On The Case

Mike took a sip from his third glass of Tully as he rubbed and refocused his weary eyes. The whiskey soothed the headache that grew from staring through the binocular lenses for so long. He also found that it served as an adequate measure of the passing of time, although he often had difficulty converting said measurement into standard units of time. He had felt a certain rush of excitement when this assignment came up — it wasn’t so often anymore that he got to do any real field work. Like most private investigators these days, he got most of his information from a computer, and even then, he kept someone on staff to handle all his technical needs. Sure, OT had a tendency to make most people uncomfortable — Mike included — but the kid knew how his way around a computer, so Mike kept him around.

But as much as he welcomed the opportunity to get his hands dirty again, this wasn’t what he had in mind. Spying on a man from a hotel across the street for the sake of his jealous wife was hardly the most exciting way to spend the night. “Wanna play cards?” he asked to the empty room. He waited for a response but heard nothing. “No…of course you don’t,” he answered himself, as a soft blue light appeared behind him by the window. Mike grabbed his binoculars and focused them back towards the room across the street.

The lights were out. But the curtain were still open, meaning it was more than likely that the Senator had left the room, with the intention to return. “Thanks for the heads up,” Mike said as he a grabbed a tan jacket covered in patches from the back of a chair and threw it around himself. He looked back out the window — this time without the binoculars, and saw a white taxi cab with green siding idling near the park outside. The sign atop was lighted up but the driver was alone, indicating that he was waiting a passenger, and Mike immediately know that he’d been had. He scooped his helmet off the bed and ran out the room towards the stairwell, strapping the protective gear to his head as he descended. He barely kept his balance as he barreled down eight flights of stairs, and he tore through the lobby only to find himself delayed by the tedious automated doors at the front of the hotel.

A concierge tried to stop him to check that everything was okay, forcing Mike to push through the slow-moving doors, breaking the gears that controlled them and leaving them paralyzed ajar on the sidewalk. The brisk November night was colder than he’s expected, and just as he reached the curb, he noticed Fat Pat Brennan exit from a private door on the side of the building and climb into the cab.

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