Chapter 26

A tall, lanky man pushed open the door of the small office on the tenth floor of the Chronicle building.

Outside the window the last traces of deep red were fading from view,

leaving only the deepening purples that rolled over the city in preparation for the black carpet of night.

But for Jack Peters, intrepid chronicle reporter and sometime agent of justice,

the workday was far from over. Peters balanced a sheaf of papers in the crook of one arm and

a cup of coffee in the other as he felt for the lights. He flipped the switch up with a click.

Nothing. Peter's sighed as the door closed behind him, plunging the room into darkness.

Using the gray tones cast by the last traces of sunset, he groped his way to the desk and

set down his cup. He felt for the switch on the small lamp on his desk and turned it on.

A soft glow appeared through the green glass of the desk lamp, and its beam clearly illuminated

the desktop with a typewriter front and center, surrounded by a small pile of papers.

Peters circled the desk and flopped into the old chair.

He took a sip of the coffee and rubbed his eyes.

His focus shifted to the typewriter, and he fed a sheet of paper into the machine

with an absent-minded efficiency born of routine. He cupped his chin in his hands for a moment and glanced over to the telephone.

He seemed to consider both devices for almost a minute, then made up his mind and reached for the receiver.

As he dialed the number there was an immediate click and a strange

tone, as if the call was no longer being rooted by the normal service. Peters was far from

surprised by this. A moment later the line connected with the sharp click. Mother hen speaking,

a soft female voice said. Oh, hello, mother dear. Peters smiled into his mouthpiece.

It's Jackie Boy.

...