<strong>Malcolm Wade -- First Meetings</strong><br/><br/>Winter was finally fading out, and with it went Malcolm's best excuse for wearing his favorite heavy coat. The old trench provided such nice protection from the biting December winds, but come spring time it lost a good deal of its practicality. Its only saving grace was that it looked like shit no matter what season, so Mal never had to worry about appearing fashionable. And as long as the air conditioner was still spitting snowballs, at least he could wear it in comfort in his car. He squinted through the bug-spattered windshield of the Oldsmobile and pulled into the parking lot of the Memphis Regency.<br/><br/>He gave his pockets a quick pat-down and ensured he was still properly equipped; the familiar bulges from his cards and digital recorder gave him a little sense of reassurance. Then he grabbed his backpack with a couple changes of clothes from the backseat and strolled into the hotel lobby. The muffled strains of smooth jazz escaped from the earpiece he wore on his left ear, while Cathy's chatter filled his right like white noise from a dead radio station. He was gratified to see he wasn't drawing nearly as many odd stares as he used to; it took a long time, but he was finally getting over the urge to signal or reply to Cathy in public. A few people still gave him the eye, of course, but he figured that was more to do with class and his lack of it than any particular behavior on his part.<br/><br/>A quick check at the front desk told Mal exactly nothing, but the sight of a man in a well-cut suit waving for his attention was considerably more promising. He walked into the off-side restaurant and made a bee-line for the man's table. A closer look told him this was the man he was looking for, Caleb Hatcher. Malcolm had made it a point to dig up a little info on his potential employer, and had learned that besides being a prominent wine connisseur and an avid fan of both cello music and the Knicks, Hatcher was above all a man with a problem and lots of money to throw at it. Exactly the kind of client Malcolm Wade loved, and until today thought he'd never meet.<br/><br/>As he approached Hatcher's table, Mal had the sense that he was being watched. Not by spirits or ghosts, or anything so unearthly; as tiresome as she could be, his spirit partner Cathy was a hell of a threat detection system, but she was still chattering about a soap opera she watched back in the 80s, so Malcolm felt reasonably safe. The hairs on the back of his neck were still standing at attention, though, so there was definitely more than one set of eyes on him. Hatcher finally stopped waving and made a universal 'join me, won't you' gesture as Mal reached the table, and the two men shook hands.<br/><br/>"Mr. Hatcher. I'm Malcolm Wade. I understand you may have a job for me?"<br/><br/>Hatcher nodded, and they both sat at the table. For a few moments, neither one said anything, instead taking the brief opportunity to size each other up. Mal didn't bring his abilities to bear on Hatcher; he usually didn't in these first meetings with clients. He preferred to see what he could discern with just the usual five senses and simple reasoning before he started 'cheating', as he thought of it. From the look of things, Caleb Hatcher was a very unsettled man. Dark circles under his eyes said he probably hadn't been sleeping well, and he gave a noticeable twitch when a dish platter crashed to the floor in the kitchen. In short, it was the sort of look Malcolm usually saw on skeptics who've recently had close encounters with the supernatural. Mr. Hatcher was definitely a new believer.<br/><br/>Mal drummed his fingers on the table and took a moment to turn down the volume on his mp3 player. He noticed Hatcher's questioning gaze at his earbud and pre-emptively explained. "Sorry. A little music helps me drown out the noise, lets me keep my focus so I don't get overwhelmed by all the, uh...activity," he said with an apologetic grin and a sidelong glance at the ethereal Cathy, who hovered over Hatcher's shoulder. Hatcher's expression was only mildly incredulous, so Mal decided to steer the conversation toward a more immediate subject.<br/><br/>"So, about the job. Can you-" Malcolm began, but Hatcher cut him off with a raised palm.<br/><br/>"Actually, Mr. Wade, I wonder if you would be kind enough to hold your questions a few more minutes? I don't mean to disparage your...talents, but I expect some of your colleagues will be joining us soon, and I'd just as soon not answer the same questions twice," Mr. Hatcher said, taking a sip from his glass. Mal nodded and leaned back in his seat, considering the news. Colleagues, huh? So, the man felt this job was big enough to warrant a crew. That probably meant either something extremely personal was on the line, or something extremely profitable. Hatcher didn't strike Mal as the sentimental type. No wonder the guy was shelling out top coin. "In the meantime, would you like a drink?" He asked, motioning to a nearby waitress.<br/><br/>Malcolm shrugged and nodded. The waitress slithered up to the table and produced a pen and pad with the flourish of a Vegas magician, and Mal turned to look up at her. "Sure, why not? Just a glass of bourbon, please...cheapest label you've got, I guess." Turning back to Hatcher as she disappeared toward the bar, he said, "It must be a pretty intense situation, if you felt the need for more than one exorcist. Has there been that much activity?"<br/><br/>"Oh, I think you'll find there's been a great deal of activity, Mr. Wade. I promise, when the others get here I'll answer all of your questions." Mal could only nod again; no sense in pushing for more now. He could wait. If three years as an investigator had taught him anything, it was how to wait.