That guy was loitering across the street from the Broadcast Center again.
By rights the security chief knew he should call the police and have them talk to the man, but Joe Connelly itched to get out there and confront him face-to-face. There had been more letters and still no response from the FBI. Connelly was tense, and determined that nothing would happen to Eliza Blake on his watch.
Taking two uniformed security guards along with him, Connelly pushed through the revolving door, waited for a break in the traffic and jaywalked across the wide street. The sweatshirt-clad man stared at him defiantly as he approached.
“Excuse me, sir. I’d like to know your name and why you’ve been hanging around here.”
The man looked at him disdainfully. “I don’t have to tell you my name, and the last time I looked, this is a free country and these are public sidewalks.”
“Listen, clown. Move along and don’t come back. Do you hear me? If I see you out here again, I’ll call the police.”
“Oh. I’m scared.”
Connelly felt like slamming the sarcastic son-of-a-bitch in the face. Instead he motioned to one of the guards, who speedily pulled a camera from his pocket and snapped off a couple quick shots of the tough mug.
“Hey! You can’t do that,” the loiterer protested, lunging for the camera.
The guard pulled back, the camera safely out of Meat’s reach.
“Why not call a policeman?” Connelly dared triumphantly. “Now get the hell out of here and, I’m warning you, don’t come back.”