As I went back out the glass doors I checked the street in front of me for a black Caprice. No sign of it. Fully expecting the ominous car to show up at any moment I hurried away heading south, trying to put as much distance as possible between me and Ms. Cryer's apartment. After I had gone two blocks, I looked back up the street. Yup. There it was! Or at least there was a dark car moving slowly in my direction. It seemed a safe assumption that it was the Caprice. I turned my back to them and hoped that I was far enough away from the apartment that they wouldn't notice me. I made an effort to ``act natural'' as I continued to walk down the sidewalk.
As I sauntered down Michigan Avenue, I reflected on the odds that somebody had seen me leave. My exit had been only slightly less rushed than my arrival. That was a mistake; I really should have taken the time to check for surveillance when I left. I'm not good at the cloak-and-dagger game. I've got no experience at this sort of thing.
I would have to assume I had been spotted. Maybe even photographed. I had better keep on my toes. I looked behind me. Nobody was following me on foot, and all of the cars were moving more quickly than I was. The Caprice had turned off at an intersection behind me. I would have to do the best I could to note the cars as they went by and try to determine if any were using the circling trick.
As I walked (and watched cars) I reviewed my conversation with Lisa Cryer. It hadn't gone too badly. Sure she was annoyed with me, maybe even disgusted, but she was giving me a second chance to explain myself and she said she wouldn't call the police yet.
I was far enough from the building now that I began to relax. I jammed my fists into my pockets and let the tension leave my shoulders. The sun shone brightly and the pavement was hot beneath my feet. This was probably due to the thin soles on my sneakers as much as it was the warm sunshine. I tend to wear one pair of sneakers as walking shoes, using a separate pair for athletics. The result is that my walking sneakers wear out very slowly and the soles go before the rest of the shoe. As I walked along the street I tried to remember how long I'd had these shoes. I'd bought them the summer between college and graduate school, so that would make them about fifteen years old now. That was the summer I started work at AT&T. I began as a part-time employee in the OS department. My first project involved reviewing source code and testing networking software for bugs. I had liked the work, and perhaps more importantly to me at the time, I liked the people. It was a care-free time for me. I had already decided to go on to grad school and had several more years ahead of me before I had to think seriously about a career. In the meantime I only needed a bit of spending money and a job I enjoyed. For their part AT&T was pleased with me and allowed me to maintain a position throughout my five years of graduate school at Princeton. The arrangement worked well for all involved. My dissertation was all I could handle and I didn't want a job that would distract from my research, so I continued to work in the software testing department. It wasn't hard work, nor especially exciting, but it served my purposes.
There was a time when I went through my sneakers more quickly than I do now. I don't even have a second pair for athletics anymore. I ran track while in college at Berkeley, but no more. I had joined the team Junior year. Originally, I had joined only to give myself a distraction from my studies and from Marsha Banniff. Marsha and I had just broken up, after a two-year relationship. Marsha was a German major with no interest whatsoever in math, engineering, science, or economics. Her interests were romance languages, sociology, and theology. We could not have been further apart academically, and I think we both found this refreshing (I know I did). My interests were computer languages, economics, and discrete mathematics. She claimed the reason for the breakup was that I spent too much time on my schoolwork and that I did not leave time for us. I suspect the real reason for the breakup was that I did not leave enough time for her course-work, as she was the more studious of the two of us. Still, she had a point; both of us seemed to be over-committed and anxious to blame somebody or something other than ourselves. We both dealt with it in the same way --- using the other as a scapegoat.
Joining track proved to be a good idea. It gave me an outlet for my frustration. I spent many long hours circling the football field, thinking about whatever crossed my mind. I never did excel in the sport. After two years I reached a reasonably competitive level, but never was a top member of the team. Still, I enjoyed it. I should start jogging again I suppose; I have let myself slip out of shape of late.
A car horn and the squealing of brakes brought me back to the present. A large truck was making a right turn and the car behind it had made the mistake of not heeding the ``this truck makes wide turns'' sign on the back of the truck. The car had to back up slightly to make more room, thus upsetting the cars behind it. This had a small rippling affect, as the line of six or seven cars each had to back up a car-length, each driver showing his or her annoyance in turn, some more so than others. I slowly approached the corner and paused for a break in the traffic. Somewhere about two blocks earlier I had stopped watching for undercover cops that might be following me. I now quickly surveyed the situation.
Across the street, in the direction I was heading, was a gas station. Just beyond it was a carpet store. It was one of those stores that runs a perpetual sale. The banner in the window warned that time was running out on the current sale (but neglected to say that the next sale would undoubtedly be starting within a week). On the corner diagonally across from where I stood was a residential apartment building. Two old men were sitting on the stoop passing the time. Neither one looked remotely like an undercover agent (it was at this point that I decided I was being paranoid and could stop viewing everybody I saw as a spy).
Beside me was a restaurant; the sign above the door read ``Sid's Seafood Grill.'' I realized that this must be the seafood restaurant Lisa had suggested. Judging from the store-front, it looked like a nice place. On impulse I decided to explore further. The sign in the window said it was open; I walked in.
There was a dining room off to the left and the bar was to my right. Two middle-aged men were sitting together near the middle of the bar and a young blonde-haired woman was sitting alone at the far end. The bartender was busying himself wiping glasses with a dish-cloth that looked a bit too dirty to be useful. He glanced in my direction, nodded, and went back to work on another glass. The two men were engaged in an animated conversation and didn't notice my arrival. The woman was lost in thought, contemplating the cigarette in her hand. She wore a tight red dress and heavy make-up.
``May I help you?''
It was the maître d' coming up beside me. It would have been odd to reply with, ``no thanks, I'm just looking.'' Accurate... but odd. Instead, I made a reservation for dinner for two. Why not? It might not occur to Lisa, and it would be a nuisance if we were unable to get a table.
As she took down my name I glanced into the dining room. It was early enough that all the tables were empty. The decor was pleasant, with fish netting and wooden models of fish and crabs on the walls. The tables, of which there were only a few, were covered with clean white table-clothes. The chairs had vinyl coverings. Not too formal but not too casual either. Good.
After making the reservation I headed back out the door and into the bright sunshine. I paused briefly to let my eyes adjust and then continued south on Michigan Avenue.
The sidewalks were filled with people walking this way and that. I passed a young couple walking a dog, an older couple walking a baby, and numerous individuals out for a stroll on their own. I let my mind wander as I walked. Somehow, while tinkering with electronic funds transfers between banks, I had caused a malfunction of some sort. For some reason, and this is the part that is most baffling, this caused the accusing finger to be pointed at Lisa Melinda Cryer. Why her? For four days that question had been haunting me. For four days I had monitored electronic banking messages. For four days I had eavesdropped on phone conversations. I had pursued every avenue in search of clues. Yet there was nothing extraordinary about Ms. Cryer. I had studied the electronic computer messages for funds transfers on her account until my eyes watered from staring at the computer monitor, yet I could not find anything the least bit unusual about her transactions, nothing that might suggest that hers would be singled out and handled differently from other transfers.
As a protocol cryptanalyst, I was well-equipped to recognize subtle anomalies in electronic funds transfers. While it is true that there was an anomaly associated with Ms. Cryer's account, the vexing part was that the anomaly lay not with the transfers themselves, but rather with the manner in which the banks reacted to my interference with those transfers. For the most part, the banks had reacted in a predictable way. It was only the transfers on Ms. Cryer's account that were seemingly mis-handled. Even more peculiar --- and sinister --- was the insistence by the bank executives that the blame lay with Ms. Cryer. In phone conversations with the FBI, First Chicago Trust executives clearly pointed the finger at Cryer.
My thoughts were interrupted when I came upon a park, with a large open lawn, neatly mowed, and a narrow asphalt path winding through. Trees dotted the path, some were quite tall. I found the quiet unassuming beauty of the park quite inviting and did not hesitate to redirect my stroll off the concrete sidewalk and onto the asphalt path. I eventually sat down on one of the many benches that lined the path. It seemed to be a good place to stop and kill some time while resting my feet. As I stretched out my legs and locked my fingers behind my head, I surveyed the scene before me.
Two small boys were playing catch on the lawn across the walkway from where I sat. They were young enough that merely catching the ball was a challenge and they spent most of their time chasing after the ball and picking it up off the ground. They both wore baseball caps and dirty blue-jeans. Very dirty blue-jeans. The blonde-haired boy wore an over-sized loose-fitting shirt. The other boy, a red-head, wore a shirt that looked like it may have been over-sized at one time but was now too small; it tended to ride up his stomach as he tumbled after the ball.
The boys were under the loose supervision of a young woman who may have been a sister or perhaps was just a babysitter. She was sitting on a bench nearby. Her knees were pulled up to her chest and her bare feet were up on the bench. She had a book propped up on her knees.
I leaned my head back and half-closed my eyes to shield them from the sunlight. It was nearly 5:00 now. The sun was still high on the horizon and quite warm. I slid over on the bench a couple of feet to be under the shade of a tree branch hanging low over the left side of the bench. Immediately I noticed a difference in temperature. The tree was a Norway Maple and the leaves were quite dense and served as a cool awning, with only a twinkling of sunlight penetrating through as the leaves gently moved in the breeze. After four sleepless nights trying to analyze message protocols, I was exhausted. As I sat there in a state just this side of consciousness, I studied the shape of the tree canopy. The bark was smooth and light brown. I followed the trunk with my eyes up to the point were the lowest branch forked away and then followed that branch until I reached the part directly over my head. The leaves were only a couple of feet from my face. As I gazed upward I noticed a small inch-worm on one of the closer leaves.
A jogger ran along the path in front of me, tossing a greeting my way as he went by. The two boys continued to throw the baseball in the vicinity of one another and chase after it. I leaned back again and rolled my head a bit to get the stiffness out of my neck.
The inch-worm was still on the same leaf, but was determined to explore other parts of the tree. It moved from one side of the leaf to the other. Upon reaching an edge, it extended itself outward into space, seeking a foothold. Curling backward upon itself, it continued to wave about in a vain attempt to find a walkway to a place more attractive than its present location. Giving up, it put its front feet firmly on the leaf and pinched its way across the surface toward the opposite edge. A passing squirrel caused the branch to shake wildly, leading me to wonder how long it would be before the inch-worm would be caught fully extended in mid-breeze and be liberated to the ground below.
Left, right, to the point furthest from the stem, and back again. Every part of the leaf was explored, sometimes more than once. Working blind as it was, and apparently unable to recognize where it had been previous, it seemed an eternity before the inch-worm was able to stumble upon the stem. Having done so, it made a bee-line down the stem and along the twig from which the stem originated. It moved from that twig to the stem of another leaf.
With a twinge of sympathy for the poor creature, I realized that, if indeed the ground were its goal then the vast complexity of the branches of the entire tree dwarfed the recently solved problem of navigating a single leaf. The difference in scale between the full tree and the recent small accomplishment was staggering. Its goal seemed insurmountable. It would take ages for the inch-worm to find the right branches using the same trial-and-error method it had used to get off the one leaf.
As I watched the progress of the inch-worm in the warm afternoon sun and listened to the chatter and laughter of young boys at play, I slowly drifted into sleep.