Brian Rooney was suspicious. That was clear.
He used his firmest handshake, then kept a careful watch as his visitor moved his chair far enough to fit his long legs into the space in front of the desk.
“Mr. Bruce sent you?” Rooney crossed his arms.
The visitor nodded. “That’s what I said.”
“Why?”
“He has a new client. Wants you to meet him. Thinks the guy has a problem he needs help with.”
“Why didn’t Bruce tell me this himself?”
“New procedures. An extra layer of insulation, to make the deniability more plausible. It’s not Bruce’s idea, though. This is coming straight from JD. He’s been paranoid—more paranoid—ever since the Pardew fiasco.”
“I thought we were still on hiatus, because of that.”
The visitor shook his head. “Nope. No need anymore. Pardew’s file is back—”
“The file’s back? Are you sure? No one told me.”
“It’s back. That’s positively confirmed. I spoke with someone—a reliable contact—who saw one of the detectives on the case physically holding it. Seems like you handled that situation with the internal security guy perfectly.”
“Good, then. Thanks.”
“And you ensured that Pardew was clear about which path he should take?”
“Oh, the little weasel was clear. There’s no way we’ll see him again.”
“Excellent. In that case, there’s no need to leave any more money on the table. As long as we’re careful, and we learn from recent experiences.”
“OK.” Rooney leaned forward and rested his elbows on the desk. “Who’s the mark?”
“A guy named Len Hendrie.” The visitor took a piece of paper from his jacket pocket and passed it to Rooney. “Here’s his picture and a list of his haunts.”
Rooney took a pair of reading glasses from his drawer. “What did this Hendrie guy do?”
“He’s an arsonist.”
“A torch?” Rooney dropped the paper. “I’m not sure we should touch him. Those guys are weird.”
“Mr. Bruce OK’d it. So did JD. This guy’s not a psycho. He was just getting even with some worse-type asshole who stitched him up. It was a onetime kind of thing. There’s no risk of this guy getting back into the system, further down the line. He’s learned his lesson, for sure.”
“All right, then. I’ll try to make contact tonight.”
“Perfect. Let me know how it shakes out.” The visitor passed Rooney a smaller slip of paper. “Here’s my cell number. Call me anytime.”
“Let me finish.” Rooney didn’t take the note. “I’ll try tonight, after I’ve talked with Mr. Bruce and confirmed he sent you. No offense.”
“None taken. Of course you should get confirmation. Mr. Bruce was certain you’d insist on it. He can’t talk to you himself right now—he’s in the middle of something he just can’t get out of—so he said you should check directly with JD.”
Rooney paused, and splayed his stubby fingers out on the surface of the desk. “I’ll wait. Talk to Bruce tomorrow.”
The visitor shook his head. “JD won’t be happy about the delay. The disruption Pardew caused cost him big. He wants the operation back up and running right away. His wife’s got her eye on a new Maserati. Better call him right away. You have his home number, right?”
Rooney folded his arms and leaned back.
“Here.” The visitor took out his phone, pulled up an entry from his list of contacts, and handed it to Rooney. “His personal cell’s on there, too. You’re bound to get him on one of them.”
Rooney pushed the phone back across the desk. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll call you tomorrow. Let you know if I got hold of Hendrie. And if he’s up for any special assistance.”