The Case of the Not-So-Fair Trader (A Richard Sherlock Whodunit Book 1) by Jim Stevens

Author:Jim Stevens [Stevens, Jim]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Tags: General Fiction
Publisher: Creative Inc. Publishing
Published: 2012-12-06T16:00:00+00:00

18

Bureau of incompetence

Standard operating procedure was that an applicant had to have earned a law degree or a CPA to get into the FBI. This is not the case any longer, but the uppity attitude the educational requirement fostered remains alive and well inside the Bureau.

There are over eight hundred FBI agents in the Chicago office, more people than an entire day shift at the Ford Assembly plant on the South Side. Must be more crime than Fords around these parts. The offices are in the Dirksen Federal Building in the Loop. I have to visit three floors before I find the correct reception area.

“Excuse me, I need to speak with the agent involved in the investigation of illegal trading at the Board of Trade.” I smile at the camera photographing me as I speak to the receptionist.

“And you are?” She speaks with a lazy, distant timbre in her voice.

I show her my license.

“Are you here to sell insurance? Because, if you are, I have to tell you, we don’t allow solicitation on the premises.”

“No, I’m an insurance investigator.”

She clicks her thumbnail back and forth on the edge of the laminated card. “How would you know, sir, that there is an agent involved in such an investigation?”

“I’m a good investigator.”

“Sir,” she speaks in a drone of a tone, “if there was an agent, and I’m not saying there is, in an investigation of the Board of Trade, and I’m not saying there is an investigation; but if there was it would be classified, and he or she would not be available to outsiders such as you.”

I raise one finger to halt our conversation, pull out my cell phone and dial.

“No cell phones, sir, you’ll have to go outside,” she orders.

I keep my finger raised to keep her at bay until Norbert answers my call.

“Who’s the FBI guy on the Board of Trade case?”

Norbert says, “Guy named Romo Simpson.”

“Romo. Who the hell would ever name their kid Romo?”

“Mister and Mrs. Simpson,” he answers.

I hang up my phone, smile again for the camera. “I’d like to speak with agent Romo Simpson.”

Her voice changes not one iota. “And who should I say is calling?”

“Alvin J. Augustus.”

She glances back to my license. “That is not the name on your insurance badge.”

“I go by an alias, since I’m still wanted in a few states.”

I wait about fifteen minutes, during which time the reception phone does not ring and no other guest arrives. This would be a perfect place for Alvin’s fired receptionist, if her career as a dental hygienist doesn’t pan out.

Romo Simpson comes into the lobby.

It takes me about six seconds to size him up, three of which I spend reading an old copy of Field and Stream. Why the FBI would subscribe to this publication is a mystery to me.

Agent Romo wears a blue suit, rep tie, and a white shirt so starched it could stand up by itself. He looks exactly like all the other agents wandering the halls. Good cover, men. He’s in his mid-thirties, probably has 2.

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