Leoben Conoy, it was said, had an nose for information. No one ever knew how he knew what he knew, but he always did, he always saw, even the things that no one was meant to see. He saw more than he told anyone he did. But over the years, he had learned the value of information. How to use it as currency. How to make it do what he needed it to. He had learned when it would pay, and how. He had learned when to show his hand.
He'd been brought in on a minor weapons charge, which was nothing new. It happened, when you sold weapons. But he was getting restless, handcuffed to a chair in Central Booking, and his lawyer didn't seem to be taking his calls. She would see the error of her ways soon enough, Leoben reflected. For now, it was time to earn his way out of here.
He cast about the room, looking for something usable, when he heard a passing detective mutter something about a "frozen fatso." A-ha. Leoben smiled inwardly. God was good to him; He always showed him the way.
"Excuse me," Leoben said aloud, banging his cuff against the chair until someone looked up. "I'd like to talk to someone. It's about the freezing murders."
A receptionist gave him a suspicious look, and he smiled blandly at her until she looked away. There was no need to show anything. Not yet.