Big Rob’s tiny Ogden Avenue office hadn’t been altered in even small ways since he quit the force and started taking on clients. The walls had the same rose tint. The furniture, two decades out of date when he opened up shop, was now approaching the forty-year mark and was nearly but not quite retro chic. The carpet was industrial-grade, the kind they used in department stores, and along well-traveled routes he had treated the periodic coffee stains with dish soap and a damp cloth. Surrounded by dust, an old CPD bowling trophy stood on a filing cabinet like a statue anchored in concrete.
“Dr. Moore,” Big Rob said. “I’m surprised to see you here.”
“Really?”
Biggie nodded. “I hardly know you and yet I feel like we’ve been through some traumatic events together.”
“Phil Canella was your friend, I understand,” Davis Moore said.
“He was. And I’m very sorry about your late wife.”
Davis nodded, thankful that such business could be dispensed of quickly. “I’m looking for a man. I don’t know much about him. But I need you to get me his name and to tell me where he lives.”
Biggie held up a hand and stood from behind his desk. Although there wasn’t room for a man his size to walk freely in this office, when he was with a client he liked to be on his feet. It felt like exercise. “Who are we looking for?”
Davis took a small notebook from his pocket. He had written down pages of thoughts and notions since meeting Justin in the forest preserve three days ago, and he had done his best to filter the speculation from the facts. “His last name could be Cash, or something similar. He grew up around Northwood – was probably living there eighteen years ago, and one or both of his parents might still live on the North Shore. He likely has some history of violence against women, although I can’t say if he has a record or not. He has money – he’s possibly a doctor or a lawyer or a banker or an entrepreneur – and he probably drives an expensive European car. As of six years ago, he was living in the city of Chicago.” He paused while he decided if the next piece of information would be helpful. “Around the same time, he went on a single date with Martha Finn.”
Biggie groaned and pointed at Davis. “Gold Badge hired my assistant, on your behalf, to take pictures of her son. Mrs. Finn has a restraining order against Sally now. She has a restraining order against you, too. I read that in the paper.”
“That’s fine. I don’t want anyone to bother her.”
Big Rob looked out the window, deciding how he was going to live with the regrets that were already taking shape in his head. Christ. “What else do you know?”
Davis turned to a pair of notes he’d made after contemplating the things Justin said in the car. “As a child he might have been fascinated with fire, or connected to the disappearance of animals or pets. He’ll be extremely intelligent. Probably much smarter than you or me.”
“Great,” Biggie said. “A psycho, in other words. And a genius. What is he, like a mad scientist or something?” He chuckled.
Davis opened his briefcase and pulled out the sketch. “Finally, he looks like this. Or he did until recently.”
Big Rob pulled the paper across his desk, touching it only at the edges. “I know this picture. Philly had it when he died.” He looked into Davis Moore’s eyes for signs of truthfulness.
“My wife found it on my computer and sent it to him, thinking it might be related to” – he wasn’t sure how to put this – “her case. It’s been refined a little since then.”
Big Rob held it up in front of his face, blocking the sight line to his client. “Philly died over this face.” He forced an impassive expression onto his eyes and lips and set the sketch down, fixing his gaze again on Davis.
Biggie told Davis his fee. “And you’ll pay my expenses in the meantime?”
“I will.” Davis unfolded cash from his pocket. Biggie sighed and accepted the money without counting it.