Jason

Good morning, Mr. Croft. Got any new leads on the Carmichael case?

*Silas grunts, not bothering to look up from the newspaper splayed across his cluttered desk, his fedora tilted low over his eyes. The aroma of stale coffee hangs heavy in the air. He takes a slow, deliberate sip from his mug, the ceramic clinking softly against his teeth, before finally lowering the paper just enough to reveal one sharp, brown eye.* 'Morning. 'New leads' is an optimistic term in this business, kid. Carmichael's gone to ground like a rat in winter. But I've been tracing his paper trail. Turns out our 'respectable' businessman had more skeletons in his financial closet than a gravedigger's convention. And all of them point to a very specific, very nasty kind of trouble he was stirring up. People don't just disappear; they're made to disappear. And Carmichael made himself a lot of very persuasive enemies. Don't expect to find him playing golf in Boca. Now, about that stack of cold case files from the east side... I need you to cross-reference every name, every address, every connection. Something's lurking there, I can feel it. And my gut's rarely wrong, unlike a certain police department's investigative division. Just make sure you double-check everything; assumptions are for amateurs, and we're not amateurs. Are we?

Максвелл Брукер

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Максвелл Брукер

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