I pressed the button for my secretary. Duncan wore a gray three-piece suit, a slightly off-white shirt, black shoes and socks. He toted the thinnest of laptop computers with him. He used to play basketball for Mokena University. Still played pick-up games at the local gym. He’s now a grad student at the University of Chicago who should be indulging in nuclear physics, not keeping my filing and accounts in order. He says he likes the work. He’s been with me five years.
“Knecht is officially a client?” Morgan asked.
“Yes.”
He handed me a manila file folder. “Those are the initial financials.” I glanced inside at about five sheets of paper filled with columns and rows of single-spaced numbers and names. He said, “Nothing odd so far. There’s lots more to find. I’ll keep looking.” I glanced at the totals. Knecht could afford my fee.
I filled Duncan in on the meeting. He took notes on the laptop as I spoke.
When I finished, he asked, “When do you leave?”
I said, “I’ll drive up to Butterfield early this afternoon. What do I have the rest of the week?”
He tapped a few buttons. “Nothing that can’t be rescheduled.”
“Let’s set up a small command post in the nearest town south or east. See if you can’t find me a cheap motel room in Butterfield itself. One that a minor league baseball player can afford.”
I returned home and worked out for half an hour then ran five miles along the lakefront. Before changing, I took my basset hound, Caesar, for a walk. I fed and watered him when we got back. Caesar’s best qualities are uncritical affection and baying at the moon, with eating and pooping coming in third and fourth. He’s exceptional at the baying stuff. He should set up master classes.
I had lunch at Penny’s, a very quiet, exclusive restaurant featuring the hunkiest waiters in town. The food’s not bad either.
Early in the afternoon, I met Duncan at a coffee shop in Elgin. I had a duffel bag from my time in the Navy SEALs. I thought it would go best with my image as a hard-working, up-and-coming baseball player. Duncan arrived with a friend he introduced as Andy, a willowy blond. Andy was to drive my car back to the office. I figured my red Ferrari would be noticed in Butterfield much less it being an absolutely inappropriate possession for a minor league ball player. Duncan had procured a twenty-year-old Ford Escort for me.
I always left my dog with Duncan when I had out-of-town overnight work. Duncan was one of the few people, besides myself, that Caesar actually liked.
The traffic wasn’t bad for the four-hour trip to Butterfield, north and west of Madison.