The door said "J. Messenger" in fancy gold lettering. Underneath that, in smaller letters, it said "Private Investigations." The sign that had been hanging on the doorknob for the past four months said "Out to Lunch." That really seemed to sum up Messenger, the owner of the agency. Aside from occasionally collecting research and holding staff meetings, the most his employees had ever seen him do was build card houses.
The office was surprisingly large, a whole floor of an office building. The most clients ever saw was the reception desk (permanently unstaffed since Messenger's last secretary had walked out over the issue of her paycheck), and Messenger's own office which adjoined it. He put up a good front- his desk looked expensive, he had leather seats, and it was always clean. He had, at least, forgone the "executive" desk chair. However, the real work happened behind the door behind the reception desk that said "private." The main office was a chaotic mess, with several cubicles and desks, papers strewn everywhere, and no less than four coffee makers. Somehow, Messenger was able to find his way around the disaster, even though he often said the files hadn't been organized since the new millenium.
He himself was a thin, easy going man, with a shock of black hair and pale gray eyes. While he always wore a suit, the coat was almost always draped over the back of his chair, and he hadn't worn a tie in years. Currently, he was perched on one of the desks in the main office, flipping through a stack of files in his hand. He was waiting for his employees to arrive so he could get them briefed on their current assignment. He'd posted a note on the bulletin board about a staff meeting at 9 am, which was theoretically when they started work. However, the private investigation business seldom kept regular hours, and he himself was incapable of being anywhere on time, so he wasn't expecting punctuality.
