but we’re stretched as it is. I suppose I could have someone take a look at that letter you found. Check for fingerprints, analyze the handwriting…”
Carver swooned. Use this place to find his father?
Hawking leaned forward. “Mr. Tudd has a new forensic document examiner who dabbles in graphology. You know the difference?”
Carver nodded. “The examiner tries to confirm the identity of the author; a graphologist tries to figure out their personality.”
“Well, then,” Tudd said. “Maybe you
will
be running this place one day. Um… did Mr. Hawking have you bring the letter?”
“I didn’t have to. I assumed he’d keep something so precious on his person. Am I right, boy?”
Carver grinned. “Yes.”
Tudd put his hand out. “It won’t be a priority, but no reason we can’t put it in the queue.”
Excited, Carver reached into his pocket, only to have his hand blocked by Hawking’s cane.
“Wait,” Hawking said. “If you
are
going to be my assistant, I want you to have complete access to the facilities. You can’t analyze the handwriting yourself, but I want you doing everything else.”
“That’s not possible!” Tudd said, blustering.
“To the contrary. It is.”
Tudd exhaled so hard, his mustache quivered. “May we discuss this privately?”
Not wanting to seem as if he were someone who might need “babysitting,” Carver promptly stood. The two men were silent as he opened the door and stepped outside, his head ready to explode from all the questions it contained.
14
THE TWO younger agents were waiting when Carver emerged.
“The older guns wanted some words alone, eh?” Emeril said. He put his hand out for Carver to shake. “John Emeril. Been with the agency three years now.”
Jackson did the same, though with a considerably stronger grip. He also had a bent nose, as if it’d been broken in a fistfight, and a slight scar on his right cheek. “Josiah Jackson. Quite a place, isn’t it?”
“I felt like I’d stepped into a Jules Verne novel first time I set eyes on that subway,” Emeril put in. He was unblemished, though paler, and perpetually squinting, as if reading tiny print.
“I’ll say,” Carver answered. After the grim Hawking and the blustery Tudd, these two were a relief.
“Subway’s not the half of it,” Jackson said, unbuttoning his jacket and leaning against the wall. “They’re developing things that’d make Verne’s head spin.”
“I just wish they could invent a steady paycheck,” Emeril put in.
“So you’re both detectives?” Carver asked.
“That’s right,” Emeril said. “We don’t stand outside doors all day. Matter of fact, we asked for the duty because we’d heard Mr. Hawking would be here.”
“What sort of cases have you worked on?”
“Not certain we should say,” Jackson said. “But nothing as exciting as you might read in a book.”
“Don’t tell him that!” Emeril said. “Jackson and I have handled kidnappings, blackmail and bank robberies! Not that we’re allowed to discuss specifics. And he’s right about one thing. It’s not all running around in sewers with pistols drawn, ruining your best clothes to sneak up on a thief.”
Jackson warmed to the bragging. “That’s the trick, isn’t it? Catching them before or during. Afterward, the damage is already done. There’s a lot of research and guesswork, trying to peer into the workings of the criminal mind.”
“Which Jackson usually leaves to me,” Emeril said. “Of course, Mr. Hawking knows the most about the criminal brain. I hear he keeps one in his desk. Quite a fellow, old Hawking.”
“You’ll be training with the best,” Jackson agreed.
“Why did he retire?” Carver asked.
“He didn’t tell you?” Emeril said. “Don’t know much about his work with the original Pinkertons, but the story goes that by the time he started up here, he was the brainy sort, like me.”
“Oh? I heard he was more the brawny type,” Jackson said,
Carver swooned. Use this place to find his father?
Hawking leaned forward. “Mr. Tudd has a new forensic document examiner who dabbles in graphology. You know the difference?”
Carver nodded. “The examiner tries to confirm the identity of the author; a graphologist tries to figure out their personality.”
“Well, then,” Tudd said. “Maybe you
will
be running this place one day. Um… did Mr. Hawking have you bring the letter?”
“I didn’t have to. I assumed he’d keep something so precious on his person. Am I right, boy?”
Carver grinned. “Yes.”
Tudd put his hand out. “It won’t be a priority, but no reason we can’t put it in the queue.”
Excited, Carver reached into his pocket, only to have his hand blocked by Hawking’s cane.
“Wait,” Hawking said. “If you
are
going to be my assistant, I want you to have complete access to the facilities. You can’t analyze the handwriting yourself, but I want you doing everything else.”
“That’s not possible!” Tudd said, blustering.
“To the contrary. It is.”
Tudd exhaled so hard, his mustache quivered. “May we discuss this privately?”
Not wanting to seem as if he were someone who might need “babysitting,” Carver promptly stood. The two men were silent as he opened the door and stepped outside, his head ready to explode from all the questions it contained.
14
THE TWO younger agents were waiting when Carver emerged.
“The older guns wanted some words alone, eh?” Emeril said. He put his hand out for Carver to shake. “John Emeril. Been with the agency three years now.”
Jackson did the same, though with a considerably stronger grip. He also had a bent nose, as if it’d been broken in a fistfight, and a slight scar on his right cheek. “Josiah Jackson. Quite a place, isn’t it?”
“I felt like I’d stepped into a Jules Verne novel first time I set eyes on that subway,” Emeril put in. He was unblemished, though paler, and perpetually squinting, as if reading tiny print.
“I’ll say,” Carver answered. After the grim Hawking and the blustery Tudd, these two were a relief.
“Subway’s not the half of it,” Jackson said, unbuttoning his jacket and leaning against the wall. “They’re developing things that’d make Verne’s head spin.”
“I just wish they could invent a steady paycheck,” Emeril put in.
“So you’re both detectives?” Carver asked.
“That’s right,” Emeril said. “We don’t stand outside doors all day. Matter of fact, we asked for the duty because we’d heard Mr. Hawking would be here.”
“What sort of cases have you worked on?”
“Not certain we should say,” Jackson said. “But nothing as exciting as you might read in a book.”
“Don’t tell him that!” Emeril said. “Jackson and I have handled kidnappings, blackmail and bank robberies! Not that we’re allowed to discuss specifics. And he’s right about one thing. It’s not all running around in sewers with pistols drawn, ruining your best clothes to sneak up on a thief.”
Jackson warmed to the bragging. “That’s the trick, isn’t it? Catching them before or during. Afterward, the damage is already done. There’s a lot of research and guesswork, trying to peer into the workings of the criminal mind.”
“Which Jackson usually leaves to me,” Emeril said. “Of course, Mr. Hawking knows the most about the criminal brain. I hear he keeps one in his desk. Quite a fellow, old Hawking.”
“You’ll be training with the best,” Jackson agreed.
“Why did he retire?” Carver asked.
“He didn’t tell you?” Emeril said. “Don’t know much about his work with the original Pinkertons, but the story goes that by the time he started up here, he was the brainy sort, like me.”
“Oh? I heard he was more the brawny type,” Jackson said,
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