A snooty caterer asks if "Mr. Benton's party" is for the Ledger, and Wallace laughs that Nikki's ad campaign for his column has upped his profile a little too much. He then lies that Beth is a public-relations flak, disparages her just for kicks, and asks after Chantal before Beth can take a nutcracker to his crotch. The caterer wanders over toward Chantal's desk but says she left after receiving a phone call earlier that day. Beth and Benton spot the Chicago Sun-Times on Chantal's desk. Yes, folks, that's the Sun-Times -- your only source of news and information for the Chicago area, and the only one that cares enough about you to spend millions on product placement on a national television show.
"A PR flak?" complains Beth as they approach Chantal's apartment. "Why didn't you just call me your ho?" Ha! Major insult to PR people, which immediately becomes my favorite line of the episode and the most realistic nod to a journalist's true opinion. Beth goes to buzz apartment six-B, but Benton slaps her hand away and beats on all the buttons four times until the door opens. Wallace Benton: When Brute Force and Booze Collide.
Chantal is pissed. Benton panicked her boss, ignored her brother's warning to leave her alone and is now banging down her door. "We're not the only people looking for you right now, and frankly, you're starting to come off as evasive, not elusive," Benton says. For some reason, she doesn't tell Wallace to go fuck himself and go back to work. No -- instead she lets him in and completely gives herself away with a series of ill-conceived facial expressions. I'm beginning to understand Benton's journalist-as-cop complex: if she was this simple to locate and berate and the NYPD couldn't do it, then there are big problems in the Big Apple. Chantal regales them with tales of her survivor's guilt, but Wallace is bored because her words don't have an appreciable alcohol content. Benton's more interested in Tyrell. Hearing the Bad Brother's name, Chantal practically chokes before claiming she hasn't seen him in years. Chantal is as adept at lying as Wallace is at living without booze.
Sammy Klein sits down at a police computer, whining because Benton is ordering him to look up Tyrell Jackson. Homicide detectives are apparently an obedient breed. "Trust me and my killer instinct," Wallace booms, because that gut feeling and all his wacky tomfoolery keeps cops from ever equaling his intellect and deductive reasoning skills. Plus, they carry shotguns, but they can't shotgun a beer for shit. Sammy Klein rolls his eyes and calls up a list of Tyrell Jacksons. Wallace spots the address he's seeking and asks for a mug shot -- sure enough, and Klein admits this, Tyrell and Bradford look so similar that it's possible eyewitnesses would confuse one for the other. The Drums of Grim Realization play as Beth realizes Wally's hunch is right, Klein realizes he's a dead ringer for Henry Winkler and Wally realizes he's gone ten minutes without a Snickers.