Chapter 2. Police Chief O'Malley stormed along the crowded sidewalk like a man in a great hurry.

Two aides followed behind him, trying to keep up with a large, thick-necked form. The crowd seemed to

part before him, some because they knew of his position, but most because the scowl on O'Malley's

face would make anyone think twice before crossing his path. Almost anyone. 20 yards from O'Malley's face would make anyone think twice before crossing his path.

Almost anyone.

20 yards from O'Malley's destination, a tall, lanky man leaned against a red brick wall.

The pleasant smirk on his face said it all.

He knew the storm that was coming and had no intention of heading for the hills.

O'Malley's shoulders seemed to barrel down just a little at the sight of the man, like a linebacker, as if he intended to ram straight through any attempt to impede his progress.

If the lanky man noticed the change in his quarry's posture, he didn't seem terribly impressed.

Pushed himself away from the wall and loped forward, matching the police chief's pace with long, easy steps.

Chief O'Malley! Jack Peters, Toronto Chronicle, the man said through a smile,

I know who you are, Mr. Peters, growled the chief. I have nothing to say to you.

You did see the banner article in the paper today, Peters asked, knowing full well what the answer would be.

I saw it, Mr. Peters. I saw it and several

other much better written articles very much like it. Like yours, the others were rife with factual errors

that my office would have been pleased to address had any of you sought to consult us. O'Malley's

aides were frantically trying to catch up to deflect Jack Peter's questions. They needn't have bothered.

Their boss had things well in hand. I did feel, however, that your article, as befits the

paper for which you work, stood out as having the most lurid prose and the most glaring

grammatical errors. O'Malley was good at this. He had closed most of the distance to the

front drive of the Club McCaw. Only a few more

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