Instead of taking his large cup of house blend back to the car, he found a table and took a seat. His eyes were glazed over as he stared absently out the window and there were probably multiple customers who found the sight of a man with a pistol on his hip and a thousand-yard stare more than a little disturbing.

If people were looking, he didn’t notice. The weapon was so much a part of who he was that he never really thought about it. It was just one of several tools necessary for doing his job.

As his mind wandered, he watched a Yellow taxi drive by outside. He watched as it neared the corner and slowed to a stop. A uniformed crossing guard directed the cab to stay where it was while she crossed a group of kids with backpacks and skateboards.

He had never liked cabbies very much. The fact that they were predominantly immigrants wasn’t what bothered him. As long as they had come in the front door like everybody else, he was okay with it. What bothered him was what lousy drivers they tended to be.

It didn’t make any sense. A rational person would be correct in thinking that the more one performed a task, the better one would become at it. But that didn’t seem to apply to cab drivers.

He seriously doubted the cab would have even stopped for the kids if the guard hadn’t been there.

At that moment, he got an idea. Pulling out his notebook, he turned to a fresh page and clicked his pen. He removed his cell phone and dialed the main number for the CPD. When the operator answered, he asked to be connected to the Public Vehicles Division.

“Public Vehicles. Officer Brennan,” said the voice who answered.

“Good morning, Officer Brennan. This is Sergeant John Vaughan from Organized Crime.”

“It was all my wife and mother-in-law’s idea. I had nothing to do with it. Put me in the witness protection program and I’d be happy to testify.”

Vaughan loved working with cops. No matter what, they all had a pretty good sense of humor. “I’ll send someone down to take your statement, officer. In the meantime, I’m wondering if you could help me out with something I’m working on.”

“For the sergeant who’s going to relocate me to Florida or Arizona, you name it.”

“Part of your responsibility is keeping an eye on the cab companies, right? You make sure the licensing and the medallions are all in line, follow up on criminal complaints involving drivers; that sort of stuff, correct?”

“That’s us. Miami Vice without Miami or the vice.”

“I’m looking into a hit-and-run that involved a Chicago Yellow Cab.”

“Do you have a number?”

“Case number or cab number?”

“I’ll take whatever you’ve got,” said the officer.

Vaughan read off the case number. “That’s all we have. We are trying to track down the cab.”

There was the sound of keys clicking as Brennan pulled up the report on his computer. “It looks like Yellow Cab was contacted by our division, but we were unable to get any further information. Yellow claims it doesn’t have any knowledge of any of its drivers being involved in hitting a pedestrian on the evening in question.”

“What about damage to a vehicle consistent with a hit-and-run on the night in question?”

Once again, the keys clicked away. As the officer searched, Vaughan added, “Or maybe there was a driver who failed to return his vehicle.”

Finally, Brennan said, “Sorry, Sergeant. It doesn’t look like we’ve got anything here that can help you. This doesn’t mean you’re going to back out of your promise to get me into the witness relocation program, does it?”

Vaughan chuckled and then was all business. “If your wife was struck by a cab and the driver fled the scene,” he began and then corrected himself. “Strike that. If your mother was struck by a cab and the driver fled the scene, who in your division would you want on the case?”

“Paul Davidson. No question.”

The officer hadn’t even hesitated. “He’s that good?” said Vaughan.

“You asked me who I’d want. I’d want Paul Davidson. Now, if the guy had struck my mother-in-law, that would be completely different.”

“I’m sure it would. Can you pass me over to Officer Davidson, please?”

“He’s up in Wisconsin, fishing.”

“Can you give me his cell number?”

Vaughan absorbed a couple more jokes about the man’s wife and mother-in-law, and after getting his promise to put in the word for him with the witness relocation program, Brennan gave him the number.

Thirty seconds later, a cell tower had located Paul Davidson on Wisconsin ’s Lake Geneva. “You have reached the cell phone of vacationing Chicago police officer Paul Davidson,” said the forty-five-year-old cop pretending to be his own outgoing message. “If this is an emergency please hang up and dial 911. For all other matters, hang up and call me when I’m back in my office two days from now.”

Someone in the background then happily yelled, “Hey! Look at that! Hurry, get the net!”

Vaughan was getting the distinct impression that the Department of Public Vehicles didn’t hire people unless they were certified wiseasses. There was the sound of line being pulled from a reel as he said, “Officer Davidson, this is Sergeant John Vaughan from the Organized Crime Division.”

“I didn’t have anything to do with it. It was my wife and mother-in-law’s idea.”

“Brennan already used that one.”

“What a thief. I leave the office for three days and he steals all my material.”

“Is this a bad time, officer?”

“Let me see,” said Davidson as he took stock of his surroundings. “Six-packs, sandwiches, Chamber of Commerce weather, and the last day of my vacation. No, now’s perfect.”

“I can call back.”

“If you let that line snap again,” he said over his shoulder to his fishing companion, “I swear to God I’ll drown you right here.”

“Got your mother-in-law with you?” asked Vaughan.

“No, my priest. Now, what can I spend the last day of my vacation doing for you, Sergeant?”

“I’m working on a hit-and-run. Not a lot of leads. A Yellow Cab hit a young woman about two weeks ago. We know where it happened and approximately what time it happened, but that’s all.”

“Do you have a description of the driver?”

“The two witnesses we have are friends of the victim and were intoxicated at the time.”

“Is the victim still alive?”

“Yes, but she’s got serious trauma and some bad brain damage.”

“I’ve never heard of good brain damage,” said Davidson.

“Touché.”

“So were the witnesses too drunk to give you a description of the driver?”

“They think he was Middle Eastern,” replied Vaughan.

“Okay. Iranian? Iraqi? Jordanian? Palestinian?”

“I have no idea. All I know is that Officer Brennan said that if his mother had been the victim of a hit-and-run like this, you’re the one he’d want on the case.”

“First of all, Brennan doesn’t even have a mother. He was a foundling and there’s lots of times I think he should have stayed lost. But setting aside his penchant for Irish bullshit, he does occasionally get some things right.”

“Then you can help?”

“What’s the Organized Crime angle here?”

“I’m also an attorney. In this case, I’m representing the family, trying to help track down the driver.”

“So you’re getting paid for this?”

“Yes,” said Vaughan. “But when I find the guy, then my lawyer hat comes off and I’m going to arrest him myself.”

“Seeing as how you’re supposed to pursue this as a lawyer and not a cop, I assume you’ve got a licensed private investigator working with you?”

Vaughan hadn’t gotten that far. In fact, he really hadn’t thought about it until now. Normally, he worked his cases alone. “Actually, I don’t have one.”

“You do now. I charge two hundred bucks an hour plus expenses, nonnegotiable.”

“Two hundred dollars an hour? That’s more than what I’m charging as the attorney.”