The elevator doors rattled open, and I raised my eyes from the papers on the table. A rather short but well-statured lady in her mid-thirties stepped out, and I could see how her light blue gaze began to waver as she noticed me. She blushed faintly, and her hand touched the long and straight straw-coloured hair, briefly and hesitatingly. I examined her with some mild curiosity. The light yellow dress and the matching bonnet, gloves and handbag were brand new, and stylish in a way that made me sure she belonged to a well-respected and wealthy family. She looked around in bewilderment, clasped her handbag tighter, as if trying to recover, and then forced herself to walk on. The carpeted floor muffled her footsteps as she passed me to the leftward corridor.

I arranged myself beside the table and opened the folder Mr. Ribbons had given me. I glanced through the sheet briefing the case: the victim was Mr. Stephen Bowlin, white male, age 52, stabbed to death in his apartment in North Christie. The evidence found at the crime scene included a piece of fabric torn from a women's overcoat, a bloody handprint, and a threatening note written by a left-handed person. There were seven known suspects. The piece of fabric had matched the overcoat of Mr. Bowlin's loan shark, Ms. Linda Rittenhouse, but her alibi for the time of the murder had been confirmed. The handprint and the handwriting didn't match any of the known suspects. Apparently, Mr. Ribbons hadn't listed his acquaintance as one of the suspects.

I heard Mr. Ribbons close the door behind me as I turned to the right towards the elevators. I passed three doors both sides of the corridor, and reached a small alcove with five wooden chairs and a matching small table. Not much room there, but I squeezed in.

It took some time to get him over his doubts, but finally I saw his eyes change. He turned towards the window, thinking.
- "I could give you the case file to look at," he said. "But I have to keep one piece of evidence."
He picked up a yellow folder from a pile on his table, took a piece of paper out of it, and handed me the file. I took it.
- "This piece of evidence is a handwritten note," he explained, "found at the crime scene. My problem is that I know that handwriting. I need to check out about it personally. I'll give it to you later."
I saw him hesitate for a moment, but when he continued his voice was determined.
- "I'd better get at this now." His eyes turned to me. "I need to make a phone call, privately. Can you wait in the hallway for 15 minutes?"
- "Yes, sure," I nodded.
- "Good. There are chairs behind the corner, near the elevator," he said, "I'll see you there."

It flashed through my mind that this case might bring me a way up in the circles if I cracked it. It would be a good idea to convince Mr. Ribbons to trust me. I clasped my hands and leaned towards him.
- "You know I can be discreet. You remember the Lander case with the old lady?" I paused for a moment and watched him intensely. "If you let me handle this case, I'll keep your acquaintance out of it. And if it turns out the killer can't be accused without it, I'll give the case back to you."
- "That would mean a quit case in your records." I could hear doubt in his voice. "Are you sure?"
- "Absolutely."

Mr. Ribbons looked at me with a serious expression on his round reddish face. Thick brown hair was hanging down on his forehead as it always did.
- "Well, I have this case," he said tentatively, "that I might need some help with, but I'm not yet quite sure I should pass it on."
I raised my eyebrow. That was a line I hadn't expected.
- "Why's that?" I asked and took a better position in the chair.
- "There's a complication. Someone I know might become involved."
- "Enough reason to hush it down?"
- "Not if my acquaintance is quilty. Otherwise, well.."
- "Discretion needed?" I looked straight into his grey eyes.
He frowned for a moment, opened his mouth to say something, but then just nodded.

The room I entered was a spacious one with a wide window that gave in sunlight. Mr. Ribbons sat in a leather chair behind a large mahogany table, and raised his eyes from a bunch of papers scattered on it. I had met him a few times before on behalf of the old lady, so I greeted him politely but casually. He nodded and pointed to a chair in the front of his table. I sat and faced him.

I mounted the elevator and pushed a button with the number five on it. After a few moments I reached the destination, entered the fifth floor, and turned left to a wide corridor and looked for room numbers. I found a door that had 512 beside it and knocked.
- "Enter," said a harsh voice inside.

I entered the lobby and saw a handsome young man standing behind a counter a few feet away, going through some papers. I assumed he was some kind of receptionist, so I approached him. A name tag on his jacket said his name was Roger.
- "Miss Suzi Hukka to see Mr. Ribbons, please. He's expecting me."
- "Just a moment, please." Roger nodded his head and reached for the phone. I tried to look indifferent and casual while absorbing in his fine features that were framed with a neatly cut blonde hair. He spoke shortly on the phone and then turned his astoundingly blue eyes back to mine.
- "You'll find Mr. Ribbons on the 5th floor, room 512, Miss Hukka. Turn left from the elevators, and you'll be right there." Roger smiled cordially but couldn't hide a twinkle in his eyes. I granted him one of my charming smiles, thanked and turned away.

After a some fifteen minutes ride, we stopped beside a huge office building downtown. From the pavement, wide steps lead up to the grand double doors, through which a bunch of men just came out in stylish suits and ties, holding homburgs in the hand and overcoats on the arm. A quick glimpse to my watch told it was about the closing time for the offices. I stood out of the car and, glancing at the driver, waved my hand for goodbye. I thought this wasn't exactly a place where I could feel myself belong, but I faced the entrance and started mounting.

The man started the engine and headed his car to the next junction. I didn't feel like talking so I sat looking at the buildings we passed by. Big brownstones side by side, with clean but deserted-looking entrances. Thanks to the old lady, who had given me a nice lump sum of money for the rent before she left, I could keep my agency in one of most decent areas in Doylesburgh, which gave me a better chance for good clients and cases. I sneered in my thoughts when the car turned again and headed west to the busy business streets in Hammett Square.

Two hours later, I mounted the steps to the sidewalk and walked to a black coupé that was waiting at the curb. The man behind the wheel nodded to greet me as I hopped in.
- "You know where to go?" I asked, and the man nodded again. "Okay, let's go then."

There I sat, behind an old brown wooden table, thinking about the future. The old lady who had taken care of running the agency was gone, and there was no one to guide me now. I gave a deep sigh and turned towards the small window facing the narrow side walk, and the old chair that I sat in squeeked it's objection to such rough handling. The air smelled fusty in the former wine cellar that now accommodated the modest headquarters of the agency. There were no passers-by, and I knew none was likely to drop in even if there had been. I had almost no useful skills whatsoever, except the worst of attitudes and a bad mouth, and that hadn't made me much appreciated in the business. I realized I had to change my ways if I wanted to get my share of living from now on. I sighed again, pulled myself together, and made a few calls to arrange something useful.

Ground Zero

Subscribed and joined Ground Zero Agency today - as director to let Miinck join Lone Wolf Agency.