"Jordan Lennox," Macro repeated, carefully printing the name on a small pad. He locked the portfolio, shook hands and departed. Audibon picked the crumpled wad of paper out of the basket, smoothed it and tried to decipher the symbols and abbreviations following Gabby's name. Then he placed it inside his wallet. His day was made. He picked up his phone.
"You're back on the payroll, love," he told his secretary. "Keep trying for Grabinett and Bleutcher. Call Program and notify them we're cancelling 'Who He?' as of the first of the year."
On the way home from Gabby's studio, Lennox took a wide detour and stopped off at the Precinct where he found Fink in a small office that smelled of disinfectant. Fink was doing paper work at a scarred desk and looked more like a bank clerk than ever. Lennox sat down and told his story from Cooper's recognition of the handwriting to Aimee Driscoll's last words the night before. He handed over the page from his gimmick book that contained the hysterical scrawled message. Fink was neither impressed nor unimpressed. He listened carefully, smiling at the wrong times, then bobbed his head.
"I was pretty sure it was you getting the letters," he said.
"How?" Lennox blinked. "I didn't know myself."
"You make the big fuss. You must have known somewhere inside your head."
"You're quite a psychologist."
"No. Strictly statistics. I wish I had a nickel for every guy in a jam who won't admit it. They make the big fuss and claim they're worried about somebody else. Turns out they're really stewing about theirselves."
"I hate like hell to be a statistic, Bob."