and in the print edition. It was convoluted these days, each paper trying one scheme or another to shuffle readers either to or from the print version or web site. The only thing they seemed to know for sure was that they didn’t want their subscribers reading the other guy’s paper. The print world certainly wasn’t what it used to be. But that was why Cyrus was making a killing with investigative journalism. When he could break a big story, he could sell it all over the country. The papers were in chaos but they were still buying his work.
Looking back at his list, he considered the additional stories that were sure to follow. Once the case made it to court, headlines would be made all over again. Plus he had already heard from Agent Shaw. Two of the four members of the kill squad had flipped on their mysterious fifth associate within an hour of being hauled into interrogation. The remaining two corroborated the fifth member’s identity before the day was out. Shaw hadn’t been forced to make hard choices when it came to cutting a deal. The FBI would seek a change of venue as Illinois didn’t currently support capital punishment. Cyrus wondered if it was the threat of the death penalty or just the promise of being placed in general population that had done the trick. Then again, for a Chicago cop going to prison, those options were likely one and the same.
All in all, this was going to be a good month’s work. And Hondo was due compensation for his support on the roof a couple of days back. Cyrus knew the man would be offended if offered cash. Their relationship didn’t work that way. Fair enough. Cyrus had set up a college fund for Hondo’s four-year-old-daughter. He started it with a hefty deposit, and planned to contribute to it over time. Truth be told, freelance writing wasn’t even Cyrus’s bread and butter. It would be good to do something constructive with the extra money.
The chime of the front door bell pulled Cyrus from his contemplation. It took a moment for him to realize the buzzer was his. It was almost never used. No one visited his home.
Pressing the intercom button on the panel beside the front door, Cyrus answered simply, “Yes?”
“Mister Cooper? My name is Allan Underwood. I’ve come to speak with you regarding Mister Walter Meade.”
Cyrus felt his jaw tighten at the mention of Meade. This was unexpected, and he’d never heard of Allan Underwood. “I’m sorry,” Cyrus said after only a moment. “I don’t know a Walter Freed.” Why not mess with the last name? Maybe it would sell the lie.
“Ah, no. I was told to expect as much,” the man chuckled. “Mister Cooper, I’m sorry for the intrusion. If I could have a moment of your time I’m sure I can explain everything.”
Alright . He wasn’t going away that easily. Cyrus was going to have to see it through. “Ok. Come on up.” He hit the button to release the lock on the street level entrance out front.
Cyrus returned to his desk where he saved the document that was still up on the computer’s screen. With a tap of the keyboard, he activated the software screen lock and secured the machine. Pulling out the top left desk drawer, he retrieved a 9mm Springfield. A quick check of the magazine and a press-check of the chamber confirmed it was locked and loaded. He stuck the gun down back of his jeans before grabbing a flannel shirt from the back of his office chair. Pulling it on, he headed back to the front door. The shirt would be enough to hide the gun but it wouldn’t get in the way if he needed to use it.
A few minutes later there was a knock at the door. Cyrus opened it to find a weathered old man in an expensive dark suit. The man was about five foot six and must have weighed 190 pounds. He was very nearly as big around as he was tall. It must have made for an interesting challenge for his tailor. Still, the man had kind eyes. The patient sort that hinted he was here to deliver bad news. Cyrus judged the man to
Looking back at his list, he considered the additional stories that were sure to follow. Once the case made it to court, headlines would be made all over again. Plus he had already heard from Agent Shaw. Two of the four members of the kill squad had flipped on their mysterious fifth associate within an hour of being hauled into interrogation. The remaining two corroborated the fifth member’s identity before the day was out. Shaw hadn’t been forced to make hard choices when it came to cutting a deal. The FBI would seek a change of venue as Illinois didn’t currently support capital punishment. Cyrus wondered if it was the threat of the death penalty or just the promise of being placed in general population that had done the trick. Then again, for a Chicago cop going to prison, those options were likely one and the same.
All in all, this was going to be a good month’s work. And Hondo was due compensation for his support on the roof a couple of days back. Cyrus knew the man would be offended if offered cash. Their relationship didn’t work that way. Fair enough. Cyrus had set up a college fund for Hondo’s four-year-old-daughter. He started it with a hefty deposit, and planned to contribute to it over time. Truth be told, freelance writing wasn’t even Cyrus’s bread and butter. It would be good to do something constructive with the extra money.
The chime of the front door bell pulled Cyrus from his contemplation. It took a moment for him to realize the buzzer was his. It was almost never used. No one visited his home.
Pressing the intercom button on the panel beside the front door, Cyrus answered simply, “Yes?”
“Mister Cooper? My name is Allan Underwood. I’ve come to speak with you regarding Mister Walter Meade.”
Cyrus felt his jaw tighten at the mention of Meade. This was unexpected, and he’d never heard of Allan Underwood. “I’m sorry,” Cyrus said after only a moment. “I don’t know a Walter Freed.” Why not mess with the last name? Maybe it would sell the lie.
“Ah, no. I was told to expect as much,” the man chuckled. “Mister Cooper, I’m sorry for the intrusion. If I could have a moment of your time I’m sure I can explain everything.”
Alright . He wasn’t going away that easily. Cyrus was going to have to see it through. “Ok. Come on up.” He hit the button to release the lock on the street level entrance out front.
Cyrus returned to his desk where he saved the document that was still up on the computer’s screen. With a tap of the keyboard, he activated the software screen lock and secured the machine. Pulling out the top left desk drawer, he retrieved a 9mm Springfield. A quick check of the magazine and a press-check of the chamber confirmed it was locked and loaded. He stuck the gun down back of his jeans before grabbing a flannel shirt from the back of his office chair. Pulling it on, he headed back to the front door. The shirt would be enough to hide the gun but it wouldn’t get in the way if he needed to use it.
A few minutes later there was a knock at the door. Cyrus opened it to find a weathered old man in an expensive dark suit. The man was about five foot six and must have weighed 190 pounds. He was very nearly as big around as he was tall. It must have made for an interesting challenge for his tailor. Still, the man had kind eyes. The patient sort that hinted he was here to deliver bad news. Cyrus judged the man to
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