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– known, of course, as Dennis the Menace – and his last name, Wojciechowski, was intolerably difficult to pronounce. Riffing off his dark looks and mustache, they christened him the Cisco Kid. It didn’t matter that he was one hundred percent Polish out of the south side of Milwaukee.
    Cisco was a big, imposing man but he kept his nose clean while riding with the Saints. He never caught an arrest record and that paid off when he later applied to the state for his private investigator’s license. Now, many years later, the long hair was gone and the mustache was trimmed and going gray. But the name Cisco and the penchant for riding classic Harleys built in his hometown had stuck for life.
    Cisco was a thorough and thoughtful investigator. And he had another value as well. He was big and strong and could be physically intimidating when necessary. That attribute could be highly useful when tracking down and dealing with people who fluttered around the edges of a criminal case.
    “First of all, where are you?” I asked.
    “Burbank.”
    “You on a case?”
    “No, just a ride. Why, you got something for me? You taking on a case finally?”
    “A lot of cases. And I’m going to need an investigator.”
    I gave him the address of Vincent’s office and told him to meet me there as soon as he could. I knew that Vincent would have used either a stable of investigators or just one in particular, and that there might be a loss of time as Cisco got up to speed on the cases, but all of that was okay with me. I wanted an investigator I could trust and already had a working relationship with. I was also going to need Cisco to immediately start work by running down the locations of my new clients. My experience with criminal defendants is that they are not always found at the addresses they put down on the client info sheet when they first sign up for legal representation.
    After closing the phone I realized I had driven right by the building where Vincent’s office was located. It was on Broadway near Third Street and there was too much traffic with cars and pedestrians for me to attempt a U-turn. I wasted ten minutes working my way back to it, catching red lights at every corner. By the time I got to the right place, I was so frustrated that I resolved to hire a driver again as soon as possible so that I could concentrate on cases instead of addresses.
    Vincent’s office was in a six-story structure called simply the Legal Center. Being so close to the main downtown courthouses – both criminal and civil – meant it was a building full of trial lawyers. Just the kind of place most cops and doctors – lawyer haters – probably wished would implode every time there was an earthquake. I saw the opening for the parking garage next door and pulled in.
    As I was taking the ticket out of the machine, a uniformed police officer approached my car. He was carrying a clipboard.
    “Sir? Do you have business in the building here?”
    “That’s why I’m parking here.”
    “Sir, could you state your business?”
    “What business is it of yours, Officer?”
    “Sir, we are conducting a crime scene investigation in the garage and I need to know your business before I can allow you in.”
    “My office is in the building,” I said. “Will that do?”
    It wasn’t exactly a lie. I had Judge Holder’s court order in my coat pocket. That gave me an office in the building.
    The answer seemed to work. The cop asked to see my ID and I could’ve argued that he had no right to request my identification but decided that there was no need to make a federal case out of it. I pulled my wallet and gave him the ID and he wrote my name and driver’s license number down on his clipboard. Then he let me through.
    “At the moment there’s no parking on the second level,” he said. “They haven’t cleared the scene.”
    I waved and headed up the ramp. When I reached the second floor, I saw that it was empty of vehicles except for two patrol