At 46, Paul Ciolino is big and loud.To some people-many of the cops and prosecutors he has gone up against, for example-he's a grandstanding blowhard.But Ciolino is also one of Chicago's most successful, most visible, most sought-after private investigators, a $150-an-hour, tough-talking savior to people caught in the worst kinds of jams.Working out of his downtown and Palatine offices, he has built a small empire on the standard trenchcoat-and-fedora fare of the P.I.: digging out those dirty little secrets that like to hide in the dark corners of suburban bliss.Swisher Sweet clamped between his teeth, a cashmere topcoat draped on his shoulders, he strides the Chicago region as a giant pain in the ass to those he has been hired to find, fluster, or expose....
Ciolino may grab headlines by getting people off death row-mostly on his own dime-but he is no one's picture of a liberal crusader: Six feet two inches tall, 250 pounds, with the flat accent of the South Side, he wears good wool suits-$1,500 a pop from Dei Giovani at Wells and Madison.On his wrist gleams a gold Rolex Presidential.He drives a slut-red Mercedes SL500-$106,000 new-and a silver Rolls-Royce he bought off eBay after a particularly lucrative case.When he talks, he swears like a cop, and he keeps enough guns in the coffin-size safe behind his desk to make Charlton Heston giddy.When he enters a room it is with the force of a hammer: shoulders back, hair frozen into a blow-dried helmet-part Tony Soprano, part Andy Sipowicz, part Wayne Newton.