I looked around my office as though seeing it for the first time. How compact it was, how utilitarian: the gunmetal file cabinets, the scarred desk, the computer, and the two client chairs. There was an Annie Lee print on the wall, the one titled Rebirth. Pop had given it to me, wrapped up nice, the day I was discharged from the hospital I nearly died in. It gave the place some class. The office wouldn’t win any awards for interior design, but I didn’t need things fussy. I just needed them to work.

I glanced at the coatrack near the door, at the battered, crook-handled umbrella hanging on it. Pop’s umbrella. I’d insisted on having it, and I kept it close, here where I spent most of my time. I liked being able to look up and see it; it grounded me, even though it would always be an inadequate substitute, and a sad reminder of what I’d lost. The print, the umbrella, there seemed to be more of Pop in here than there was of me, but I was okay with that, too.

Weber was under my skin now, in my head. It felt like I’d somehow boarded a runaway train with zero chance of getting off it. I could shut it down, I thought, shut him down. Is that what I want? I wasn’t sure. I straightened, shook it off. That was enough. Tim Ayers. That’s who I needed to focus on now. That was my job.

I scooted up to the computer, booted it up, and logged into the databases I subscribed to, running Darby’s name through, looking for anything I could find on him. I subscribed to several online resources that allowed me to check court records, vital stats, news archives, vehicle data through the State of Illinois. Access cost me dearly every month, but it cut down on the running around.

I needed to know more about Darby. Who was he? Who was he connected to? What was he hiding? After about an hour of fine-tuning the search, I got several hits on the name. I then narrowed my parameters by approximate age and race, and there he was. I slid back from the computer, my eyes glued to the screen. He was an ex-con, just a year and a half out of prison. Well, if that doesn’t just beat all? I read through what was there: Vincent Ronald Darby, DOB April 6, 1978. There was nothing violent, at least not on paper: mainly petty theft, minor offenses, passing bad checks. He served a four-year stint for the checks. Darby had no one listed as next of kin, but the address came back funky. The house he was living in, the Painted Lady, didn’t belong to him. The owner was listed as a Peter Langham, deceased.