Witnessing the fear on his partner’s face, Calligan forced himself to show the opposite. Allowing himself to relax, he sank back into his seat in a comfortable pose.

“So,” he said genially. “Is it typical for a man to introduce himself by sneaking into someone else’s car and pointing a gun at him?”

“Only if it’s to send a message.” The shadowy man with the gun replied, his low baritone voice almost soothing. It would’ve been relaxing were it not marred by the coarseness added to it from years on the streets.

“Well I hope it’s in English. I may know what a gun typically means, but otherwise, I don’t speak sign language.”

“I’ve got a message for you both, from Sean Donahue himself. Leave off the case you’re on. It’s in the Donahues’ hands now.”

Calligan frowned. “Is that all? You know, that could’ve been said without the gun.”

The man chuckled softly to himself. “Maybe, but it wouldn’t have had the same effect. At least this way you two understand the importance of the situation. So do yourselves a favor and don’t go digging any further. That is, unless you want me to fill you with lead the next time we meet.” With that, the man lowered his gun and unceremoniously left the vehicle, slamming the door in a way that would have been rude if it didn’t seem to actually fix a couple of dents in the car.

McCullough reached for his own door handle as if to follow him, but Calligan held out a hand to stop him.

“Don’t bother.” He said. “Unless you wanna risk a gunfight out in the street. Let him go. Something tells me we haven’t seen the last of him.”

McCullough laughed a little at this. “If we’re going to ignore him like I think we are, then yeah, you’re right.”

“Ignoring him would imply we're not going to use any of the information he just gave us. He’s been so helpful to our investigation, what better way is there to show our gratitude than to finish it? Now we know for a fact that the Donahues are somehow tied to this investigation.”

“Well, I told you so.” McCullough replied, grinning. He was happy to rub it in, and Calligan knew it would be a long time before he heard the end of it.

“Just get us to the bank already.” He interjected, eager to change the subject. Still grinning, McCullough complied and, putting the car in gear, he began to drive in the direction of First Regional Bank.

“They call that thing a regional bank? It looks more like a palace!” McCullough exclaimed, pulling directly in front of the structure. It was a towering thing made entirely of smooth white marble, with row after row of stately-looking steps that led to an even more audacious columned portico. The capital of each column was carved, depicting the heroic deeds of men of legend, further weaving a tapestry of regality across the front of the building.

“This certainly doesn’t seem like the kind of place you go to without an appointment.” Calligan replied.

“But that’s just what we’re going to do.” McCullough laughed, an expression that somewhat resembled glee creeping onto his face. “You know, I always wanted to crash a fancy joint like this.”

“Well then, after you. We shouldn’t keep the president waiting.”

“I’m sure he’ll be fine if we take our time. After all, who wants to spend time with a couple of detectives who weren’t even polite enough to schedule an appointment?”

Calligan chuckled at this. “Who wants to spend time with a couple of nosy detectives who did schedule an appointment?”

“Good point.” McCullough replied, and they both made their way nonchalantly into the building.

Upon entering the establishment, they were both greeted with a sight so shocking, it made them question everything they knew about thieving bankers.

“Are we in the right building?” McCullough inquired, gazing about him. They had entered the main atrium which, except for its vast size, contained none of the grandeur they had been initially greeted with. There were no tapestries on the walls, graven busts of former presidents, or gold trim on the accounting desks. Instead there was only a short accounting desk made of plain wood, a simple staircase presumably leading to some offices, and walls that were the color of eggshells.

“I’ve got to be honest, this is a bit of a let down.” Calligan replied, almost dumbfounded at what he was seeing. “It’s all so… bland.”

“It might be, but I can assure you that this establishment is well-equipped to cater to the needs of all of the most reputable names in this city and beyond.” A well dressed man interjected.

He wasn’t a tall man, about a head shorter than Calligan. He was older, with a lined face and silver hair, but he had an air of authority about him.

“Well, we’re only reputable names to some in this town.” Calligan responded, a light smirk on his face. “The name’s Detective Calligan, and this is my partner Detective McCullough.”

“And what brings two detectives here?”

“We need to speak to the president of this bank concerning an ongoing investigation if you don’t mind?”

“I see…” The man replied, a somewhat grim expression on his face. “Well then, please follow me.” He moved swiftly, stepping out at a brisk pace towards the plain staircase. The two detectives were forced to rush in order to keep pace with him, following the man up the staircase and through an unmarked wooden door on the second floor.

Stepping through it, they were greeted by an equally unadorned room, comparable to the one they just left. It was a small office containing a narrow wooden desk as its centerpiece. In front of it sat two roughly hewn wooden chairs neither bearing so much as a cushion for comfort. There were no windows, the only source of light came from a single dim bulb in the ceiling that illuminated the ugly tan paper that covered the walls.

“Nice place.” McCullough muttered under his breath, as the man closed the door behind them. There was a faint click as he turned the key in the lock.

“This is my office.” The man said, ignoring the sleight. “We should have complete privacy here. Please, feel free to have a seat and make yourselves comfortable.”

Calligan glanced at the chair in front of them and then back at the man. “Thank you for the offer, but I don’t think that’ll be necessary. We shouldn’t be here too long; we only have a few questions to ask you about our current investigation. I assume that you’re Mr. Taylor, the president of this bank.”

“I am.” Mr. Taylor responded, moving past them and seating himself behind the desk. He sat bolt upright, his hands nervously tapping his desk.

“What can you tell us about Henry McGovern, we’re told that he was under your employ?”

“Was under my employ? Has something happened to him? Has something happened to my daughter?”

“You don’t know?”

“I was busy with work last night, and my daughter’s an adult; she comes and goes as she pleases. But please, is she alright?”

“She’s fine. Mr. McGovern isn’t, though. He was found dead in an alleyway last night, and it’s suspected he was murdered. We need to know everything you can tell us about Mr. McGovern, can you do that for us?”

Mr. Taylor sat there motionless for a few seconds, the color drained from his face.

“Can you do that for us!” McCullough snapped suddenly, and Mr. Taylor jumped.

“Yes...yes I can. I’ll tell you everything I know.” He stammered.

“That’s good to hear.” Calligan continued, a slight smile on his lips. “Tell me, were you close to Mr. McGovern?”

“Well, he was my employee, and a good one at that. He knew how to bring clients in, clients with money. Politicians, businessmen, philanthropists it didn’t matter. I don’t know how he knew them all or how he convinced them this was the best place to do business, but he was good at it. We were struggling before he came. All of those big banks with their old money ties, but he brought in money both old and new. He’s the reason we’ve been able to afford the renovations we’ve made.”

“Seems to me like you put it all in the wrong things.” McCullough chimed in.

Mr. Taylor’s face contorted in irritation at this. “Plans are being made for the interior as well. We just have… certain priorities.”

“It’s certainly not to make your clients comfortable, that’s for sure.” McCullough retorted, nodding towards one of the chairs in front of him.

“Anyways…” Calligan inserted, “You really have no idea how he managed this?”

“None.” Mr. Taylor insisted.

“Would you perhaps know where Mr. McGovern was from?”

“He never said. But judging from his accent I’d say he was from Boston, why?”

“You don’t have to be from town to have powerful connections, and Mr. McGovern clearly had connections, though that may just have been the problem.”

“You think it was a hit?”

“I’m certainly not ruling out the possibility, and judging from the way you’ve been acting since we got into this room, neither are you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Why did you lock the door?”

“Well, you two are detectives, so I assumed this would be a private conversation.”

“I can assure you that a private conversation that involves locked doors rarely ends well when detectives are involved, for one party or another.”

“Well that’s just an honest mistake then.” Mr. Taylor insisted.

Calligan laughed at this. “I could actually believe that, if you weren’t such a nervous wreck, right now. You haven’t stopped tapping your fingers on that desk since this conversation started. Are you sure you don’t know Mr. McGovern’s connections?”

“Yes, I’m sure.” Mr. Taylor hissed back, standing up “Now I think that both of you should leave, but I’ll tell you both this; be careful, you’re meddling in dangerous territory here.” He unlocked the door and flung it open for the two of them.

“Something tells me you should do the same,” McCullough snorted, on his way out. “You should probably have saved some of that money you spent on renovations, for a bodyguard. It would’ve been more useful that way.”