Marcus Webb's office was on the third floor of a renovated brownstone on North Halsted, in a section of Lincoln Park where apartments had been converted into professional spaces with no signage. In the building's lobby was a directory: an accountant on the first floor, a therapist on the second, and on the third, a white card with the words M. WEBB INVESTIGATIVE written in crisp black.
No logo. No slogan. No phone number on the card.
Maxwell went upstairs.
The office was exactly as it should be, with nothing superfluous. A desk, two chairs facing it, a window overlooking North Halsted. A bookshelf with procedural and legal reference books, arranged by subject, not alphabetically the system of someone who used the books rather than displayed them. On the wall: a large framed map of Chicago streets, unmarked. Maxwell looked at it for three seconds and understood: an object with a practical function. For conversation, not consultation. You look at a map, point to a place, and a spy discovers more about you than you ever knew before you pointed.
Marcus Webb was standing when Maxwell walked through the door. In his mid-forties, a white American, with the typical build of someone for whom physical presence had been a professional requirement for twenty-two years: not bulky, but dense, taking up more space than average. His face was professionally neutral: neither cold nor warm, the controlled impassivity of a man who had spent two decades in rooms where he was lied to and had learned to remain silent until he decided what to believe.
He gestured to a chair. They sat down.
Five seconds of silence. Longer than is considered comfortable in a conversation. Maxwell did nothing in that silence not a movement, not a word to fill it and looked at him again.
Webb picked up a pen.
"First question," he said. "Is what you want me to do legal?"
"Yes."
"Second question. Does what you want me to do involve any activity that could harm another human being?"
"No." Webb's jaw tightened slightly, not from doubt, but as if an internal laser were ticking an entry. He jotted a line on the notepad. He put down the pen.
"Third question." He looked at Maxwell intently, as if he were a man for whom this particular question was truly important. "Why is it in my office and not at the station?"
"Because I need information, not action. What I have isn't enough for a police response. Opening a file without doing anything creates a record I don't need and produces nothing useful."
A pause. Exactly four seconds. Then: "Adrian Cole sent it."
"Yes."
"Good answer." He picked up the pen again. "Tell me what you have."
Maxwell told him. Concise, specific, without superfluous elements: Meridian Trace Consulting LLC, three confirmed sightings with dates and locations, from partial license plates to complete vehicle records, the nature of Meridian Trace's well-known clientele (financial and real estate), with a corporate focus and asset tracking. The Halstead warehouse was likely the trigger for the asset search that started it all.
Webb wrote everything down. By hand. He didn't ask Maxwell to speak more slowly or to repeat anything.
"What do you want me to find?" Webb asked.
"The client. The person or organization that hired Meridian Trace to track me. The name, the organization, if applicable, and a general description of what they were looking for."
"And when you have it."
"Then I'll decide what to do with it."
Webb looked at him for another moment, as if examining the last part of a photograph. Then he stood up, indicating that the meeting was over. "One hundred and fifty an hour. Two thousand advance, per hour. I'll have something by the end of the week." He held out his hand. Maxwell shook it. "Cash or check."
"Cash."
Webb didn't react. Maxwell paid with the envelope he'd brought. Webb showed him a handwritten, stamped receipt.
At the door: "This is corporate surveillance," Webb said. True. Incredible. "You're not in any danger. But whoever ordered it hasn't stopped searching. They found something they don't understand, and they want to understand it before deciding what to do about it." A heartbeat. "That's what you're doing. From the other side."
Maxwell looked at him. "Yes," he said.
Webb nodded once. He closed the door.
Maxwell went downstairs and walked toward North Halsted. The March air was 6 degrees Celsius and smelled like a restaurant two doors down was preparing lunch. He stood on the sidewalk for eleven seconds. He wondered from the other side what it meant for two people to be searching simultaneously and for only one to know the other was searching.
Then he walked to the Range Rover and went back to work.
Daniel's messages had started even before the virtual meeting.
Okay, I bought the blazer. Navy. One button. It fits perfectly; I checked the shoulder four times.
Maxwell read this at a stoplight on North Avenue. He typed: Good.
No tie. White shirt. I look like someone who, in theory, could work in finance.
Good.
Victor's dinner is in two days. What should I talk about?
Whatever you know best. Marketing, consumer behavior, digital acquisition. Be specific, not general. Let me know when you have the actual numbers.
What if someone asks me something I don't know?
Say you don't know. Then ask for their opinions.
A long pause. Then: ...is that all?
That's it.
Another pause, longer. This is a very good strategy. Why does it work?
Because everyone at that table knows what they want to explain. Give them the opportunity, and they'll do the rest.
Okay. Okay. I can do it. For a while. Should I bring wine?
Yes.
Red or white.
Ask the host.
Maxwell. Victor doesn't seem like the type of person who confirms a wine visit by text message.
He's exactly that kind of person. Text him.
Silence for three minutes and forty seconds. Then: He said Burgundy. Maxwell. He said Burgundy. Like it's obvious. What's Burgundy? Where can I get it?
Binny's in Balmoral. Tell them it's for dinner with a fixed-income analyst who suggested Burgundy. Order a Premier Cru for under sixty.
I don't know what Premier Cru means.
You don't need it. Binny's guy does.
Longest afternoon break. Again: You are simultaneously the most helpful, and the most annoying person I've ever known, and I can't decide if these are different qualities or the same thing.
Maxwell hung up and went back to the Portland section.
An email from Priya Mehta arrived at 11:47. Subject: Dragosky Consulting Group LLC Draft Articles and Operating Agreement for Review.
Forty-one pages. He read them at his desk during lunch, the building's ambient noise at its standard Wednesday frequency. The articles were clear. The operating agreement was properly drafted for a single-member Illinois LLC, with consulting as its primary activity and a subsidiary clause large enough to cover expansion without requiring changes. He had included an indemnification clause and a confidentiality provision that she hadn't asked for, and he had done the right thing by including them without being asked.
He signed electronically at 12:35.
Priya's reply came at 12:41. Filing in four to five business days. The Certificate of Organization is expected by April 3rd at the latest. Congratulations, Maxwell.
He read "Congratulations, Maxwell," for a full three seconds.
Dragowski Consulting Group LLC. On record with the Illinois Secretary of State within this week. Milestone 3 Registered Business Entity is coming. And behind Milestone 3, the South Loop commercial unit was waiting in the system's reward queue.
He saved the confirmation, updated the ledger, and opened Portland Section 4.
The system in the parking structure chimed six-two.
[ Hidden Reward Unlocked ]
[ Condition: First engagement of Professional Protective Infrastructure ]
[ Legal Counsel: Engaged. Investigative Professional: Engaged. ]
[ Both Actions: Legal. Calibrated. Documented. Zero Exposure. ]
[ Reward: 1,600 shares JPMorgan Chase & Co. (NYSE: JPM) ]
[ Price, March 28, 2012: $44.47/share ]
[ Total Value: $71,152 ]
[ Taxes: Handled by Ascent Protocol. Host Liability: $0.00 ]
[ Deposit: Fidelity Account -4471 ]
He drove home. He cooked roasted cod with caper-brown butter sauce; it took forty-two minutes to plate, working as smoothly as something fully installed in Level 2 cooking, and he ate at the counter, watching the lake do its work on Wednesday evening, dark, flat, and patient.
His LLC was four business days away from being recorded. Marcus Webb was watching from the other side. Daniel was going to be at Victor's on Friday in a burgundy dress and a button-down navy blazer, and he was going to be better than he thought because Maxwell had told him the one thing that really works, and he was going to use it.
He washed the pan. He went to bed.
He slept very well.