We're located on the 1300
block of Galleon Street here in River City. From the outside,
you'll see a beautiful two story brick Victorian, built at the
turn of the century before last. Pass the black iron gate and
up the stairs to the porch will take you to the massive oak front
door. Here you'll see the etched brass plaque the bears the title
and emblem and of the Midnight Investigations Agency; a stylized
eye with a clock face in the center pupil with the hands pointing
to the midnight hour. When you won't see are the miniature cameras
and microphones that are part of our security system; believe
me, I know where these things are and I can't spot them.
Once inside, you come to
the wood paneled reception area complete with comfortable leather
chairs. To your right you see a large, neatly kept desk, behind
which usually sits a small, neatly kept man. This is Paul Merlyn, the agencies front man. Don't
let his professionally polite manner fool you. He'll have you
sized up and analyzed better than an x-ray.
From the reception area, you may be granted entrance to what
we refer around here as the Throne Room. Through a heavy soundproofed
door lies the office of Victoria
Wilder, the
Chief of Operations here at the Midnight Agency. If Her Majesty
(as she is referred to, mostly under my breath) is in residence,
you'll meet a charming, silver haired, gray-eyed woman who appears
to be a true lady of the manor born. Unless you cross her, in
which case you'll meet the fast-talking, tough as nails ex-street
cop once dubbed 'The Iron Maiden'. Either way, I'm the one guy
in the world who can legitimately call her Mother. Mom's usually
accompanied by Beowulf, a black and tan German Shepherd and ex-River
City Police K-9 who lost an eye in the line of duty.
The first thing one notices
about Her Majesty's office is the fact what it appears to be
from the same time period as when the house was built. From her
ornate desk with the high backed chair to the leather-upholstered
guest seating to the fireplace and bookcases, you'll think you've
stepped back in time. But concealed within Mom's desk are her
high-definition computer monitor, wireless keyboard, multi function
telephone and an old service revolver that she keeps there "just
in case". She just likes to keep "the ugly but useful
things" out of sight. Which I suppose includes me and the
rest of the staff.
Over the fireplace is a
portrait of my dad, William "Wild Bill" Wilder, killed
in the line of duty when I was just a kid. He was also known
as "Captain Midnight" when he and Mom worked together
at the River City Police Crime Abatement Team (known colloquially
as the C.A.T. Squad). It was after Dad was murdered that Mom
quit the force and opened up her own agency, using Dad's old
call sign for the name of the place. On either side of the fireplace
are concealed doorways that lead to the kitchen and dining area
and the stairs that lead up to the bedrooms and den or down to
the basement.
Down below is where we
keep some of the more esoteric equipment we use from time to
time; everything from night vision surveillance gear to electronic
tracking devices and the like. It's also the place I refer to
as the Torture Room. Over half the floor space is devoted to
the practice area where I had countless hours of police style
Aiki-Jujitsu training beaten into me. But the skills I've learned
do come in handy on those occasions when you have to disarm,
immobilize or render someone unconscious. We also keep a frighteningly
well-stocked weapons locker down here, although I usually content
myself by carrying my father's old customized Ruger revolver.
When I have to, anyway.
Toward the back of the
house, past the central kitchen and dining area (the bedrooms
and den occupy the upstairs) you'll find the War Room. In stark
contrast to Her Majesty's office, this place looks like the inside
of a military bunker, complete with desks for the other operatives
and myself as well as the round conference table where we discuss
our various cases. Unless it's being used for poker, of course.
Out the back will take
you to the brick enclosed garden and patio, adorned with Mom's
award winning rose bushes, and from there you'll find the four
car garage that houses Mom's midnight black Jaguar XJR along
with a couple of anonymous blue Dodge sedans and the War Wagon,
a deceptively plain looking while van loaded with electronic
surveillance gear. My classic Mustang Fastback, another legacy
from my father, usually has to park on the street.
Now, if you'll excuse me,
I think I hear my mother calling . . .
