“You have a man here who spent three weeks writing a completely useless report
about that yuppie they’re thinking of recruiting for that dot-com company. I copied
the piece of crap for him last night, and I see it’s lying on your desk now.”
Armansky’s eyes went to the report, and for a change he raised his voice.
“You’re not supposed to read confidential reports.”
“Apparently not, but the security routines in your firm have a number of
shortcomings. According to your directive he’s supposed to copy such things
himself, but he chucked the report at me before he left for the bar yesterday. And
by the way, I found his previous report in the canteen.”
“You did what?”
“Calm down. I put it in his in-box.”
“Did he give you the combination to his document safe?” Armansky was aghast.
“Not exactly; he wrote it on a piece of paper he kept underneath his blotter along
with the password to his computer. But the point is that your joke of a private
detective has done a worthless personal investigation. He missed the fact that the
guy has old gambling debts and snorts cocaine like a vacuum cleaner. Or that his
girlfriend had to seek help from the women’s crisis centre after he beat the shit out
of her.”
Armansky sat for a couple of minutes turning the pages of the report. It was
competently set out, written in clear language, and filled with source references as
well as statements from the subject’s friends and acquaintances. Finally he raised
his eyes and said two words: “Prove it.”
“How much time have I got?”
“Three days. If you can’t prove your allegations by Friday afternoon you’re fired.”
Three days later she delivered a report which, with equally exhaustive source
references, transformed the outwardly pleasant young yuppie into an unreliable
bastard. Armansky read her report over the weekend, several times, and spent part