​The rain suffocated the city like a heavy wet blanket that someone kept pouring more water on. The air hung with a dampness that seeped into every pore of the city. The sun had long ago given up on plowing through the clouds. It now only made half-hearted attempts at lighting the day. 
 
I stood under the awning across the street from an old corner store, which was quickly losing the battle to keep water out of it. Through the fogged window of the bookstore behind me, I could see figures scurrying around, picking books from lower shelves in an effort to keep as dry as possible. I had no such luck. My waterlogged raincoat had ceased keeping me dry, but I wrapped it tightly around me anyway. 
 
The restaurant door between the corner store and the pawnshop next to it was the real focus of my attention. Jake Newcome would soon be exiting his restaurant and walking the two blocks to the same pool hall he’d been the other night. 
 
I had no trouble spotting him. Even in the pouring rain, he still managed to look neat and put together. His hat and coat looked sharp even in the pouring rain.  
He stood on the door stoop for a minute like he was gathering the courage to venture into the rain again.  
 
From where I stood across the street, I could imagine him swearing to himself as he headed for the corner store. As he ducked into the store, I crossed the street and stood by the restaurant door where he had exited. Within a few minutes, he came out of the store with a paper bag shoved into one pocket of his overcoat and headed down the street.  
 
I stayed at a safe distance behind him. At the corner, he crossed the street to the next block. The rain had driven away any pedestrians who didn’t have to be on the streets. It was easy to keep him in sight without getting too close. 
 
While we walked in the rain, I cast my mind back to a day ago. I was in my favorite bar, nursing a cold beer. The door jungled as it opened and closed. I didn’t pay attention to the noise until a shadow blocked the dim light coming through the front window. I looked up to see Otis Manning standing next to me at the bar.  
 
Out of habit, I glared at him. “What do you want?”  I gulped more beer. 
 
“Man, I’m really sorry.” He tried to sound apologetic, but I knew better. 
 
“Yeah, right. You’ll be sorry if Jake finds you.” His mustache twitched as he remembered how mean Jake was. 
  
“Look, man, you gotta hide me.” 
 
“And have Jake after me, too? No Thanks. You fucked up, you deal with it.” 
I stared at what was left of my beer, trying to ignore him. He shrugged his shoulders and started to walk away.  
 
“Okay, Otis. Where is it?”  I turned to face him.  
 
“Where is what?” 
 
“The case. Stupid. Where is it?” 
 
“Oh, that. I hid it.” 
 
 You hid the case?”  He nodded his head yes vigorously. 
 
He stepped close to me. “Shhh, not so loud.” 
 
“You know what he’d do to you for a thousand dollars, much less that case?” He swallowed hard and nodded his head yes. 
 
“Okay, let’s get out of here.” I tossed a couple of bucks on the bar as I got up. 
 
I followed him outside. The midmorning sun came down the street, reflecting off the windows of the parked cars, blinding me and reminding me why  I shouldn’t drink in the morning. The sidewalks were empty, but that didn’t stop us from constantly checking to see if anyone was following us. My car was parked about halfway down the block, so we didn’t have far to go.  
 
The car doors slammed, sending a muffled echo through the empty streets. No one appeared to notice. As I started the car, a sudden chill ran up and down my neck, causing me to hesitate while my body caught up with itself.  
 
The car roared to life as I pumped on the gas. Once we were well away from the bar and Jake and his reach, I started to breathe again. Sooner or later, probably sooner, Jake would start looking for Otis and, by extension, me. We had been seen leaving the bar together. Jake would decide I knew what he did with the bag since I was with Otis, which I didn’t. But you couldn’t tell Jake anything, once he made up his mind, which made me in this just as deep as Otis. 
 
A half-hour later, I pulled into a deserted parking lot. The hotel next to it had closed several years ago. A few abandoned or burned-out cars sat scattered about among the weeds that had pushed through the cracks in the cement and taken over most of the lot. 
 
Shutting down the car, I turned in the seat to face Otis. 
 
“What the hell did you do?” I knew that Otis had found something he never should have, and worse yet, he had taken it. “Tell me exactly what happened, and don’t leave anything out. And don’t lie to me.” My voice was much calmer than I felt inside. 
 
I glared at him. He squirmed in the seat, looking past me out the window, not wanting to look directly at me. His lips twitch slightly, causing his mustache to move in odd ways. I waited for his answer. 
 
~~~ 
Redd Robinson glared at me. I had to make sure he believed me. A lot was riding on him accepting my story. I swallowed hard and squirmed in my seat, looking out the window to keep from looking at him. At that moment, I wanted a drink more than anything.  My throat was dry, and my mouth didn’t want to work right. Eventually, I looked kinda sideways at Redd and got some words out. 
 
“Well, you see, it was like this. I was at the pool hall, over on tenth, you know Lucky Balls?” Redd nodded yes.  
 
“Jake came in with a couple of his guys—you know, the brutes who follow him around? They played pool for quite a while, mostly letting Jake win. After a while, another guy comes in. I was at a corner table with Frankie, and he was playing, so I watched what was going on. This guy comes in carrying a case. You know, like a bag or a leather bag of some kind.” 
 
I took some time trying to remember and catch my breath. I’d been talking so fast I forgot to breathe. Redd had shifted back in his seat and seemed to have relaxed a little once I started talking. By now, I was starting to remember more, but I was still dying for a drink. 
 
“So, Jake and this other guy disappear into the back room. His two guys wait in the pool hall. They come back out a few minutes later and shake hands. Everyone seems happy from the way they act.” 
 
“Okay then, how’d you get in trouble with Jake?” 
 
“After everyone left, I went to find the piss room, and there was a case lying by the door to the office. I picked it up, and, hell, I don’t know, I took off with it. It was heavy, so I figured there must have been something valuable in it. I heard later that they came back looking for the case. I’d been seen going back there right after they left, and not again. I guess they figured I took it, which I did.” 
 
I was out of breath again. My breathing and heart raced, and I tried to calm down and breathe. I was getting good at it. 
 
*** 
 
Otis looked like he was going to have a heart attack in front of me. For a second, it occurred to me it might be best for all concerned if he died of a heart attack, but I knew that wasn’t going to happen. Once he started to talk, the story rushed out of him like a waterfall. He only stopped once to catch his breath when I questioned him. I let him talk, marveling at the level of stupidity he’d achieved when he said he’d taken the case. 
 
Straightening up in the seat behind the wheel, I looked at him. “Okay, what’s in the case? And where is it?”  He leaned back into the seat as I started the car.  
 
“Papers. From what I could tell, it looked like a lot of legal stuff. Jake’s name was on a lot of them, and I recognized some other names. All legal stuff, like deeds or something, I don’t know that shit. It’s all Greek to me.” 
 
 
“You may wish it were before this done. Where is it?” I pulled into traffic and headed towards downtown. Jake’s stomping grounds were fast approaching. As soon as we arrived, someone would get word to him, and he’d be after us.  
 
“No, don’t go down there,” Otis pleaded once he realized where we were. I pulled over and turned to look at him directly. 
 
“We’re both in a world of shit because of your stupidity, both in taking that case in the first place, then coming to see me in public. Jake will not only want the case and its papers back but to make an example of us. So, tell me exactly where the case is, or I will drop you off in the middle of his patch, and I’ll leave the city forever.” 
 
Otis nervously looked out the windows, even twisted round to look out the rear window.  
 
“Right now, no one cares who we are....” I let it tail off. The implication is that Jake’s men would find him if we went further into his territory. 
 
His mustache twitched again as he tried to find his voice. “Over on seventy-second, the brownstones. You know the ones that are boarded up?” I nodded and started the car, turning left at the next block and heading in that direction. 
  
“I hid the case in a back room, under some old planks and a pile of old clothes.” 
 
“You remember which building and floor?” He nodded yes, but the expression on his face didn’t instill confidence. 
 
It didn’t take long to find the old brownstones that had once been the pride of the city. Now, only the hulls of buildings used for party pads, drug hangouts, and anything you wouldn’t do at home. There had been numerous dead bodies found there over the years. It was not a nice place to be, even in broad daylight. 
 
He pointed out which building the case was in. I parked in front of it. I followed him into the alley between two buildings. The stench of old trash and rodents living on it was almost unbearable. He knew exactly where the old door had been pried open and pushed it closed again. Without a second glance, he shoved it and led the way into what had been a hall but now piled with debris from the decaying building falling in on itself and the remains of the transients who had used it over the years. 
 
I wasn’t in any hurry to follow him into the building, but I didn’t want to lose sight of him. The narrow path led to a set of stairs, which looked almost usable. Otis barely noticed as he quickly mounted the stairs, and in a minute, he was on the second floor. I ran to catch up with him. 
 
On the second-floor landing, he paused for a minute, looking around. Spotting an open door, he pushed his way through and straight for a pile of clothes and debris on the far side of the room. I didn’t enter the room for more than a foot or so. I watched him quickly remove the clothes, boards, and fallen plaster pile. He stood and turned toward me and held up a large leather bag.  
 
“Okay, good, let’s get out of here.” It took more minutes than I liked to get back to the side door and into daylight. 
   
I hoped no one noticed us as I pulled out onto the street. Otis started to open the bag while I drove. I told him not to but to throw it in the back seat and pretend it wasn’t there, which he did. 
 
Returning from the brownstone to the other side of town took far too long. I had my eyes on the rear-view mirror the entire time, but as near as I could tell, we weren’t being followed.  
 
We drove around for about half an hour. Part of me wanted to stop and look inside the case now, but I decided we needed to be far away from prying eyes. The only stop we made was at a small convenience store, where I got gas and a couple of cold drinks and snacks. 
 
I finally settled on an abandoned warehouse down on the waterfront. I figured there would be no one around, much less anyone who could recognize us. Parking the car in the shade of the building, I shut it down and opened the windows to let the breeze off the water come in. 
 
I turned to face Otis. “Okay, let’s have it.” 
 
He reached across the back of the seat, fumbling around a little. He finally got hold of the case and pulled it onto the front seat. The bag had a top flap-style lock snap that held it closed. The case was leather and well-worn, with scuff marks along all the bottom edges and marks from being opened thousands of times. To my surprise, it wasn’t locked and opened right up. I couldn’t read the faded initials stamped into the flap just above the hold-down strap in this light. 
 
I ignored Otis and handed him another cold drink to keep him busy while I looked into the case. Inside was a large stack of papers neatly slid into a back pocket, and several file folders lay in the main section—a couple of small pocket notebooks in the bottom of the bag.  
  
Glancing at the papers in the back of the case told me they were legal papers without taking them out, as they were longer than regular paper. The cream color and their heaviness confirmed my suspicions when I pulled them out. 
 
The top paper was a cover sheet with the lawyer’s name and address printed neatly across the top, along with several other names printed below the lawyers. In the center of the paper, in a fancy scrollwork lettering, was the word Deed. Flipping the pages, I learned it was the deed for the largest water reservoir in the county. I had always assumed it was owned by the county or state, not a private individual.  
The rest of the papers were proposals for various projects connected with the land surrounding the water. I recognized Jake’s name on some of the project proposals and several other politicians and big business owners in the county. Some of the council members had co-signed several of the projects.  
 
No wonder Jake wanted this case back. Not to mention whoever it belonged to. I had to assume he was in hot water with the people involved with the deals in the case. I stuffed the papers back into the case as neatly as I could and in the same order as I found them. I reached for my cold drink and thought for several minutes. There were several ways to play this, but I wanted to know more first. 
 
The next thing to do was figure out what to do with Otis. I couldn’t stash him anywhere. It had to be somewhere Jake wouldn’t look, at least not immediately.  
I knew a guy who wouldn’t ask questions. I threw the car in gear and headed out. 
 
“Where we going?” 
 
“Shut the fuck up! I’m going to try to save your stupid ass.”  He sank back onto his seat, leaning against the door. 
 
An hour later, I pulled into a tree-lined driveway behind big gates. Hedges growing along the fence hid property behind it. Otis perked up when we rolled up the driveway. 
 
“Stay,” I told him as I got out. 
 
I barely got around the front of the car before the front door opened. A tall, lean man came down the steps to greet me. His hands were out to shake my mine by the time he reached me. He led me into the house.  
 
“Redd, we thought you left town ages ago.” 
 
“Sometimes I wish I had.” 
 
 He nodded towards the car. “So, another lost soul to save?” 
 
“No, a stupid idiot who got me into a jam with Jake.” 
 
“Enough said. I don’t want to know any more than I need.”  His hands went up to stop me from saying any more as he said it. 
 
“His name is Otis Manning, and he’s annoying and stupid, but I need him alive for the foreseeable future.” 
 
“Understood. Bring him in.” 
 
I opened the car door. “Come.” He got out of the car and followed me reluctantly. Up close in the right light, one could tell he was older than he looked. 
 
 “Otis Manning, meet Ronald. You do everything he says. Don’t even fart without permission.” 
 
“Ronald, you have my permission to do whatever it takes to keep him in line. No TV, no radio, newspapers, no phones. You know the drill.” 
 
Ronald nodded yes as he shook my hand, leading me back to the front door. 
 
“Good luck. Keep safe.” I nodded yes as I went out the door. 
 
Back in the car, I sat for a minute. Otis was in for a surprise when he met Elisabeth. I grinned at the thought as I started the car. 
 
It was dark as I reached town. I couldn’t return to my place, so I headed for a cheap motel on the other side of town. It was starting to rain when I reached the motel.  
 
The clerk behind the counter in the main office looked bored out of his mind. The TV was playing with the sound down in the background. A pile of pulp magazines and books lay on the desk behind the counter. The top one was lying open. I recognized the cover as Mickey Spillane’s “My Gun is Quick,” the latest Mike Hammer novel. 
 
I paid for my room and moved my car to the spot in front of my door. The room was small but neat. Once I checked the room, I headed back to the office. The rain continued falling hard, and I pulled my jacket around me. After dragging the kid from the world of Mike Hammer, I asked about the nearest place to eat. He pointed back the way I had come, telling me the closest restaurant was two blocks away, just off the new expressway. I thanked him and headed back to the car. 
 
The windshield wipers worked hard to keep enough rain off the window that I could see where I was going.  Thankfully, the neon sign glittered in the rain.  Parking as near the door as I could, I dashed into the restaurant. 
 
The restaurant, with chandeliers and linen tablecloths, was fancier than I expected. However, I was hungry, so this would do. The hostess greeted me and took me to a table in the back. I ordered coffee, which was excellent and strong. I ordered a twelve-ounce steak, a baked potato, and other fixings. 
 
I took my time to enjoy the steak and potato. It was the best meal I’d had in a long time. I didn’t know when I would get to eat like that again with all that was going on. After polishing off a second cup of coffee, I paid the bill and returned to the motel, exhausted and needing a hot shower and sleep.  
~~~ 
I rented the room for a week, but when I left that morning, I took what little I had with me. My first stop was coffee and food. Then I found a Goodwill store to pick up some clothes. There was no way I could go home to get any. Afterward, I needed someplace to look at the papers and figure out exactly what was going on. The rain was still going back and forth between drizzle and pouring. 
 
As I drove past the library, I realized there wasn’t a better place to hole up and go through the papers in the bag. Doubling around the block, I parked as close to the door as possible.  
 
At the front desk, I asked the clerk if there was somewhere I could do some research without being disturbed. She led me to one of the small study rooms they had for students. I pulled the blinds on the windows, settled in, and started by sorting all the papers according to either the type or the names on them. In the bottom of the bag, I found a neatly wrapped package that contained at least two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. No wonder Jake Newman wanted his bag back.  
Porter Construction was listed as the construction company on most project proposals and was known for its Mob connections. I risked leaving everything in the room while I checked in the city reference section of the library. I found a book listing all the incorporated businesses in the city. I learned that Newman Industries, wholly owned by Jake Newman, was listed as a major stockholder, and he served as an officer at Porter Construction.  
 
The plan was clear to me now. The money came from the Mob as their buy-in on the projects. So I not only had Jake and his cronies looking for me, but also the Mob, who wanted their money back.  I was in more trouble than I thought I was. 
 
I got paper and pens from the front desk and wrote out the scheme as best I could understand it, along with all the names of the players and any dates listed for the project proposals. The next question was how to get out of this mess. I could just give the case and papers and money back to Jake, but nothing was stopping him from killing both of us. Unless...  I knew what to do.  
 
The clerk at the front desk directed me to the copy machine. I gave her what money I had to pay for the copies and asked for privacy. It took several hours of fussing and copying. Eventually, I had three copies of every paper in the case. I even copied the money stacks. 
 
I packed everything into the bag, which I could barely close, and left the library.  
Hopefully, I had what I needed to stay alive. 
The rain was still pouring when I left the library.  By now, the streets were starting to flood. I hadn’t eaten since early morning, stopped for a burger, and returned to my room—time to decide what to do the next day. 
 
 ~~~ 
 
The following day, I stopped at the post office and got two large mailers for papers. Once I had both packages ready, I made the call. I told Jake I had gotten the case from Otis and that he had to deal with me now. I also told him that the money was in the case. That got his attention, and he agreed to meet with me. 
 
I parked near the restaurant he owned and instructed him to walk to the pool hall where he had been the other night. I would be in the back room. He wasn’t happy about walking in the rain, but I pushed him, and he gave in. 
I hurried and was able to slip in the back door just as he went in the front door. 
My raincoat was barely off when He appeared in the back room. 
 
“Redd.” He stood in the doorway.  
 
“Jake.”    
 
“You have the bag?” I nodded yes and put it on the table between us. 
  
“Good, can I have it?” 
 
“Not yet. I also have this.” I plopped one of the packages down next to the bag. 
 
“What’s that?” 
 
 I turned it slightly so he could see the mailing address was the US Attorney’s office. “My insurance that you and your money friends won’t come after Otis and  me.” 
 
 He looked back and forth between the bag and the package and at me. 
 
“Why don’t I kill you now?” 
 
“Because this one is going into a safety deposit box. The second one is with some friends of mine. They have orders to mail it if something happens to either Otis or me.” I let it lie there. 
 
“How many copies are there?” 
 
“Just the two. But you can never be sure there isn’t another one floating around, waiting to surface.  It’s a good scam you have going.  Get the state to approve all the building projects, and Porter Construction will win all the bids. But they use substandard materials, cut corners, buy off inspectors, and profit the difference besides the original profit from the jobs.   The money in here is the Mob’s buy-in to the projects. It is probably seed money to get things going, file the paperwork and fees, etc., and maybe even grease a few hands along the way. When you lost the case and the money, you were in it up to your ears with them, and you know how they don’t like things to go wrong. So you don’t have a choice. Deal with me and call everyone off Otis and me, and you get your papers and money back, or…”  I let the possibility of not getting the case back come to him. 
He didn’t try to tell me otherwise.  I pushed him. 
 
“So you and your local Mob friends aren’t rich enough off other people’s miseries? You have to put people’s lives in danger to make a few more bucks?” 
 
“Well, It wasn’t my idea.” 
 
“But you went along with it?” 
 
“Look, if it were up to me, I wouldn’t do it.” 
 
“But?” 
 
“I owe some people some serious money.” 
 
“The Mob? He nodded yes. “And this is your way out from under them?” He nodded yes again. 
 
“You know you’re never out from under them until you die.”  I paused for a minute and then brought the conversation to the matter at hand. “My deal?” 
 
“Okay, you got a deal.  You and Otis are in the clear. I’ll tell everyone to lay off you.” 
 
“You make sure they understand I’m not kidding. If something happens to either of us, these papers will get mailed one way or the other.” 
 
I handed him the bag, and he opened it and looked inside. Satisfied that everything was still there, he closed it.    
 
“You’re dammed lucky I didn’t keep the money.  They would have taken it out of you, one way or the other.” He nodded yes.  
 
“We’re done?” 
 
“We’re done,” I confirmed. He took the bag and headed for the front section of the pool hall. 
 
 He turned to face me at the door. “You know Otis is an idiot and stupid.”  
 
 I nodded yes. 
 
“And he’s also a kleptomaniac. You know how he can’t help taking stuff.  This time, he took the wrong thing, and it almost cost him his life.” 
 
“Maybe this will teach him.” Jake pushed the door open and disappeared in the rain. 
 
“I doubt it,” I  said to myself. 
 
I leaned against the nearest wall, willing myself to breathe again.  
 
I checked out of the motel and headed to collect Otis from Raymond. The sky was dark and threatening, and rain continued to fall. It was slow going as the streets were flooded and almost impassable in some areas, but I made it and managed to  
 
I finally had to tell Otis to shut the hell up on the drive back. His constant questions and nervous chatter made it that much harder to drive. It was late when I reached my destination—the Federal Court House.  
 
We entered through the back entrance of the court and took the back stairs to the offices of the Federal prosecutor and his investigators. I left Otis in the waiting room where a police officer was stationed and entered the prosecutor Samual Watson’s office. 
 
“Sam.” We shook hands, and I laid my bag on the desk. 
 
“Redd, how did it go?” 
 
“Pretty much as expected.  I have the tapes and other documents here.”  
 
I handed him a small reel-to-reel recorder and the mike that was attached to it. The documents included the surveillance report on the pool hall and pictures of the man Jake met that night. 
 
To my surprise, the door opened, and Otis Manning walked it, grinning. 
 
Watson shook his hand.  “You can retire Otis Manning.” He turned to me and said, “Redd, meet our other undercover officer, FBI Special Agent Lewis Chambers. 
  
“Thanks, I was getting real tired of playing an idiot for the whole town.” He turned to me. “Sorry, Redd, I was undercover months before you arrived because of the insurance investigation. Sam thought it best if you didn’t know.” 
Watson nodded. “You did what was needed. To get into the world of Jake Newman and generally be around so much that didn’t pay attention to you.  The klepto bit was genius. It gave you a bit of cover to steal, blaming it on your “problem.” So, what happened that night?” 
 
“I’d been following Jake for a while. I knew he usually went to the pool hall when he wanted to do stuff off the records. So, I made sure I was there every evening when he usually showed up if he was going to. 
 
I also had been watching that guy who worked for the mayor and knew he was forever forgetting stuff when he left.  I don't know how he managed not to get fired. I saw him come in and meet Jake, so I knew something was up.  And I waited, and sure enough, he came out without his bag. I figured it was my only chance to discover what they were doing. I risked getting caught and took the case. The rest, you know. I made sure to get Redd tied to me in public so that Jake would be looking for both of us.  Redd played out the whole scenario perfectly to get to the point where he could tape him admitting what he was doing.” 
 
I handed the files to Watson. “Here are the sets of copies.” 
 
The DA played the tape of Jake and me.  “That's enough, along with Agent Chambers's testimony, to get the judge to issue a warrant.  We'll secure the original copies once we have the warrant to search his company and financials and the Porter Construction company.” 
 
Chambers blew out a tired breath. “I think it’s time for Otis Manning to exit stage left. It could be dangerous being Otis around here for a while.”  
 
We shook hands, and Otis/Agent Lewis Chambers left. I don’t know where they took him, but it was out of town and far away. 
 
 
 Epilogue  
 
The clouds broke, and the rain finely cleared the next day, but it took the city over a week to dry out and the streets to get back to normal. Meanwhile, Jake Newcom and a mayoral aide, Lester Blake, were arrested on charges of conspiracy to commit fraud and attempts to cheat the city, state, and federal government out of millions of dollars in overrun cost and other bogus fees and bills for the projects that had submitted to the city council. My investigation into fraudulent insurance policies and claims paralleled the Feds’ case, which was why they left me in the dark about Otis. As they dug deeper into Jake’s business, more charges were added, and a grand jury indicted him. 
 
Six months later, in jail awaiting trial, an attempt was made on both Jake and Lester Blake’s lives.  Blake struck a deal with the Feds and testified against Jake and the Mob players involved in return for immunity from prosecution for any of the crimes he’d done at the time and witness protection.  
 
After spending six months as Redd Robinson, low life, and generally a no-good loafer and drinker, I returned to my wife, kids, and grandkids in Florida and life as a federal insurance investigator. Other than testifying, I hoped the Federal government wouldn’t need Redd’s services again for a long time. 

​ 
The insurance recovery business has been slow lately, but I didn’t mind. It gave me time to indulge in other hobbies. The payout from the recovery of the Third Sister had put me in a new tax bracket, which hurt every April. But even that, I didn’t mind. 
 
Winters here in Virginia were mild, at least compared to most of the country, but it was too cold for me.  I’d spent most of the winter season bouncing around in Texas and Florida, even as far west as Arizona. Upon returning to my Virginia ranch in mid-spring, I found a new Jaguar parked in the driveway, taking advantage of the shade from a giant oak.  I had to laugh. Even when driving a rental, he went in style.  
  
As I got out and opened the boot of my Mark II, I recognized the figure coming up the driveway. Simon Reynolds had traveled from his cushy air condition office in LA to find me. His ever-present glasses looked like they were ready to slide off his nose, and what little hair he had was windblown in all directions. He didn’t care or notice. Simon’s blue suit hung baggy on his frame, his tie loosened, and his white shirt unbuttoned to let air in.   
 
“Where the hell have you been?” He glared at me, breathing heavily in the afternoon sun. 
 
“And Hello to you. Simon, you know I take off during the winter and disconnect completely.  As to where I was,” I picked up a large leather carry bag and headed for the front door.  “I was in Texas, Florida, and Arizona. Where it’s warm in the winter. You know how I hate cold.” By now, I’d opened the front door and let us in. He followed me inside, and I tossed my bag in the neatest empty corner. I’d deal with it later.  
 
“Okay, Simon, what’s so important?” I motioned for him to sit in the living room. 
 
He sat on the couch and plopped an old leather briefcase onto the coffee table.  
As he opened the case, the spring latches made a loud clicking noise in the still room. He rummaged through the numerous files inside, pulled one out, and handed it to me. 
 
“Rodney Longwood owns some hotels in Phoenix and a vast parcel of land that he inherited from a shirttail aunt a few years ago.  He allowed archeologists from a California university to come in and do a dig site on his property last year.  They found some interesting and rare stuff—pottery and the like. One of the clay pots found was rare and worth a fortune. We have insurance on his personal property and wrote riders for the items they found. 
 
I leafed through the file. “Okey. What’s that got to do with me?” 
 
Simon leaned forward, his tie dangling over the coffee table and jacket hunched on his shoulders. “Longwood loaned it to a collector in England.” He pulled a photo from the folder, an image of an old castle.  
  
“What does a Native American pot have to do with a castle in England?” 
 
“From the story I got, they have a remarkably similar pot, with the same marking and type of clay. Longwood loaned it to the archeologist on the English site to compare.” Simon paused, shifting nervously. “And now it’s missing.”  
 
“Stolen from an old English Castile where it never should have been in the first place. How much insurance?”  
 
“A million dollars.”  
 
“And if I don’t find the pot intact you have to pay Longwood?” Simon swallowed hard and nodded.   
 
We sat in silence while I read his report more closely. “Okay, I get it, at least most of it. They wanted to directly compare the two pots side by side, something impossible to do properly over video. Longwood ships his pot to them using a secure courier to transport it to the castle in England where they had a lab to examine artifacts found on the estate grounds.” 
 
Simon nodded. “Yes, the castle has been guarded by a private security firm since they opened the grounds to an archelogy team. They had problems with vandals and protesters who didn’t like them digging up the grounds around the Castle. The tightened security stopped most of it, but I understand they still get the occasional prowler and vandal, but not like before.” 
 
“Everyone connected with the castle and the dig has been vetted?” 
 
“Twice over, once by the local police and surrounding agencies and by the Home Office. They’re clean.”  
 
I scoffed. “Someone slipped through, and I’m guessing someone inside the dig or castle.” 
 
Simon sighed. “Likely.” 
 
“The security company vetted?” Simon answered yes as I flipped through the papers and found the files detailing the security firm.  They all looked good, as far as I could tell.  No names jumped out at me. I took that as a good sign. 
 
I was lucky last year to find the third painting of a set of three. I also knew having a place to start had helped. But there was no obvious place to start here, at least not from what I read in the files. I would know more when I got there and talked to people. 
 
The question of my fee was next. I knew how Simon hated to part with his company’s hard-earned money.  
 
“The pot is insured for?” 
 
“The whole collection of about a dozen pots and other pieces of pottery and fragments are estimated to be over a million dollars, considering their rarity and how pristine some of them are.  Individually, it’s hard to tell. A good auction with people who know their stuff, the pot in question could easily get half a million.”  
 
“Speaking of which, where is the rest of the collection?” 
 
“Safely locked up in a bank vault in Phoenix.” 
 
“You’ve seen it there?” 
 
“Yes, I oversaw transport and placement of the items in the vault.” 
 
“I want $250,000 if I recover the pot in one piece, but I need a $10,000 retainer as a base price for my time and effort regardless of the pot condition if found or if not recovered.” I grinned. “Plus, expenses.”  
 
Simon leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes for a minute, He knew damned well I was expensive, but he knew that most of the time, I saved them money in the long run. “Okay, $10,000 flat fee for your time, pluses expenses, $250,000 if you find the pot, and maybe a bonus if it is quick and the pot’s undamaged.”  
 
We shook hands, and he pulled out a contract and filled in the necessary numbers. 
Simon made a call, and within a few minutes, ten grand was sitting in my account. 
We shook hands at the door, and Simon headed back to LA. 
 
~~~ 


The flight to London would have been boring, but I had all the paperwork and files to read on both dig sites and the personnel at the castle. There was a lot to digest and remember. Troubling was a report that some hacked into the company’s cyber unit and accessed files concerning items found at the dig. The ID of one of the cyber techs was stolen and used to access the unit and the computer system. 
 
I concentrated on the castle, the staff, the dig teams, and security. None of the names stood out to me as potential suspects.  I would be able to get a better idea of who was who. Then, I turned my attention to the photos from the castle dig site and the original photos from the insurance company. After examining the metadata and the images, I determined that things were not what they appeared.  
 
By the time I arrived in London, I had emailed Simon on his private email deductions with instructions to check who had access to the pictures and the files in general at the insurance company. 
 
Lord Edmonds of the manor house had offered to send a limo for me, but I declined. I always rented a car. The rolling countryside flew by quickly as I glided along the winding back roads, making occasional stops for tractors, sheep, or lorries with a wide load. 
 
The sun was low in the sky when I pulled in behind a Bently limo, parked on a sandstone driveway flanked by large, perfectly mowed lawns with neatly trimmed edges. The castle stood over us like a set from an old movie. Its flanking turrets were bookends of a sizeable blocky building. I lost count of the windows that looked down on the main driveway and lawn. Stone abutments served as railing for the five steps leading to the ornate front door. 
I barely took all of this in before the front door opened, and an older gentleman came down the steps. As he approached me, I noticed his casual but elegant clothing, his expertly cut gray hair, and the etched lines on his face. He offered his hand, and I took it instinctively. 
 
“I’m Lord Edmonds, but you may call me Charles.” 
 
“Peter Malloy, but you can call me Pete.” 
 
He noted my car, a new Mercedes.  “The insurance investigator occupation pays quite well, I see?” 
 
“It can with the right cases, but I’ve also seen it go bust.” 
 
The front door opened, causing us to turn and look up at the steps. The lord’s face lit up at the sight of the woman standing on the landing.  “Pete, this is my wife, Angela, Lady Angela Edmonds. Darling, this is Peter Malloy, the insurance investigator we’ve been expecting.” 
 
As she came down the steps and over to meet me, I noticed she was petite and thin, contrasting with the tall, robust lord of the manor. She held her hand, and her grip was firm but not enthusiastic. She didn’t seem happy to see me. But she never indicated it directly. She looked at her husband. “Charles, dinner is ready.” 
 
“I am certain our guest is hungry  as well.” 
  
“Now you mention it, I could eat.”   
 
I followed them up the steps through the front entry. Inside was a large foyer with a high ceiling, several doors flanking the side walls, and a large stairway leading to the floors above. I noticed several marble statues and busts on tall, thin pedestals standing between the many doorways. A coat of arms hung high over one door.  
 
“I’m afraid it’s potluck today. The staff are off this week for a wedding. Our butler is marrying my wife’s lady-in-waiting, very ‘Downton Abby.’ We’ve had to fend for ourselves all week.” He grinned at his joke and led me through the house to a dining area next to the kitchen. Bread and a selection of hams, cheeses, other lunch meats, and plates of fresh fruits and vegetables sat on the rustic wooden table. 
 
We sat the lord at the head of the table, Angela to his right. I took the seat beside him.  
 
“Help yourself. We decided not to cook tonight as it is so hot.” He took bread slices from a basket and passed it to me. I did likewise, and before I knew it, I had one of the best sandwiches I’d had in a long time. We washed our food down with lager. 
 
During the meal, Edmonds asked me questions about the case, while Angela didn’t say much other than ask me to pass something. I couldn’t decide if it was her customary manner or if she was just being cold to me.  Time will tell. 
 
I washed down the last of my ham sandwich with the last of my lager and decided to get to business. “I’d like to see the Vault Room, where the Longwood Pot was when stolen.” 
 
He half-coughed, and his expression became serious as he sensed my change in tone. “Come. It’s this way.”  
 
We rose, leaving Angela to clear the table, and walked through the main corridor to the opposite side of the manor. We stopped before a large, paneled door with an antique lock. He pulled a set of keys from his pocket and fumbled a little until he found the key that fit the lock. The key turned quickly, and the door swung open into the room. 
 
The windowless room looked like a scene from a movie set. The ceilings were tall and supported by three stone and one wood-paneled wall.  Several suits of armor, displays of swords, and a couple of glass cases with some small pieces in them stood along the walls, highlighted by downlights. Two coats of arms hung on either side of the room.  
 
The main attraction was the three large safes that stood on a raised stone dais. The center safe was much larger than the two flanking it, and none were small. Edmonds went directly to the center vault, pulled out a second, larger set of keys from his pockets, and opened it. The large door swung out and hung over the edge of the platform. 
 
“It was here.” He pointed to an empty spot in the middle of the safe. I looked over the safe. There are no signs of tampering or forced opening. The only way in was with the key.  
 
“What else in  here?” 
  
“A few family papers and this box contains my more valuable watches. This case has Agatha’s favorite jewelry. The wooden boxes on the lower shelf contain other pieces they found on the dig here.”  
 
“The pot was here?” I pointed to the same empty spot he’d indicated.  
 
He nodded yes.  “It was too big to fit with the others, so we put it in a separate, larger box.” 
 
“Close it up,” I instructed, standing back while he closed the door. It swung easily and quietly. 
   
There was only one way in and out of the windowless room. I took my time examining the displays. At the paneled section on the right side, I noted several pictures which I assumed were of past lords of the manor. I studied the panels carefully and eventually found what I was looking for—a tiny crack in a panel edge. You’d never notice if you didn’t look closely and in the right light. I didn’t say a word. I told him I had seen all I needed, and we exited the room, and he locked the door.   
 
“What’s next to this room?” 
 
“My office.” He unlocked his office door. The room was smaller than the Vault Room but still spacious. I noticed the paneled section on the wall behind his desk, which was on the same wall as the Vault Room.   
 
“You don’t carry both sets of keys all the time?” 
 
“No, I only carry the door set. The vault keys remain in my safe.”  
 
He pulled them from his pocket and handed them to me. There was nothing special about them. Both sets were old and well-used, but the keys for the vault itself were much larger and heavier.  
 
I noticed a safe built into the shelves on the far wall opposite his desk. I watched as he punched the numbers to open the safe and put the safe keys back in, mentally noting the numbers. Bookshelves and cabinets filled with electronics, a small pair of speakers, and a flat-screen television lined the walls. He locked the office, and I followed him to the main hall. 
 
“The dig site?” I purposely didn’t use his title, and it appeared he was put off by my not being impressed with his title.  That lasted for about thirty seconds when I first met him.  
 
“Oh yes, this way, please.”   
 
He led me through the house, down a corridor past several well-appointed rooms with areas cordoned off with fancy velvet ropes. Rooms open as part of the public tours conducted there regularly. 
  
Large French doors opened onto a large stone patio that ran most of the length of the main section of the castle. Several sets of outdoor tables and chairs, each with an umbrella, and side tables for the extras one invariably needed when dining alfresco.  


The dig roped off with heavy rope strung on metal fence posts, and it took up a smaller section of lawn than I expected—a grid pattern created by sting marked off the interior of the excavated site. Canopies covered the dig site from the English rain, and a couple of covered work areas sat alongside. Under one were tables filled with flat frames and other tools of the trade—a couple of laptops and a makeshift photo booth set up on a third table.  A cool breeze ruffled the leaves on the trees nearby and made the papers on the tables flutter.  
 
A well-worn safari jacket moved around the dig site. Edmonds coughed slightly, and a floppy hat popped up from the hole. The man wearing the jacket was Devon Rogers, the lead archeologist, who had secured funding and permission for the dig.  He was short, under the floppy hat he wore bald, and his clothes looked like he’d slept in them for the last several days. He climbed out of the pit and shuffled over to the tent we were under.  
 
 “Devon, please meet Pete Malloy from the insurance company about the Longwood pot.” 
 
Sticking out a dirty hand, he grinned through several days’ worth of beard. 
“Glad to know ya, Pete. So, they decided to finally send someone to see what happened to that dammed pot.”  
 
It was more a statement than a question. I ignored it. I shook his and confirmed I was here about the Longwood pot.  
 
By now, the other two had joined us in the tent, and Deven made the introductions. Ginger Bown had arrived two weeks ago, after the pot went missing, having completed her dissertation and awaiting oral finals for her doctorate at the university. She was tall and skinny, with long black hair tied in a loose ponytail behind her head. Even through her loose-fitting t-shirt shirt, I could tell she had been working hard for a while. Her jeans had holes in the knees and wear marks from tool belts riding on them. 
 
“What another stupid suit here to tell us what we already know? Trudging all over the site. We just found some Roman artifacts. We don’t need you here.”  
 
I told her I was just here to confirm what Lord Edmonds had reported and, if necessary, recommend that the insurance company pay.  She snarled. “Yeah, right,” and returned to the dig hole.  
 
Larry Perkins was the last person in the tent with Devon, Edmond, and me. Larry came forward and shook my hand, not saying anything other than a grunt hello. 
 
Devon explained. “Larry is a local student from the university here for the summer. He helps out, carries dirt, cleans up, and generally does whatever we need him to do. He is supposed to be learning how to work a dig.”  
 
I noted Larry’s long hair, well-worn, and dirty cowboy boots. They aren’t something you see very often in the middle of England. But I turned my attention to Devon. 
 
“Professor Rogers, I have some questions for you.” 
 
“He waved a hand in front of his face. “Stop all that professor crap. Out here, I’m just Devon—in the classroom, professor.” 
 
“Okay, Devon. I still need you and the others to answer some questions.” 
 
I spent the next forty-five minutes asking them questions. I also took pictures of the dig sites and where they found the original pot. Eventually, I let them get back to work.  
 
Lord and Lady Edmonds went into town on business, leaving me alone. While they were gone, I popped the lock on his office door. Once inside I played with the combination on his safe. It didn’t take me long to figure out the last number I forgot. 
 
Once the safe opened, I grabbed the vault keys. Twenty minutes later, I knew exactly how the pot had been stolen from the main vault and had a pretty good idea of where it might be and who was behind it. But I needed more information. 
 
Back in my room, I wrote out what I suspected had happened and then emailed Simon and Lanna, my personal assistant. Officially, she did administrative work I hated doing, running errands and updating files when needed, but she was also my right-hand gal for researching.   
 
I tasked them to find more information about the professor and the college student, Larry Perkins. While I requested information on Gina, she seemed harmless. The Professor and the kid were the two I was most interested in. Particularly if the kid had been to California about the time the files were stolen from the company and if he had been around the assistant who had her ID compromised.  
 
Also of interest was whether either of them was in Arizona when the Longwood Pot was found or soon after. I tasked Lana with finding out if any of them had photo and video editing experience, officially or not. I also needed to know if Larry and Devon had crossed paths before the dig. 
 
It was late evening when I received replies from Simon and Lanna. It was time to rewrite my notes before tomorrow. 
 
~~~ 
                                                    
I rose early, and after a quick breakfast in the kitchen and a chat with Lord Edmonds, I asked him to have everyone meet in the vault room.  Promptly at nine in the morning, Edmonds let everyone into the vault room, but I waited out of sight.  I decided to let them stew for a few minutes.  
 
I could hear them talking, puzzled as to why I summoned them. When I figured they’d had enough time to wonder, I entered the Vault Room.  Not expecting movement from the left side of the room, they all turned to see me step into the room from a panel that appeared to be part of the wall. 
 
I stood there, a file folder in my hand, and let them ponder how I got there. I noticed a slight glance between Devon and Larry before they looked shocked. 
 
“Good morning, everyone.  You likely wonder why you are here and where I came from.” No one spoke, just nodded yes.  
 
I walked into the middle of the room, leaving the panel open. “As you know, a priceless artifact found in Arizona has disappeared.  Supposedly from here.” More nodding, but no one had found anything to say. However, I noticed Devon glancing at the right vault. “The artifact did disappear from here, but it didn’t go far.”  Larry and Devon exchanged another glance.  
 
“Let’s find the Longwood Pot, as it’s called. Then I’ll get into the mechanics of how it was stolen and why.”  
 
I pulled the keys that opened the vaults themselves from my pocket. Edmonds shot me a questioning look, but I ignored him. Standing in front of the vault, I looked at it carefully. 
 
“Lord Edmonds, when was the last time either of these archive vaults have been opened?” 
 
He joined me. I pointed to the vault on the right, where the accumulated dust had been partially wiped from the handle. I then pointed to the handle on the left, covered with undisturbed dust.  
 
“Oh, I don’t know, at least six months ago.” 
 
“You don’t open these vaults often?” 
 
No, they’re used mainly for storage and archiving family records and some documents for the castle.” 
 
“So, generally speaking, you have no reason to get into them very often.” 
 
“No. We mostly use the center vault for things we want to get regularly.” 
 
“Such as?’ 
 
“As I told you, I have several very valuable watches, and Agatha likes to keep certain pieces of jewelry here that she wears often. The rest is at the bank.” 
 
“I see. What if I were to tell you, I think we’ll find the Longwood Pot in the right vault?”  
 
His eyes widened. He was catching on.  
 
“Let’s open it and find out.” I slipped the key into the lock and turned it, listening to the lock mechanism creak as the big door released.  Swinging it open, we stepped back so everyone could see. On the middle shelf, on top of a stack of papers, sat the wooden box that held the pot.  
 
“Wow and oh shit,” and various other comments to that effect echoed about the room. I looked directly at Devon and Larry. Both had paled before regaining their composure. 
 
Carefully sliding the box from the shelf, I carried it to a nearby display cabinet, and everyone watched as I opened it. Wrapped in protective padding sat the Longwood Pot, rumored to be at least five hundred years old and worth a small fortune. 
 
“But how? I have the keys to the door.” Edmonds pointed to the opened panel for the first time and looked at me questionably. I nodded yes. 
 
“Let me explain how the thief did it, then we’ll get to who and why.” Edmonds went back to his chair.  I leaned against the display case next to the pot.  
 
“It’s well known that Lord Edmonds carries the keys for the door with him pretty much all the time.” 
 
“When it’s not on me, they’re locked in the safe in my office.” 
 
“Correct. These keys came from there, too?” I held up the keys to the vaults. 
Edmonds nodded yes. 
 
“You need to rearrange the display cabinets in your office. I got the combination yesterday while you opened the safe to get the safe keys. Anyone standing in the right spot can see the reflection of the keypad in the glass. You need a better lock on the door, too. It didn’t take much to get it open.” 
 
I carefully watched Devon and Larry’s reactions as I continued. “Okay, I’m in your office, and I have the vault keys but not the door keys.” Everyone turned to look at the open panel again. 
 
“Being a history buff and knowing the history of this castle and the area, you would know about Priest Holes—small places were built into walls to hide the priest when the army or someone else came looking for them.” 
 
Everyone nodded, and I looked toward Lord Edmonds. “You didn’t know you had one in your office?” 
 
“It never occurred to me to look.” Edmonds countered. 
 
“No, it wouldn’t, but because of the way the stone walls are configured and the way the halls and rooms are set up, it was the perfect place to put one.  Let me guess, it wasn’t always your office?” 
 
 
No, it had been a storage room for ages before we  redid things a few years back.” 
 
“Also, making it perfect for a priest hole. Back then, there were no lights, and no one would look too closely at the old storage room.” 
 
“I just added electricity and lights, the safe, and the furnishing.”  
 
“They did a good job hiding it here, but only if you’re not looking for it. Which I was. I noticed a crack in the panel that shouldn’t be there yesterday. So, while you were out, I came down and looked. Sure enough, in your office, that panel next to your desk opened up too easily. It should have squeaked and not wanted to move, but once I figured it out, it swung open.” 
 
“So…” Edmonds stuttered. “Someone else’s found it, cleaned it up, and then went to work on the other side.” 
  
I nodded. “Correct. They cut a small door into the panel and added some hinges to make it work and a catch to close it. When the time was right, they just came through like I did.’ 
 
I noticed Devon and Larry looking uncomfortable in their chairs and glancing at each other. 
 
“Okay, that’s how it was done, but who?’ Edmonds asked, looking around the room. 
 
“That’s going to take a little more explaining. It all started two years ago when the Longwood Pot was found. It was a big deal. There was a lot of press coverage, which made national and international news. My company handles the insurance for Rodney Longwood, his hotels, and other properties. We insured it for a quarter of a million dollars. A hefty sum for an old clay pot.”  
 
I paused for effect. “At that time, Professor Devon Rogers was in dire straits. He knew his future as a professor would not be long if he didn’t fulfill his tenure. You were required to submit five peer-reviewed papers in a year, which you hadn’t done. Not to mention, your teaching performance was less than great.” I looked right at him. He looked down at his lap and played with the edges of the safari coat.  
 
I glanced around the room and slightly shifted my position against the display cabinet. “Anyway, I digress. The Longwood pot came out, and you saw dollar signs, which may be a chance to redeem your career. Suppose you found a pot identical to it, a place that should never have it. It would be big news and national attention and perhaps save your career, or as a last resort, you could get your hands on it, sell it, and make enough to live on for the rest of your life. To hell with teaching.” 
 
 Deven didn’t look up.  I continued, “You met Larry Perkins somewhere during your travels in the States and got back in contact with him. But for this to work, you needed Larry to do some things stateside. The first order of business was finding out where the pot was. It was in a local museum in Arizona. Then you needed good pictures of the pot. The ones online weren’t good enough. So, you realized if it was insured, they would have good pictures. Once you figured out what company had the insurance for it. You researched and found our offices and, eventually, our cyber unit. You sent Larry in to befriend a girl who works there. Over time, you got her confidence and eventually her credentials and access to our system. Once you had that, it was easy to download and copy the entire file and pictures of the pot and disappear from her life.” 
 
I paused for effect and glanced at my notes, which I’d laid on the corner next to me. Everyone stared at Larry, who looked at Devan and squirmed in his chair.  
 
“You now had the pictures of the pot, but you needed a place to “find it.” To that end, Devon, you convinced the university to fund one more dig for you. You found a nice castle out of the way and talked the Lord into letting you do a dig on a back property. Probably gave him some bullshit about past finds in the area or something about the water table. Either way, you got him roped into it.” 
 
“You knew the only to get the pot out of the museum was to find the second one, as it were, so you set work making up some pictures with the real pot in them, making it look like it had been found here. They didn’t have to be perfect. They would only be seen online and then taken down.” 
 
I had everyone’s attention. “With a hubbub over the second pot, the museum had no choice but to send its pot over for direct comparison. Of course, by then, you made sure to have your pot sent somewhere for authentication or testing. So that when the real pot came, there wasn’t a pot to which to directly compare. You strung everyone along, saying it would be back soon. As expected, the Longwood pot was put in the vault here.” I pointed to the main center vault. “It didn’t take much to figure out they never get into the side vaults very often. You knew you’d be suspects, so you couldn’t have it found in your belongings. The next best thing was to hide it where you could get it later after everything died down.” I crossed my arms and stared at Devon and Larry.  
  
I had already called the local police, and they were waiting for me to finish before they arrested Devon Rogers and Larry Perkins for theft. Larry was also charged with cybercrimes back in the States.  
 
 
Epilogue   
 
 
The Longwood Pot was returned to the Arizona Museum by secure courier as soon as it was processed as evidence against Devon and Larry. Meanwhile,  Ginger Bown, who had known nothing about the pot or its theft, continued with the dig. The university supported keeping the dig going after she uncovered artifacts from the Roman era in Britain. The university was so impressed with her work that they put her in charge despite not yet receiving her doctorate. 
 
Lord and Lady Edmonds benefited from the whole thing with a renewed interest in their castle and a significant growth in the number of tourists visiting the castle every weekend.  
 
It took me a week to settle everything with the insurance company and local authorities before I could fly back to the States. 


 ~~~
We were back at my ranch in Virginia. Simon had flown in to give me the rest of the money owed me and stayed for a few days. My PA, Lana, who lived nearby, joined us for a fancy dinner I had catered for the occasion. Simon raised his glass to me. “Here’s to the king of finding lost or stolen items.”  We both grinned a little as we drank. 
 
“And saving you about a quarter of a million dollars,” I added. 
 
 “Yeah, and that too.”  
 
 I sat up and looked directly at Simon and Lana. Raising my glass, I toasted them. 
“Without your hard work here, I couldn’t have put the pieces together. Thank you.” 
 
After everyone left, I sat back in my favorite leather chair, sipped a hundred-year-old bourbon, and put a record on. I fell asleep in my chair to the sounds of Miles Davis. 

​My footsteps echoed in the empty hall as I walked through the school. If I listened closely, I could hear the sounds of students and teachers rushing through the corridors. The bang of a locker door would punctuate the roar of talking and the yelling of the students as they tried to navigate the halls and learn about life. It had been decades since I’d been here—four to be exact. 
Leaning against the door frame of one of the classrooms, I looked at the wall covered with blackboards and scribbles from the last class, never erased. The enormous world map hanging from the many pull-down rolls that lined the ceiling along the far wall caught my attention. 
 I wandered through the maze of desk chairs to face the map. Decades ago, the world was my oyster. I could do anything and go anywhere when I was seventeen—but the intervening years had shown me the harsh truth.
Sighing heavily, I turned and headed back to the hall and down the corridor to the large gym on the opposite side of the school. The news of the fortieth reunion had reached me several months ago. At first, I refused even to entertain the idea of going. They would all be strangers to me, and I doubt any of them remember Robert Pike—my name or face. At this point in my life, I had the time and money to go but not the desire. That is until I saw the RSVP list online.
She was going to be there, Tammy Porter. She was the one girl I remembered from those days. We had been close during the last couple of years of school. There had been talk of us getting married. However, she decided to become a teacher, taking her to college in another state. After graduating, we kept in touch for a while, but our lives eventually drifted apart.
After graduating from the local junior college, I joined the police force. A close friend died from a gunshot, and rumor had it that members of the Strong family, who held a monopoly on business in town, both legal and illegal, were responsible. I decided to be the hero to take them down, but I quickly learned what the police chief already knew. It was impossible to break the Strong family's control over the community. Witness imitation, lack of evidence in some cases, and the fact that they weren’t afraid to attack law enforcement or even kill them was insurmountable. Several officers died, and no one could prove they died at the order of the Strongs.
Eventually, I moved on to the State Police. Over the years, I kept tabs on the goings on in my hometown. I knew Casey ran the Stone family business now, and things were just as bad as when his old man ran things. I’d heard he married a local gal sometime after I left, but I never knew who she was.
I took my time reaching the gym as memories surfaced as I walked along the corridor. It seemed there was always some senior who did something stupid and got himself killed or hurt every year. The year I graduated, the death had not been a student but the murder and rape of a teacher. The teacher, Mrs. Jean Haily, a distant cousin, had been well-liked by all the kids. At least half the guys in her classes had crushes on her. When she turned up dead and raped in the women’s restroom at the local park, the crime shocked the town. 
Suspicion had naturally fallen on the students in her class. The police questioned them extensively, and their alibies were checked and double-checked. No one seemed to have a gaping hole in their whereabouts the night of the attack. 
 I had been in the park with Tammy that evening. We had a picnic and discussed her attending college and what she wanted to do. We stayed way later than either of us had planned. It was almost dark when we finally packed up and left.
Summer flew by. Tammy went off to college, and I attended junior college and then on to law enforcement training. The police never discovered Mrs. Haily’s murderer and marked her case, with few leads and little physical evidence, closed/unsolved and forgotten. I never forgot it because Mrs. Haily was a relative. Granted, she was a distant cousin, and very few people knew she was related to me, but she was family, and she was dead. I carried that in the back of my mind all those years.
As I neared the gym, I remembered how happy I'd been with Tammy before we went our separate ways. That was motivation enough to come, but seeing Casey Strong’s name on the list reminded me of something I’d forgotten. That's when I decided to go to the reunion. 
The committee had converted the gym into a dance hall of sorts. Banners proclaiming the class of 1984 and various other images of our school years hung on the walls. Dressed in one of my best suits, I looked out of place among the other casually dressed people. But then, I had always been out of place, even in the right place. 
A mix of music genres from the time blared from the PA system, and I could barely hear anyone talking. Along one wall were some tables with stacks of yearbooks and pictures donated to the cause. I sorted through the photos without recognizing any of them. 
With a plastic cup filled with punch in one hand and a name tag hanging from my jacket pocket, I stood next to the table and tried to scan the room, looking for anyone I even thought I knew.
I took a swallow of the punch and shuddered. There was more than juice in the bowl. The echoing of too loud music against the wood panel walls and stacked bleachers combined with strobe lights hanging in the middle of the gym were disorienting and only compounded the feeling of not fitting in and my desire to go running from the school and hide in the car.
Then, I spotted Tammy standing on the other side of the room. At this distance, her name tag was only a tiny square on her ample chest. I decided to stay. Tossing what was left of the cup in the nearest trash bin, I worked my way over to her side of the room.
 She was talking to a woman, and they appeared to be having a deep conversation, so I kept my distance and watched them. Tammy was tall and generously proportioned in all directions. I remembered her as being on the large side even back then, but I never thought about it much. Even today, a person's size doesn’t matter much to me if I like them. 
The woman she was talking with was a direct contrast to Tammy. She was short and thin with bobbed hair and a tight-fitting dress that hugged her curves. Of the two, I preferred Tammy’s proportions to Skinny Lady. I couldn’t see her nametag, so I didn’t know if she was a classmate or the spouse of a classmate. 
I played with the old textbooks on the table where I stood, pretending to read the pages I could barely see in the haphazard light. Eventually, Skinny Lady kissed her on the cheek and hurried off to meet someone she saw across the room. That told me they knew each other and had a history. Then Tammy turned toward me.
 Her face lit up with recognition. “Robbie!?” She shouted over the music, and I nodded yes. She pulled me into a giant hug that almost buried my face into her shoulder, and my back squeezed tight as she welcomed me back into her life. Eventually, she let me go, and I could breathe again. 
 We talked briefly about the weather, how we got here, and whether we were married. Did we have kids, all the usual questions? Yes, she was married, and he was around here somewhere, but she hadn't seen him in a while. That didn’t surprise me. It was impossible to tell who you were talking to until you were on top of them. I told her I had never married. My job took up my life, but I was retiring soon and considering returning home.
As will happen, we quickly ran out of things to talk about and stood silently for a couple of minutes. I almost wished I still had that horrible drink in my hand. At least I’d have something to do while we each tried not to say something either would regret.
“So, Tammy, how long have you been married?” I knew she’d told me a few minutes ago, but I’d already forgotten and couldn’t think of anything else.
“Thirty-one years. It's been good, but….” She hesitated ever so slightly, and I almost asked what the problem was when it presented itself in the form of her husband, Casey Stone. He came up behind her wrapping his arms around her waist and practically squeezing her boobs in front of me.
“So, last I heard of you, Robbie boy, you left the local police and disappeared. We placed a few bets on whether our class cop would show.” I could smell the alcohol from where I stood. He’d already had too much to drink.
“Yeah, I decided I needed to settle an old score.”  What motivated me to come more than seeing Tammy was what I remembered.
“Forty years later?” He breathed over her shoulder and showed no signs of letting go of Tammy.
“Yeah, forty years later, some things still need settling.” I looked him straight in the eye and didn’t blink. He knew what I was talking about. He coughed, sending a spray of phlegm over her shoulder directly at me. Fortunately, I was too far away for it to hit me, but I caught the odor of his booze breath. He was as drunk as I’d ever seen him. 
I knew he always liked the bottle, even back in high school. He’d been arrested and ticketed for drunk driving often but always managed to get by with a fine or a suspended license for a while. It helped that the Stones were one of the more influential families in the county. They owned most of the major businesses and employed half of the county. No one, even the police, was in a hurry to do what they should have done all those years ago.
Now, forty years later, it was time to face his reckoning. If what I remembered was right, I would see that he did, and if I could help Tammy in the process, all the better.
“Okay, Casey, let's get this done.” I motioned for the doors behind us. 
He let go of Tammy and glared at me. She looked at me, and I knew she realized what I was about to do. That was her chance to stop me, and she didn’t. She gave me a slight nod and walked away. I pointed to the doors, and Casey, drunk and not thinking straight, headed for the set of double doors. I was pretty sure he thought he could take me. I followed him into the hallway, reached into my pocket, and hit the voice recorder button on my phone.
I directed him to an empty classroom near the gym and leaned against the teacher's desk, facing him. 
“Mrs. Haily, Jean Haily. You remember her?”
He looked at me blankly for a second. “No.” He paused. “Oh yeah, she was the teacher that was killed the year we graduated.”
I nodded yes. “Do you remember where she was found and what had been done to her?”
“No. What's this got to do with me?” He fidgeted with a pencil some kid had left on a desk near him.
“What was that car your old man got you that year?”  I changed tactics midstream.
He thought for a minute. “Oh yeah, the red Corvette?”
I nodded yes. “You were the only kid in school with a new car, much less a car like that. Everyone in town knew that car.” I let it sink in for a second.
 “So what? I had a fancy car. My old man could afford it.”
“The only new Corvette in the county. Your dad drove an older model.” I stood up. “Mrs. Haily was found in the park—raped and murdered. Everyone in town knew you had a thing for her. What happened? Did you try to pick her up, and when she wouldn’t put out, you took her anyway and killed her? “
“No, that never happened. Yeah, I had the hots for her. So did most of the guys in the school at the time. That don’t mean anything.”
“You remember where you were?”
 “Come on, that was forty years ago! How am I supposed to remember what I was doing back then?”
“Let me refresh your memory. According to the statement you gave the police, you were at a party over at Lonnie’s Burke's place.”
“Yeah, so? If I said I was there, I was there. He always had good booze.”
“The police checked your alibi, and you were there alright, but no one could remember seeing you there all night.”
“Yeah, so? So what? I got bored or had my fill of his hooch and left to sleep it off somewhere. I drank a lot back then.”
I scoffed. “You still drink a lot. I can smell you from here. See, the thing is, there were people in the park that night who saw a car leaving the area where a park worker found her body the next morning. They didn’t say anything because their folks worked for one of your old man’s businesses, and they were scared of what could happen if they did. So, they kept quiet.”
“This matters now because?” I saw the panic in his eyes as he realized where I was going with it.
“Because they recognized the car. It was the only new foreign car in town. And the only new foreign car in town then was your red 1984 Corvette Ragtop. Your car was seen there.”
“I wasn’t there.” He backed up, trying to put distance between us.
“Casey Stone, I’m arresting you on suspicion of the rape and murder of Jean Haily in nineteen eighty-four.”
Suddenly, he was sober. “What do you mean? You can’t arrest me. You don’t have any authority here.”
I showed him my badge. “State Police Detective Captain and I got Haily’s case reopened based on new eyewitness testimony.”
Casey turned white as I pulled him around, put the cuffs on him, and read him his rights. 
~~~
I sat in the integration room across from Casey Strong and his lawyer an hour later. He’d been processed, photographed, and fingerprinted, and his Corvette, which he kept, had been impounded.
 “You see, Casey, I wasn’t the only one in the park that night. In addition to three guys who had seen the car but refused to tell out of fear, I was there, and Tammy was there—with me.”
He had sobered up. At least enough, he started to understand where he was and why. “Tammy was there? With You?” I nodded yes.
“We were having a picnic and got to talking. It was late when we finally left, and we saw your car leave the park that evening. We were talking about her going to college. She didn’t want to stay around. I was trying to help her think through what she wanted to do. To be honest, I was trying to get her to stay. We were sitting at one of the picnic tables talking when we saw a red sports car leave the restroom building and pass right by us. She said she thought it looked like your car. The next day, Jean Haily’s body was found in the women's restroom. Someone raped and murdered her.”
He squirmed in his seat.
“We didn’t put it together until later when we heard the time it was supposed to have happened. Tammy and I talked about saying something, but she knew what would happen if we did. Your old man would make it impossible for her family to run their lumber business. She said she wouldn’t back me up if I told the police. So, we kept quiet. She went to college, as you know, and came back, met you again, and by then, she’d buried the incident in her mind, forgetting about it. As did the rest of the county eventually.”
I picked up the file, opening it to a photo of my cousin. “I never forgot it. I became a cop, and when I started working for the county, I investigated your family. When the reunion triggered my memory of seeing your car at the murder scene, I went to my superiors and the local police. I discovered they were already putting a case together to arrest you and your family. Detectives are right now serving warrants on your businesses. Charges are pending for your brothers, which concern your racketeering and other enterprises. You, however, are being charged with the rape and murder of Jean Haily."
~~~
This was my last big case. Six months later, I retired from the force and returned home. Tamny divorced Casey soon after he’d been convicted, and we picked up where we left our relationship in high school. She admitted she married Casey only to protect her father’s business and that she had never stopped loving me. A year later, we married.
I found peace. After having a long and fulfilling career as a detective and retiring, I was now married to my high school sweetheart, and more importantly, my cousin had the justice she deserved. She could rest in peace as well. 

 
A lazy breeze wandered through the street. Plants and flowers barely moved, and the pink umbrellas strung up between the buildings for shade fluttered peaceable in the summer air. I sat at the end of the empty street at a small round table and sipped a latte. The crema had long since given up its shape and blended into the coffee. 

The last two days were a whirlwind of travel. First, two planes across the states, a third to London, a train ride to Paris, and a drive to Chanaz. I sipped my coffee and thought how much better the coffee was here than in Paris, London, or New York. I was tired, and the cool breeze tempted me to forget why I was in France in the first place.

Signing heavily, I gulped the remains of my cold coffee and laid some money on the table, nestling it under the saucer so the wind wouldn’t carry it away before the waiter could collect it. I know tipping is not expected in France, but I didn’t care. He earned a nice tip.

 The open windows on my rented Jaguar let the fresh in as I headed out of town for my destination. The engine’s roar echoed over the countryside as I sped along the winding country roads. Tracking her down had become a travelogue—first New York, London, and Paris. I was on her tail but didn’t know if she possessed the picture.
While technically, I held a private investigator license, I worked for insurance companies and investigated claims. It seems they don’t like paying large cash settlements on missing works of art or other valuable items. If possible, I get hired to find and recover the items and, in the worst-case scenario, prove the claim was legitimate or fraudulent. Too many missing items are traced back to the owner or their accomplices.

I get a finder’s fee of at least ten percent of the value of the recovered items. It's cheaper for them to pay me, to try to find it, than to have to pay out an insured sum. I hadn’t done too badly. The vintage jaguar in my Virginia estate had been bought and paid for by a stolen diamond I recovered from a fence in Spain last year.
The trip across the pond had been financed by Executive Life & Causality Insurance Company out of California. They had insured an extensive collection of paintings, some of which had been stolen. Most of the paintings had been recovered after it was discovered that a con woman had convinced the rightful owner she feared they were copies and she would get them authenticated by an expert she knew. The ruse had been elaborate and skillfully done, convincing the seventy-two-year-old owner that her family's inheritance may not be worth what she thought it was. I needed to track down the last missing painting, The Third Sister, as charged by my employer.
                                                                           ~~~
Simon Reynolds was a slight, bald man who always wore large spectacles and a navy suit no matter how hot. The only thing he hated more than not being impeccably dressed was paying out money on claims. When his in-house investigators couldn’t locate the last of the paintings and the most valuable, he contacted me. I took the redeye from DC, and by nine a.m. the following morning, I sat in Simon’s office in Los Angeles.
Simon waited, leaning against the desk with his hands in his pockets and chomping on an unlit cigar as I read through the file. 

“Well? Can you find her?”

I looked from the pile of paper in my lap. “Yeah, I think so. But…” I let it hang there. The next part was money. How much was he willing to spend on me, and how much would he bankroll to get it back?
There was no question Simon knew, as I did, who the culprit was. The only question was how badly he wanted her and the painting.

I know her. Gloria Smith, as she calls herself, most of the time. It's a nice, unassuming name and easy to forget. Her real name is Gemma Snyder, and she’s a handful. She’s been tied to a couple of deaths but has never been charged. She likes to travel in all the fancy circles and hobnob with the rich and famous, but she’d steal your coat right off you in a blizzard if given a chance. I’d caught up with her in New York several years ago on another case, and she’d barely gotten away, but not before tipping her hand.

Catching Gloria Smith was going to be expensive. I leaned back in the chair. “What’s your offer?”

“The painting’s insured for two million dollars. Your ten percent is two hundred thousand.”

“Plus expenses.” I reminded him. He glared at me over his thick glasses.

“Plus expenses.” He conceded. “And I want receipts.”

“You’ll get as many as I can, but I will expect you to trust me if I do not have a receipt.” He knew damn well how it was in the field. Sometimes, you can’t use a card, and there is no receipt.
Simon glared at me and grunted. “It’s a deal.”

Simon gave me the details of how Gloria had conned his client out of the picture and what she suspected she would do with it. It turned out the picture was part of a three-picture set painted in the 1800s called the Three Sisters because it was three paintings of three nuns in the church who had served for many decades and were now considered holy by the faithful. One picture was in a museum in Rome. The second picture was in the Vatican as one of its prized paintings.

The third one was sold to a private art collector in France and then sold at auction to another private collector, the current owner's father. He died at ninety-eight, and his seventy-two-year-old spinster daughter inherited the collection.

I spent the rest of the morning calling art dealers I knew would be likely to come across this kind of painting. A couple said they heard rumors that Gloria was making the rounds with a painting she wanted to sell, but no one had seen it yet. One dealer said that she was in New York and had what appeared to be a package that matched the size of the painting he was seeking.

I informed Simon what I had learned and headed for the airport six hours after landing in California. I catnapped on the plane, landing in the evening and heading for the same hotel where Gloria had been seen. I was determined that this time would be different. I had only spotted her in New York a couple of times. The closest was when she escaped by jumping onto a subway train, leaving me standing on the platform. But I had done my homework since then, studied surveillance photos of her, and better understood how she worked. 

The early morning sun worked its way through the narrow blinds that shielded its occupants from the reality of New York City life, but it was enough to wake me up earlier than I wanted to. Once up and moving, I threw my go bag over my shoulder and headed to the lobby in search of Liquid Life, which I call coffee and sustenance. 
A thick rug covered the floor, and opulent wall coverings added to the quiet elegance and money atmosphere. Most people in the lobby were checking in, but one person at the checkout counter caught my eye.
Her topcoat was not as stylish as the other women present, and her hair gave the casual appearance that she had just rolled out of bed. Her designer pocketbook oozed with the feel of money, but what interested me was the enormous satchel slung over her shoulder. It was well-worn, expensive leather, and, more importantly, big enough to hold the missing sister painting. Would she be brazen enough to carry a priceless painting around in an open carry-all?  

Spotting a magazine stand on the side near where they were checking out, I worked my way over to it and pretended to look at stupid mass-market tabloids and glossy magazines while I pulled a photo of Gloria up on my phone. No doubt, it was her. I fought the urge to confront her right then and there, but that wouldn’t have been smart if the picture wasn’t in the satchel, as I suspected. I’d look like an idiot, and my hand would have been played. No, I had to be patient and wait for the right time to catch her with the picture and, ideally, who purchased it.

I had planned to have a quick coffee and bagel before deciding what to do. However, that wasn’t an option anymore. I’d found her and needed to keep her in sight as long as possible. I positioned myself near the doors, hoping to overhear where she was going if she hailed a cab. If I had to leave, I’d have to settle with the hotel or have Simon do it. He wouldn’t be happy either way. 

Several cabs lined up on the street in front of the hotel when she went out. I was close behind, all but holding the door for her. She headed for the first cab in the row without any fanfare, just opened the back door, tossed her bag in, and plopped herself in beside her bag. 

I hurried to the cab directly behind as her cab was pulled into traffic. The cabbie glanced in the mirror and automatically said, “Where to, man?” 
I fished out a hundred-dollar bill, shoving it across the seat towards him. “Follow that cab.”
He grabbed the bill. “Which one?” I pointed to the cab she had gotten into, now stuck in traffic at the light. 
He jockeyed in and out of traffic to keep close to her cab. “What’s the deal?”

“Old girlfriend. Owes me money.”

We almost lost her several times, but the cabbie earned that hundred dollars. Eventually, we went south to the Belt Parkway, past Coney Island, to JFK Airport. We kept her insight using the cab number despite the sea of traffic and a hundred or more cabs that all looked alike. I emailed Simon from my phone and updated him on the hotel and where I was heading. He wouldn’t be happy with the expense account bills that would be showing up.
He dropped her off at International Departures, and I jumped out and handed the cabbie another hundred-dollar bill. 

I pushed my way to the counter to be second in line and heard her book a flight on the next plane to London. Fortunately, I had my passport and other papers with me. I always kept my go bag with me when on the job being a Boy Scout in another life. When my turn came up a minute later, I booked the same flight. The flight didn’t depart for another hour, so she headed for the VIP lounge. I followed at a distance. 

I watched where she settled down and headed for the free food. Coffee and two bagels and cream cheese in hand, I positioned myself where she wouldn’t see me, but I could see her, the restrooms, and the entrance.
The call for boarding came about twenty minutes later, quicker than I expected. There were about a dozen people scattered about the VIP lounge who rose and headed to the gate. I hung back a bit so I wasn’t too close to Gloria, letting another couple go ahead of me.

Once onboard, I stowed my go bag in an overhead bin and took my seat two rows behind her, thankfully. Gloria had stowed her small suitcase overhead, but the satchel sat on the floor before her, taking up most of her foot room. I settled in my seat, buckled up, and waited for takeoff.
                                                                                    ~~~
The following seven and a half hours were the longest and most boring hours I’d spent in recent memory. The drone of the engines in the background was mind-numbing, and the muffled footsteps of the flight attendants on the carpet and the low voices of their talking were annoying. The noise-canceling headphones I’d packed in my go-bag helped a lot, but nothing could fight off the tiredness of not having enough sleep in the last two days. Gloria seemed to nap the entire trip, besides lunch and a trip to the bathroom, taking the satchel.

It was dark when we landed at Heathrow, and I kept Gloria in sight as we left the jetway and entered customs. We got lucky as British Customs was less crowded than usual, and I managed to clear customs first and waited in the corridor heading to the exit where cabs waited. I texted Simon that I had arrived, snapped a photo of her as she walked past, and sent it to him. He texted back, I was right. The large satchel, portfolio size, could hold the painting.

She grabbed a cab, and I cut in front of a rather angry couple and took the one behind her. Playing follow that cab wasn’t any easier in evening London traffic than it had been back in New York City during morning rush hour.
We arrived at the St Pancras railway station, its tower and clock dominating the corner of Euston Road and Pancras Road. She paid for the cab, and I grabbed my go bag and rushed to follow. Inside, she headed for the ticket counter. I kept her in sight while she booked a ticket for the next train—destination Paris, France.

It was nearing midnight in London, but neither of us had eaten since the VIP lounge and lousy plane food. I wasn't unhappy when she headed toward a restaurant next to the train station. The sleek modern lines, clean pink walls, and heart-themed corner booth were too much for me after a long day on a plane, but I couldn't let Gloria out of sight. She found a booth, and I sat behind her again and ordered. Hopefully, she wouldn’t notice me as the same man in New York City this morning.

The Eurostar to Paris left the station at one a.m. I sat two rows behind her on the opposite side of the car, where I could see her, and decided I could risk a catnapping. She wasn’t going anywhere while we were in the Chunnel. I put my phone in silent mode and set the alarm for one hour. We’d been in France by then.
We arrived at the Gare Du Nord station on the north side of Paris at three-thirty. Thankfully, the station was somewhat deserted. Following her was not too difficult, but I needed help. I couldn’t stay away forever. I decided to risk making contact with her.

I picked my moment to bump into her. I managed to be beside her when she asked a porter where she could stay for the night. He recommended the St Pancras Hotel as it was close to the station.
“Oh, that sounds interesting. I’ve never stayed at a fancy hotel before.” I piped in, pretending to overhear the conversation. She looked at me for a second.

“Uh. Do I know you?” She gave me a questioning look.

“Sorry, I was getting off the train and thinking I needed to find a place to stay for the night. I heard you ask the porter about the hotel, and… sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt.” I fumbled with my go bag, shoved a hand in my pocket, and looked at the floor like I was sorry I’d spoken to a beautiful lady without asking first.

The porter pointed in the general direction of the exit to the hotel and left, leaving me standing next to Gloria. “Hi, I’m Robert, Robbie. You can call me Rob, Robbie, or anything, and I’ll answer it.” I stuck out my hand from my pocket.

“Gloria, and you're right, the hotel sounds nice. I’m beat. I’ve been going since six this morning, and my feet are killing me.” She shook my hand and quickly picked up her leather bag again.

“Shall we?” I motioned for the exits and the thinning crowds. She nodded yes, and I walked out of the lobby with my quarry next to me, carrying what I hoped was The Third Sister.

Outside, the cool air and streetlights seemed surreal after spending most of the day in a plane cabin or a train car. The streets were mostly deserted in the wee hours of the morning. We quickly found the hotel with its imposing stone façade.

The young man behind the counter was entirely too chipper for this hour of night. As neither of us had reservations, checking in took longer. As I had no luggage other than my go-to bag and she only had one suitcase, I tipped the bellhop and told him I’d take the lady’s luggage upstairs. Before we parted, I asked if she would join me for breakfast, and she said she would meet me in the lobby at nine a.m.

Once inside my room, I emailed Simon, explaining exactly what had happened in the last twenty-four hours. I then contacted a local private detective, sent him a photo of Gloria, and arranged for him to have one of his operatives keep an eye on the hotel so Gloria didn’t get away. Then I took the hottest shower I could stand to wash the grime from traveling halfway around the world at record speed. 


The sun shone through the glass doors, making the lobby brighter than I remembered last night. The din of electric lights couldn’t replace the enthusiasm the natural sun gave in the late morning.
Gloria was standing next to the counter when I found her. She’d already settled her bill and was waiting for me. I noticed the leather tote was in her hand while her other bag was on the floor.

 “Ready for breakfast?” I grinned as I plopped my go bag next to hers and turned my attention to the clerk behind the counter. 

“I’ll go get us a table in the restaurant.” She collected her bag and headed for the fancy restaurant on the other side of the lobby. I watched her for a second and turned back to the clerk.

It took a few minutes to settle my bill and get a receipt for the room. Simon would want that receipt if I wanted to get reimbursed for it. I shoved the papers into my jacket pocket and headed for the restaurant.

Sliding into the booth across from her, I noticed the leather tote on the bench beside her while her other bag was casually sitting on the floor.  Two cups of coffee sat on the table, and I thanked her for the coffee. The server came, and we ordered.

I let her lead the conversation, hoping I’d better understand what she was planning. I told her I was over on a last-minute trip for work, but I had time to kill before meeting a client and reporting to my boss. Which strictly speaking was true. I’d always heard the French countryside was so peaceful that I needed to escape the city. She said she was meeting a client in a little village tomorrow in the south of France. I noticed she was vague about who the client was and why, but I didn’t push it. I’d been equally ambiguous about my work, only saying I had a meeting to attend at some point but not specifying where or when. I was waiting for the client to get back to me, and I didn’t expect to hear from them soon, so I had time on my hands for a while.

Whether she bought my lame excuse or not, I couldn’t tell, but I went along with her story, noticing she kept the old leather tote right with her all the time.
As we ate, we discussed various options. I told her I was thinking about going over to Switzerland but hadn’t made up my mind. But at any rate, I was tired of trains and airplanes, and driving sounded good to me. She said she planned to take the train to meet a friend in Chanaz on the Savière Canal, south of Paris. She wasn’t sure of the exact place and time yet. She was still waiting to hear from her friend.
 
Right on time, as we finished our coffee, my phone rang as I had arranged it. I quickly answered and made a show of sliding off the booth and walking towards the men's room. I didn't go far, just out of her sight. Coming back to the booth, I grabbed my jacket and bag.

“Listen, Gloria, I’ve got to go. My Boss called, and they want to meet this morning. I’m afraid I can’t drive you. I’m going to get a car and get going. It was good meeting you, and I hope you enjoy your stay here in France and meeting your friend.” I threw some money on the table and left.

Simon had called me as I requested to give me the opening to leave Gloria. I hurried to the concierge, who Simon said had the rental car papers for me to sign and the keys and that it was parked as requested across the street.

Gloria exited the hotel and took a cab. Midday traffic was light, so following her cab was relatively easy. The cab stopped at another train station. According to the reference I looked up on my phone, The Paris Gare de Lyon handles trains going south of Paris, which fits in with what she said at lunch about heading toward Chanaz. I followed her into the station and waited long enough to see her board the train to Chanaz.
Back in the Jag, I punched in the data on the GPS and headed south along the Seine River before turning right, then crossed the river and headed out of town. She had an eleven-hour train ride. I had a five-hour drive. I would arrive in plenty of time, hoping she didn’t disembark somewhere else along the line.

After a leisurely and enjoyable drive through the beautiful French countryside, stopping once for coffee, I arrived in Chanaz. I located the train station and found a place to park along the canal. I stretched my legs, found a bistro for a quick bite, and then returned to the train station, parked, and took a much needed nap.

The train arrived right on time. It didn’t take her long to appear out front of the station, two bags in hand. This was one time I was glad the Jag looked like every other car on the road. My old MK IV would have been quickly noticed and remembered. She barely glanced up and down the street before heading straight for a car rental place down the street. A few minutes later, she pulled out a new Mercedes convertible. I’ll say that for her, she was going in style. It had occurred to me on the way down that after all of this if she never had the picture or had already gotten rid of it, I would look pretty stupid. I had a lot riding on Gloria and that old leather satchel.

I wondered why she would go to all this trouble and travel halfway around the world to sell a picture. The obvious answer was the buyer couldn’t come to the States for some reason. Who over here could afford such a painting or would want a religious relic and couldn’t travel? There were two obvious answers to why they couldn’t travel to the States. One being legal, if they came over, they’d be arrested for some reason. The second was that they physically couldn’t for health reasons, making the possibilities more interesting. 

When Gloria drove to the main area of town and stopped at a cafe for dinner, I sent Simon an email asking him about possible collectors in France or Switzerland who couldn’t come to the States for some reason. 

Meanwhile, I had to keep an eye on Gloria and try to figure out what her next move was. I debated what to do. I couldn’t keep following her around forever and couldn’t show up again after saying I was attending an important meeting in Paris. The best I could do was keep tabs on her until tomorrow morning and pop up again with a story.
After dinner, she walked to a quaint bed and breakfast. I hung back and waited for her to come out. A few minutes later, she reappeared and moved her car to a parking place near the B&B. A glance told me there was no room at the Inn. It would be impossible to come in and blend in. I noted precisely where she was and found another Inn nearby. I was displeased by the idea of not being close to her, but it couldn’t be helped. The best I could do was be sure I was up early in the morning and hope she didn’t disappear before then. 


The morning fog lifted off the distant mountains when I parked the Jag near Gloria's Inn. Last night, Simon got back to me about possible collectors in the area who fit the request I’d made. He mentioned one name, Axel Berger, a French technologist who made a fortune in the early dot.com days. These days, he collects art the way I collect old socks. The only problem is he has raised flags in international circles for not being too particular about where he gets his art and has been suspected of selling stolen art to unsuspecting collectors. Simon had given me his details and sent a picture of Axel in the return email overnight.

I was waiting outside the B&B door shortly after seven a.m. when it opened, and Gloria stepped out to the early morning sun. I had to admit that she looked pretty good in the light top and short skirt, and she still carried the leather tote and her other bag.

She backed out, and I followed her at a distance until she parked at an open café. I pulled over where I could still see her. A few minutes later, she sat at a little round table out front with a coffee and food—time to become reacquainted. I circled the block and parked in sight of the café. Exiting the car, I pasted a big surprise grin as I approached her table.

“It is you! I drove past and thought I saw you out of the corner of my eye, but I wasn’t sure. How did you wind up out here?” I stood across from her, half leaning on the chair.

She seemed surprised to see me again. “What? Oh, I’m meeting someone down here later today. I thought you were in Paris. Please sit down.” She motioned for me to sit in the chair I was leaning against. I quickly parked myself in the chair and eyed her coffee.

“Oh, would you like some coffee?” I nodded yes, and she waved the waitress over and ordered more coffee for both of us.

“Anything else?”

I ordered a croissant and an orange juice to go with my coffee. I told her my meeting in Paris had gone quicker than I figured it would, and being I still had the car for several more days, I thought I’d drive about the countryside and explore for a few days while I had the chance. 

I tried to gently push her as to what she was doing down in Chanaz. Her friend was to meet her later that afternoon, but she didn’t say when. Gloria gulped down the last of her coffee, paid her bill, got up, and with a quick, “Gotta go. Nice seeing you again,” headed down the block without saying another word. Now, that was a brush-off. 

I finished my coffee and then walked to my car to wait. She wasn’t going anywhere I didn't know about. Earlier this morning, while still dark, I’d placed a tracking bug under her car. As I sat there, the week's events replayed in my mind. It occurred to me I was tired, not just from traveling but from chasing down other people's art and lost valuables.

The information Simon sent me about Axel Breger showed that he rarely left his estate, and visitors were few and far between. One would be hard-pressed to get onto the estate except for a few trusted employees and friends. It was also well-known that his art collection was dubious. Some of his paintings were believed to be forgeries, and a few were probably stolen. If I were right, Gloria would have a rare opportunity to see his collection firsthand. A small part of me envied her. Only because if what I suspected was true, the chance to catch an arrogant SOB with stolen art would make my week, possibly even my year. 

The purr of her Mercedes engine echoed over the chatter from the village, waking me from my daydreams of glory. I followed her car at a pace that kept me near her but out of her sight. I let myself enjoy the ride as much as I could. Stone walls boarded the cliff side of the road heading south out of Chanaz. The road had been cut into the side of a mountain, and the trees and undergrowth grew up to the road's edge. There were tourist lookouts along the way, and I wanted to stop and enjoy the view, but whether she had the Third Sister or not, I needed to finish this.

The tracking app on my phone told me she had stopped in a village not far ahead. I was familiar with the village as I had stopped here for coffee on my way to Chanaz. Her Mercedes was parked in front of an ancient stone castle that offered tours. A second car was parked next to hers, and I recognized the familiar shape of the Land Rover Defender. I parked a few empty spaces away from their vehicles.

I rolled down my windows and listened to the sound of trees blowing, and the occasional sound of a bird would catch my attention. I made a couple of quick phone calls before looking for them. When done, I quietly closed my car door, stretched, glanced inside her car, and saw only her travel bag. The satchel was not there. I didn’t expect it to be. 

A well-worn path led to the far side of the main wall and into the village. They probably took that path. I followed it, too. I continued along the narrow alley until it spilled into a larger street lined with buildings. In front of one structure, Gloria sat with Axel Berger at a small round table under a canopy of pink umbrellas, sharing a bottle of wine. The same restaurant I had stopped in on the way from Paris.

I stood in the shadows some distance away from them, not visible to them. Leaning against the stone wall, I watched them for a few minutes. Axel had a large leather case on the ground next to his chair. The well-worn satchel Gloria carried halfway around the world sat next to her. They were in deep conversation, neither paying any attention to their surroundings. I debated what to do. Legally, I didn’t have any authority. Even stateside, my authority was questionable, but it was even more so here. But when did that ever stop me?
I ambled over like I was at home in my living room. “That wouldn’t be the Third Sister, would it?”
They looked up. Gloria’s face went white for a second, and then she composed herself. Axel looked up and started to say something but stopped in mid-speak.

I was standing on the other side of the small table, looking down at them. The Third Sister was propped on the table leg between them—an attempt to keep it out of sight.

“Robby?” She found her voice and started to pick up the painting. I was quicker and reached it first, taking it away from her.

 Turning slightly towards Axel, I ignored Gloria. “This is a stolen painting. Ms. Smith, or whatever name she calls herself today, conned it out of its rightful owner. How much were you going to give her for it?”
 Axel looked back and forth between us. Clearing his throat several times, he took a large gulp of wine. “I… I suspected as much. Which is why I was going to contact the authorities as soon as I took possession of it.” He tried to sound sincere but failed.

“Robby, you can have a cut of the profit.” Gloria had found her voice.

“You don’t get it, do you? Stealing other people's stuff is a big no-no. You can go to jail for it. You should go to jail just for breaking an old woman's heart. I made some calls on the way over this morning. It seems you are well known to the local branch of the National Police. They were very excited to hear you were back in France. As for you, Axel, the authorities have questions for you, too. So, let's have a toast to the Third Sister.”
I lifted her glass just as the first police officer appeared from around the corner. Within minutes, a dozen police officers surrounded the pair of art thieves and arrested them. I sat and sipped the remains of her lovely burgundy under the pink umbrellas while the police took them away.

 
                                                                                 Epilogue
 
I had seen the pictures of the Third Sister that the insurance company had on file. But the sister looking up at me in the sun brought the picture to life, and she became real again. Then, I understood why people needed paintings like this and why they were so valuable.

The Third Sister was reunited with the other two paintings after being authenticated by several experts. Mrs. Edwards, the owner, loaned the Third Sister painting to the Vatican, as did the private museum in Rome, so all three paintings would be displayed together. Gloria and Axel were charged with possession of stolen goods. He was also charged with knowingly attempting to buy stolen property. It was enough to get them a search warrant for his estate, where they found several missing paintings and an extensive collection of other illegal artifacts stolen from various private collections worldwide.
​
I found my way back to Virginia. Simon sent me a check for $250,000, including the bonus from the insurance company and my expenses. Sitting in my leather chair, sipping a fine chardonnay and munching on pizza, I considered the adventures of the week before. Gloria was now out of circulation. Axel discovered that money couldn’t buy his way out of a long list of charges, including theft and various financial charges concerning his creative bookkeeping. It was nerve-wracking, but there was also an element of fun to it. 
I couldn’t wait until the next time.

A Night In L. A. 
​a James St.James Story



By the time I finished another cup of coffee, the pills and caffeine had begun to work. My head had stopped pounding enough so I could sort of move without the room spinning. 

I did remember the girl—long black hair, kind of skinny. She was friendly, offered to buy me a drink. That was all I remembered, a fuzzy picture of her smiling and a beer set in front of me. 

Something else came to me. She made a nod to her right. There was no one there except the waiter, a kid barely old enough to drink. Then something else came to me. She’d pushed a mug toward me. The pounding in my head wasn’t from the beer but the Mickey I’d been given. I’d heard they could leave a hell of a headache. They were right.

She’d made sure I drank the beer with the Mickey in it. No wonder I didn’t remember anything, but knowing all this didn’t get me out of the jam I was in. No one would believe me anyway. Hell, I didn’t believe me.

I checked my holster. My gun was still there. At least she didn’t take it. I pulled it from my holster and dropped the magazine. Eight rounds. A full mag. Good. I checked my spare mag. It was missing a bullet. Seven rounds. I froze. 

It was all clear to me. There was a body somewhere with my bullet in it. 

I usually carry a spare magazine with me. Whoever replaced the magazine with the fresh mag knew it would appear I hadn’t fired any bullets. It wouldn’t be until they looked closer that they would find a slug missing. 
 
I considered what to do. Not carrying that gun was a good start. So, it and the magazines went into the safe. I slid a different pistol into the holster when the door rattled with a loud knock.

I spun the lock on the safe and left my office. “Coming.” The front door rattled in the frame.

“Yeah, what do you want?” 

Los Angeles Detective Lindsay plowed his way into the room as I stepped out of his way. He stopped in the middle of the room, chomped on a cigar, and eyed me. “St. James, where’ve you been since last night?”

I thought fast. “I met a client at the Long Arm Bar on Seventh street.”

“Yeah, right, a pretty one?” Lindsay insinuated.

“I didn’t notice. I was working. What do you care anyway?” Although I had a pretty good idea. I glanced at Brenda leaning against the kitchen door frame where the remains of last night's spaghetti still sat on the table. I’d left in a hurry.

“We found a body with one of your bullets in it.”

“How do you know it’s mine?”

 “Ballistics matched it with the slug we recovered from your gun after last year’s shoot-out.”

“Who’d I kill today?”

Lindsay pulled his notebook from his coat pocket, flipped pages, muttering to himself as he tried to read his writing.

“Raymond Chambers. You know him?”

“Yeah, sorta. He tried to hire me months ago to do some work for him. I turned him down.” 

“My, you’re noble all of a sudden.” Lindsay sneered.

“I didn’t like the guy. He was mean, arrogant, and an asshole. So, I turned him down on the spot.”

“And came back to kill him.” 

“After six months? Get real. Even you don’t believe that.”

“I believe your bullet is in him. That is all that matters.”

I did meet with Chambers but left him in mid-martini. Who would have seen me there?

Branda went into the office and returned with my appointment book. “Here. He met Chambers at the bar and then left. He noted the time. If he’d accepted the case, we would track the hours he worked.” She shoved the book in front of Lindsay. He grabbed it and pawed through the pages. When the detective closed the book, Brenda snatched it from him and said she would return it to the office. With a glance at me, she left.

“See? I didn’t see him again after that.” I reminded him as I tried to think of who else I'd seen that morning.

Larry Pine. Yeah, he was there at a table not far from us. I passed him as I left. He had no love for Chambers or me. He’d had a couple of dames with him, but then he usually had a dame or two with him. 

But Lindsay was right. Why wait six months?

I leaned against the table nearest me, both to hide the safe and help keep me upright. Lindsay’s barging in here hadn’t helped my head any. I took a long swallow of half-cold coffee to buy myself some time to think. 

Lindsay fiddled with the notebook in his hands and acted like he was looking for something in one of the back pages of it.

“When did Chambers eat my bullet?” 

Lindsay glared. “About midnight as far as the doc can figure for now. And eat is right. You shoved the barrel of the gun in his mouth and blew half his head off. It was a god-awful mess.” 

I’d seen what a forty-five can do at close range. The bullets are big and slow, but they plow through bone like a battering ram. I didn’t need any more descriptions.

“Where’d you find the bullet?” 

“In the wall behind what’s left of his head. It hit a stud, or it’d kept going.”

“Look, it wasn’t me. Here.” I pulled the pistol from the holster and handed it to him. 

Lindsay dropped the mag and smelled the barrel. “Mmm, it’s clean.”

“Yeah, I keep ‘em clean. Hasn’t been fired in ages.” That was true.

He handed it back to me. I slid the mag back in and dropped it back into its holster and waited. 

“So?”

“So. You never answered my question. Where were you last night?”

“I told you, I met a dame down at the Long Arm Bar. She wanted to hire me.”

“To do what?”

 “Find her boyfriend. At least that’s what she said.”

“And?”

I thought for a minute. “I told her no. I didn’t believe her. Her story didn’t add up, and she had too much cash on her.” I made that part up. We never got that far before I had the beer with the Mickey in it, but Lindsay wouldn’t believe me, so I didn’t try to tell him—yet. 

“This girl, she have a name?” 

I fumbled around on the table next to me and found the notes I made when she called. “Yeah, Lori something or other, I couldn’t understand what she said. It was over the phone.” Again, I was making part of the story up as I went along.

“So, this Lori calls you, and you go running to her?”

“Well, no, I told her I was busy, and couldn’t meet her right away, so we met later at the bar.” 

“What time?” 

I glanced at the small clock on the far side of the room and tried to remember. “'Round ten-ish, I think.” 

“Okay, for now. Find this Lori and get her to back your story.”

With that, Lindsay left, not bothering to close the door. I stared at the open door, cold coffee in my hand, and wondered what had just happened. Shit. I was in trouble.

Brenda came into the living room and kissed me on the cheek. “I know you didn't do it.'' 

“Thanks, hun.” I pulled her closer and gave her a proper kiss. 

Releasing Brenda, I slid the bolt home to lock the door. I didn’t need any more uninvited guests. As a PI, I often worked on the wrong side of town and Lori from last night was definitely from that side. Right now, I needed to find out more about the Chamber killing. An eyewitness would seal the deal and get me in the slammer for a long time. I needed to find them too. 

After taking more headache pills with my cold coffee, I grabbed my old sports coat and headed out. My car was an old Ford with mostly rust and gumption holding it together, but it always started.
 
~~~

I considered some options, one being that Lori probably left town right after I passed out, but I headed for the Long Arm Bar anyway. Hopefully, someone would remember me being there last night and who she was. I expected the bar to be closed, but I knocked anyway. I heard noises inside, so I banged louder. 

“Yeah, what do you want?” The muffled voice sounded aggravated. 

“I need to talk to you.”

The door cracked open, and a short skinny bald man peered out at me. “What’s so important?”

I pulled my ID from my pocket and showed it to him. 

“PI—big wow.” He didn’t move the door.

“You were working here last night?”

“No. I decided to sleep here just for the hell of it. Yeah, I was here, so what?”

“I was here last night. You remember seeing me here? About ten-ish?”

“Why should I remember you? The place was packed. I don’t even remember crashing in the back room.” 

That I understood, a busy night is a long night, and it all runs together. “Look, I need to see if anyone remembered me here last night. I met a girl...”

“Good for you.” 

‘Not that kind of girl. She was supposed to be a client. Tall, skinny, long black hair?”

“Shit, that describes half the dames here.” 

I decided to stop being polite. I leaned against the door, pushing it open a little more. I remembered the kid, the waiter.

“Look, I’ve had a bad night and morning. I’m not in the mood for your games. I was here last night. A tall skinny kid, barely legal age, served me the beer. You got a kid like that working here?” I shifted my weight a bit to show my holster enough that the butt of my pistol was visible. 

“Yeah, a new kid, just started a couple of days ago. Benny, I think his name is.”

I pushed the door open further, and he stepped back to let me pass. Standing in the doorway, I looked around and spotted the back corner booth where I’d been. I walked over. “I was in this booth. Benny served me a beer. Where did he come from?”

“Hell, he served a lot of beers last night.”

“Yeah, I know.”

He followed me to the booth and stood off to one side as I slid in and looked around. Trying to remember as much as I could, but most of it was a blur. 

“You want something to drink?”

“Coffee?”

“Yeah, I got that.” He disappeared, leaving me to try to remember more about Benny or Lori.

He returned with two cups of coffee. I nodded at the seat across from me, and he sat down.

“You never said where Benny came from,” I sniped.

“Oh yeah, sorry, He walked in off the street looking for a job, had an ID that said he was over eighteen. I was short a bar hand, so I hired him.”

I sipped the coffee. “What time’s he coming in today?”

“About four, to help open up.”

“He won’t be back.”

“Huh?” 

I let it lie. “You got paper on him?”

“Yeah,”

“Get it.”

He slid out of the booth and returned with an employment record for one Benny Long. I copied all the information on it and handed it back to him.

“What do you mean he won’t be back?”

I didn’t answer him. He’d find out soon enough. Thanking him for the coffee and information, I left.

I figured the address was fake, but I had to check it out anyway. The address was on the far side of town. It took me a while to get there. 

Pulling in the driveway, I noticed the lawns were unkempt, and the entire street appeared abandoned except for a couple of houses. Cars and remains of cars sat in the driveways and lawns were half-buried in weeds.

I loosened the pistol in its holster as I got out of the Ford and focused on the address listed on Benny’s employment record. I eased onto the half-rotted porch, and a familiar aroma greeted me. Great, he was probably as high as a kite by now.

Listening at the door, I slid my pistol from its holster and dropped the safety. After a couple of deep breaths, I banged on the door. 

“Benny!” I yelled over the radio blaring inside. I heard a scuffling noise, and the radio stopped. I banged on the door so hard that it shook the window next to it.

“Benny! Open up, or I’m coming in!” 

The door screeched as it slowly opened, revealing Benny wearing only a set of undershorts. I ignored his lack of clothes and pushed the door the rest of the way open and led with the pistol as I barged in. Lori was on the bed in the corner, covered up only by a sheet. That I didn’t expect.

I motioned for Benny to sit on the bed. He stumbled to the bed and sat down.

“I’m assuming you know me.” They nodded yes.

There was no point in lecturing them, so I cut to the chase. “Who hired you to frame me last night?” 

They looked at each other, and I continued. “Come on, you two didn’t cook this up all by yourselves. Someone put you up to it. Once done with you, you’ll end up as Chambers did. Think, man!” I half-shouted to cut through the fog that was their brains. 

They were too out of it to comprehend anything, so I ignored them and searched the room. A table held a pile of weed and other drug stuff on it. I didn’t touch it at all.

A dresser sat in the corner. In the bottom drawer, I found a pile of bills. Chambers paid them enough to keep them high for quite a while. Along with the cash was a slip of paper with a name and phone number. I copied it down. 
 
Benny and Lori remained on the bed, half-naked as I closed the door. Five minutes from now, they would forget I was there.

The name on the paper was familiar—Larry Pine. He was at the club when I met Chambers and ran drugs and hookers for the last couple of years. I’d run into him a couple of times, and when he sent his goons after me, I beat the crap out of his men. Pine didn’t like me at all because I couldn’t be bullied or bought. 

As for Chambers, I knew his reputation for being mean as hell, and while technically most of his operations were legal, he did put up a good public front. I knew better. I’d cleaned up after a couple of his messes. He’d tried to hire me as a bodyguard six months ago. I don’t usually do that work, and while money was tight, it wasn’t so tight that I wanted to be around him. Word was Pine was trying to move in on Chambers’s operations, likely prompting a mob war. He knew I would be all over him if he started a war, and framing me would get me out of his hair—all the better for him.

Larry Pine’s base of operations was downtown. I parked in front of the commercial building where he had his headquarters. Shoppers wandered in and out of the shops along the tree-lined street, shadows cast by the late morning LA sun. They were unaware that Larry Pine operated a gambling, loansharking, and prostitution business three floors above them. An operation I was about to shut down.

I opened the trunk on the Ford and pulled the shotgun from the rack. I fed twelve-gauge slugs into the bottom loading gate, pumping the slide and chambering a round. I glanced around as I slammed the lid down on the trunk. No one paid any attention. 

I glanced behind me as I heard a car pull up. I’d made a call for backup and to protect myself. A man exited the car and walked toward me. “Ready?”

I nodded yes, and we went inside the building and took an elevator to the third floor. A hard kick opened the door to Pine’s office and surprised the two guards carrying shotguns. I swung my shotgun to the right, catching the first one on the left shoulder, snapping bone, pushing him against the wall. His gun hit the floor as I kicked it away. Another kick with my boot and his face turned red as blood poured from his nose and mouth and he lost consciousness. 

The second guard tried to raise his gun, but I shoved my barrel into his stomach so hard he lost his breath and stumbled back into the hall. Leveling my shotgun at him, I mouthed for him to be quiet. He nodded and dropped his gun. My partner tugged the guard’s tie off, used it to tie his hands behind him, and hung his hands over the fire hose wheel in the hallway. 

I motioned to my accomplice to follow me down the hall toward Larry Pine’s office. We stood on either side of the door, listening as the sound of laughter filtered through the door.

I nodded and leaned in to kick the door open. The door banged against the wall behind it as we stepped inside. A glance around the living room told me we had been right about the drugs. I ignored the girls sitting on the couch. The guard inside tried to charge me, but my shotgun bucked in my hands, and a slug found its way into his gut, sending him falling back to the nearest lounge chair, dead. The girls screamed and fled to the other side of the room.

Larry sat at a small table digging into a heaping plate of spaghetti. He knocked over a glass of wine as we burst into the room. He said something but my ears were still ringing from the shotgun blast. I got the gist of it—Larry was not happy.

I ordered him to stand up, and he did so without a fight. Detective Lindsay pushed Pine into the hallway, yanked his hands behind him, and cuffed him, informing him he was under arrest for the murder of Raymond Chambers and attempting to frame me. 

Officers took Chambers away, and Lindsay turned toward me. “I was sure you were guilty, but after you called, I had Benny and Lori picked up, and recovered the cash and the note you found. That convinced me you were telling the truth, and they admitted they drugged you and gave Pine your gun. Pine returned it after he killed Chambers, and Benny drove your car home. Lori followed and picked him up.”

“Thanks, Lindsay.”

As he walked away, he called out, “Until next time, St. James. Watch yourself.”

I always do.