? No, not really. I hadn't been happy since... "Are you?" she pressed. "It's all right," I answered a little defensively. "That probably means no," she observed sagely. "But you need to know that Ovid is... different. If you stay around very long, you'll find that out. But if you are happy with your life, you need to go out to your car right now and drive out of this town and don't look back." "Is that a threat?" I asked. "Is this guy still here in town? Is he dangerous or something?" "He's probably here," she replied. "I don't know where, but I do know he's probably still here. And I doubt if he's dangerous. The Judge wouldn't allow that. But you'll find out all about that if you stay here." "The Judge?" I asked. "Who is the Judge?" "Hey, Sly, Jean and Tina are thirsty," one of the pool players called. "So are we. You can make nice with that guy later. Bring us another round." She looked over at the foursome with an expression of mild disgust. "I have to go," she told me. "That's all I can say for now. As for the Judge, he's... well, he's the Judge." As she got up, I touched her arm. "One more question for you, Sly," I said, not really sure why I was saying it. "Make it quick." "Are you happy?" A slow smile crept across her face. "Yes, Mr. Riley, I'm happy. In fact, I've never been happier in my life." I finished the beer and left. At least I knew my runner had lit in Ovid. Now I had to be careful. It was like when I was fishing. Once you saw there was a fish near the hook, you always had to be careful not to jerk the line. I had to become more circumspect in my questioning. Too many questions would startle my prey. As I drove back to the motel, I mapped out a plan of action. I'd go back to the police the next day. That Officer Mercer had said he hadn't seen my fugitive, but maybe someone else in the department had seen him. Or maybe Officer Mercer was covering for him. A very small amount of that thirty million dollars might look like a lot of money in a policeman's pocket. Oklahoma cops might make a lot more money than South American cops, but they could be bribed, too. Maybe my Mr. Allison hadn't been so stupid after all. He managed to find a hiding place where he didn't have to speak Spanish. I admitted to myself that it was highly unlikely that Officer Mercer was on the take. He looked like the sort of officer who would rather die than break the rules. Still, if you're going to be a detective, you have to consider all the possibilities. Of course, what happened next was a possibility I would never have considered. I got out of the car still thinking about what to do next when I heard him. I had let down my guard, and before I knew what was happening, it was too late. His foot scuffed on the blacktop of the parking lot, but as I turned around to confront him, I was stopped by the feel of a gun placed in my back. "Well, well, this is gonna be easier than I thought," a gravelly voice muttered softly. I recognized it in an instant. It was Little Georgie Monello, top hit man for the Capella family. I was in big trouble. It was times like this that I wished I still carried a gun. "Still not packing, huh?" Georgie asked me, almost as if he were reading my thoughts as he did a perfunctory pat down. "Never needed one before," I muttered, still facing away from him with my hands up. "How you been, Georgie?" "Better than you," he remarked. "Now get back in your car, and make it slow. I'll be right behind you." I know in the movies, the baddie always slides into the seat next to his victim. Why? I guess it makes a better camera shot. Georgie wasn't posing for any pictures. He knew how to do his job. If he stayed behind me, I'd never know if he wasn't alert. He could blow me away in a heartbeat. "Where to?" I asked. "Someplace quiet," he answered. "Head south - out of town." Ever since I had taken out Louie Capella, I had known I would be on the Capella hit list. It didn't matter, though. I didn't have much to live for. But I hadn't expected this. Augie Capella had taken over when Louie bought it. He was Louie's cousin, not his brother, so his blood didn't run as hot when it came to revenge. Some folks said he was just cautious; other said he was a coward. Whatever the reason, his guys had stayed away from me. But that was in Chicago, I realized mentally kicking myself. Sure, it made sense now, I thought as the town of Ovid disappeared in the darkness behind us. In Chicago, I still had friends on the force. If Augie wasted me there, they'd be all over him like stink on shit. Not so in Oklahoma. And I doubted if the local authorities in Ovid had had much experience dealing with organized crime. I'd be just one more unsolved murder, and by the time the Chicago authorities looked into the case - if they bothered to do so - the trail would be cold and any evidence compromised. "How did you find me, Georgie?" I asked as calmly as I could. I didn't expect to live through the evening, but I didn't want to go to my grave without a few answers. "Somebody ratted on you," he laughed. It wasn't a pleasant laugh. "We've been waiting for this chance. That's the thing about Augie. He's real patient. He's not like Louie." "No," I agreed, unable to resist the barb. "That's because Louie's dead." "You can give him my regards in a few minutes," Georgie growled. That was no surprise. I didn't think he was taking me out to the country for a little moonlight stroll. No, Georgie was here to finish what Louie had started. I was a dead man. "This'll do," Georgie said when we had driven down to the edge of a river along a deserted farm road. "Stop and get out - slowly." If there had been a chance, I would have taken it. Georgie was a pro, though. God only knew how many guys he had taken out, but he had always been smart enough to cover his tracks. "Turn around," he ordered. I did. He was a good fifteen feet from me, an ugly silenced pistol in his gloved hand. Like I said, Georgie was a pro. "Throw me a bone," I said, stalling for time. "Who ratted me out?" Georgie just grinned. "That's not my department. Besides, I wouldn't tell you if I knew. So long, Riley." He was going to pull the trigger, I realized with a sinking feeling. Well, as I said, he was a pro. There was no way he was going to prolong this. This was just a job. I wasn't a human being; I was an assignment. I braced myself for the inevitable pain. Knowing Georgie, he'd shoot wherever it hurt the most. "Freeze!" a somehow familiar voice boomed from a short distance away. Georgie didn't freeze. He turned quicker than I could have ever imagined, ready to fire at the voice. As I said, Georgie was a pro. But Georgie wasn't fast enough. I caught the muzzle flash of a weapon in the darkness. Georgie screamed as his gun went flying from his hand. There was no blood. The stranger had shot the gun right out of his hand, hitting only the weapon. I know, that happens in the movies all the time. In real life though, shooting a gun out of someone's hand is just about the most difficult - and stupidest - thing I could ever imagine doing. Every rookie officer is told to shoot for the money. Go for the torso. It's the biggest target. A shot anywhere will at least slow the assailant down, so go for the biggest target. Even if you did manage to shoot the gun out of someone's hand, doing it cleanly, hitting only the gun, would take superhuman skill - or blind luck. For some reason, I was betting on skill. Why? Because the shooter fired only once, as if he knew exactly where the shot was going to go. Georgie was alternately cursing and crying, rubbing his stinging hand with his good one. He made no move to pick his weapon up from the ground. I think he realized that the only way that shot had been lucky was because his assailant hadn't nailed him right between the eyes - which he richly deserved. I wasn't surprised to see Officer Mercer walking toward us. What I was surprised to see was that his cruiser was only a hundred feet or so down the road behind us. I hadn't even hear him drive up. Had he followed us, his lights off? I didn't think so. I had looked back in the mirror a number of times, and the white cruiser would have been visible behind us even on a moonless night like that night. He had to be sitting there, waiting. Didn't he? "Are you all right?" he asked me in his calm voice. I nodded. "Thanks to you. Where did you pick us up? I didn't even see you behind us." He didn't bother to answer me, but I wasn't offended. He had his eyes on Georgie. With his gun, he motioned Georgie to the caged back seat of his cruiser. "Follow me in," he told me. The drive back into Ovid was much more pleasant than the drive out. And it gave me time to think. I had been ratted out by somebody, but who? Well, it had to be either my firm or their client. No one else knew where I was. But why would my client rat me out? Or why would my firm do it? Maybe the whole thing had been a setup. Maybe Augie Capella was Ridgeway's mysterious client. That would make sense. It would mean there was no missing thirty million dollars. It would mean it was all just a ruse to get me out of town. But no, that didn't sound right. Ridgeway was clever enough to think of that, but he had a reputation of being clean. I couldn't see him dirtying his hands to set up an ambush for an ex-cop. Besides, he had no known connections to the Capellas, or any other organized crime figures for that matter. And frankly, Augie wasn't smart enough to come up with a plot like that. None of his lieutenants were bright enough to think of it either. My late mother's vegetable garden had a higher IQ than Augie's entire gang. So maybe it was somebody in my own firm, I thought grimly. Maybe there was a secretary who owed a lot of money. Selling me out might be their ticket to solvency. But no, I doubted that. Mac was too careful in his hiring practices. And most of his people had been with him for years. He paid them well and they gave him loyalty in return. Maybe Officer Mercer could get Georgie to tell him more than he'd told me. But I doubted it. If Georgie had known who had sold me out, he would have told me. After all, he had a gun trained on me. Georgie would have found it fitting to tell me who had betrayed me just before he pulled the trigger. Talk about adding insult to injury. To my surprise, Georgie was a good boy when he got out of the car at City Hall. He seemed almost in a trance as he shuffled ahead of Officer Mercer. No one was on duty in the police station that occupied a small wing of the City Hall building. As Officer Mercer locked the cell door, I asked him, "Do you mind if I ask him a few questions?" He shook his head. "Not now. I had to sedate him. He'll be asleep in a minute." "Oh," I said, not bothering to hide my disappointment. "Did he say anything in the car?" Officer Mercer just shrugged. "Nothing important. The Judge will see him in court at nine tomorrow. You need to be there, too." I smiled. "I wouldn't miss it for the world." Then I put out my hand to him. As he shook it, I said, "Thanks again. You saved my life." "Yes," he replied. It's difficult to be ironic with just one word, but somehow he managed. I got the odd feeling that there was something he wasn't telling me. Well, it would have to wait for morning. I wanted to be done with Georgie as quickly as possible. Then I could get back to my assignment. By tomorrow afternoon, word of this would be all over town. If Allison put two and two together, he'd be out of town before I could find him. But in spite of that, I wanted to be in that courtroom. There was nothing I wanted more than to see Little Georgie go down. I had packed one sport coat and tie just in case I had to appear in court somewhere on the trip. It happens to private investigators with some regularity. So it was a well-groomed Jeff Riley who stepped into the Ovid courtroom at a quarter until nine the next morning. No trial was in session, and the only two people in the room were two very attractive young women. One was blonde and the other brunette. Both wore conservative outfits - women's suits with silky blouses. The blonde wore dark blue and the brunette a pinstriped gray, but neither outfit did anything to detract from their looks. The brunette turned to face me. "Hi," she said to me with a slight smile as she extended a feminine hand. I took it. For a woman, she had a firm handshake. I liked that. "I'm Susan Jager. I'll be your attorney today, Mr. Riley." "My attorney?" I repeated stupidly. "I wasn't aware I needed an attorney." "Oh!" she replied carefully. "It seems Officer Mercer charged you with disturbing the peace last night. Don't worry, it's just a minor charge. I'm sure we can clear it up in no time." "I thought I was to be here for Little Georgie's arraignment." She looked puzzled. "Little Georgie? Oh, you mean Mr. Monello. You're correct. The Judge will see him first. Just have a seat with me at the defense table. The Judge will be here any minute and he doesn't like people moving around in the room once court has begun." The blonde had already wordlessly taken a seat in the visitor's gallery. As instructed, I plopped down next to Susan just in time to see Officer Mercer enter the room and intone, "All rise." As we rose, I saw Little Georgie enter the room and stand before the bench. He seemed to still be in a trance as he shuffled toward the bench without so much as a single guard. When he was in place and we were on our feet, Officer Mercer continued, "The Municipal Court of the City of Ovid, Oklahoma, is now in session, the Honorable Judge presiding." That was different, I thought. Back home, he would have announced the name of the judge instead of just the title. There was no nameplate on the bench either. It seemed I was about to appear before a nameless magistrate. The Judge was reasonably impressive in his crisp black robe. If there were recruiting posters for judges, this one could be on one, I thought. He looked to be middle-aged with just a touch of gray in is neatly- trimmed brown hair a