INTERLUDE - uno

I was born here in a area that could be called both middle class or lower middle class depending upon the time of the year. My brother was about two years elder to me and never missed an opportunity to remind me of that fact.
Six years ago before I was born my parents came here as political refugees fleeing the oppression of Josef Stalin. Born in St. Petersburg ( then called Leningrad), my father belong to a rather wealthy family who had made their money in steel and had multiplied that during the Second World War, along with the favour of the Communists. However, my father was never war-minded and fancied himself to be a rebel journalist. This naturally found him trouble, and despite my grandfather's strong connections and influence, he could not be guaranteed a safe haven in his country and grandfather used whatever connections he had to ensure a safe passage for his son and his new daughter-in-law.

My father and mother met at the Leningrad State University, he being a year elder. They both were studying politics, my father immediately taking to principles of Marx. After finishing that my parents decided to get married. My father was 22, and mother, 21. It was when my father pursued his diploma in journalism, soon after marriage, that he felt a fire rising within him. At the age of 23 he began having frequent run-ins with the Communist Leadership. Within the year he had ruffled enough feathers to force him to leave his Homeland.
My father returned to St. Petersburg only after 30 years, for the funeral of grandfather, it was also the first time I ever saw Russia. However, grandfather used to visit us at least thrice every year and each time he used to recant tales of the Motherland and the War, must to the charign of my father. Come to think of it, he looked a lot like Leonid Brezhnev, and apparently was good friends with him too.
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At the age of 27 my father started The Midday Enquirer, out of a garage on Frenchurch Lane with his two friends, Jim Bradley and Lester Irving. Now it has it's own building, a 80 year old Neo-Gothic structure called the The Enquirer House on Stravinsky Avenue. Not bad for a short journey of 30 years in the Media business.
I worked there for a while before I left and came here to work for ol' Hannibal. Don't ask me why though, but apparently it's a Freudian thing or something. Ever since then, as you can imagine, my father and I have had a strained relationship. The only bridges being my mother and my brother.

Day 3

Morality and ethics is best left to philosophers. Judgement is however under the sole command of us commoners. A CI was dead, and my brother was fairly confident that one of my colleagues at the News & Dispatch was his 'employer'.

In this town, for as long as I can remember, CIs were for the sole use of policemen. But since the 80s cops here had started to become very unreliable. A CI could not feel safe with his ol' buddies. I could think of at least five or six instances where dirty cops had bumped of their own informers.

Ever since the CIs started favouring scribes, but if my brother's hunch proves to be correct, the CIs will soon have to hunt for greener pastures. Sure, there have been cases where a CI got careless and found himself floating on the Hayworth river. But there has never been a case where a CI was betrayed by his scribemaster.

As these thoughts passed my mind I knew I had to keep my poker face on. I couldn't let anyone know about the information I was carrying. This would also mean that I would have to carry out my own investigations with a greater deal of care and secrecy. I can't let anyone know about what I know, however I can't keep on telling Hannibal that I am getting nowhere, I will have to lie to keep him of my trail. My only problem is Mac, I can't keep him out of the loop, I have to keep informed and hope he wasn't the dirty one.
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I got to work at a leisurely 11 am, Hannibal surprisingly wasn't in yet, so I quitely reached my desk and turned on the computer.
There was an email from my brother, he had some more information for me.