Justified Malice E-Book

Harry Pinkus

• Herausgeber: BQB Publishing
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

Private Detective Miles Darien is haunted by the escape of crime boss Jonathan Reese whose loan sharking operation had victimized numerous "clients" who were unable to pay off their loans. One of those victims was Miles' friend Olivia Sims.

Miles and the FBI had set up an elaborate sting to bring down Reese's operation. The sting was successful except Reese had evaded the trap Miles and the FBI had set up to capture him.

Months later on another case, the FBI learns that Reese has set up shop in Mexico. Miles jumps at the chance to finally bring Reese to justice. When he and his journalist friend Ryan come up empty in their search, Miles makes a risky and dangerous choice. He asks the local Mexican cartel for help. He explains to them that taking over Reese's operation would be a most fair bounty for helping to locate him. When the cartel finally agrees to assist, they provide an unexpected location, Reese is operating out of a villa in Havana.

The FBI organizes a raid only to find the hideout abandoned. Miles once again makes the risky decision to turn to the cartel. They provide him with a one word update, Chicago.

Leseprobe

Justified Malice: A Miles Darien Detective Thriller

© 2023 Harry Pinkus. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, digital, photocopying, or recording, except for the inclusion in a review, without permission in writing from the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Published in the United States by BQB Publishing

(an imprint of Boutique of Quality Books Publishing Company, Inc.)

www.bqbpublishing.com

Printed in the United States of America

ISBN 979-8-88633-016-8 (p)

ISBN 979-8-88633-017-5 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2023943497

Book design by Robin Krauss, www.bookformatters.com

Cover design by Rebecca Lown, www.rebeccalowndesign.com

First editor: Caleb Guard

Second editor: Andrea Vande Vorde

PROLOGUE

As instructed, Mateo walked into the bustling café on Calle San Rafael, Havana. The salsa music and laughter emanating from the jam-packed clubs he passed did little to calm his nerves. His assignment was to wait until after dark, pick up a package at the café, and deliver it, undetected, to El Jefe. The thought of meeting the new, and often brutal, crime boss had Mateo’s brow dripping with sweat.

Once he had the package in hand, Mateo drove along Havana Bay toward the residential Miramar neighborhood. The full moon’s reflection in the calm sea added an eerie backdrop to his drive. He pulled into the Quinta Avenida Habana Hotel parking lot at 10:00 p.m., parked his car, and set off on foot down several dimly lit streets to his real destination, a modest casita across the road from Monte Barreto Ecological Park.

As he approached the casita, the thought of meeting El Jefe was so intimidating that his hands were trembling, loosening his grip just enough for him to drop the package. The possibility that he may have damaged the contents of the box absolutely terrified him. El Jefe was rumored to be ruthless and unforgiving. He would not take kindly to such a misstep, nor would his associates in Mexico who had sent the package. When he reached the casita, Mateo had to take a moment to calm himself down before he knocked on the door.

The door opened and a huge man with a pistol tucked into his belt appeared.

“Stay here!” the man demanded in Spanish and grabbed the box. Mateo watched with trepidation as the man delivered the box to a well-dressed man seated at the kitchen table. Mateo was sure that man was El Jefe. The man ripped open the box, revealing a cell phone; several stacks of what appeared to be American dollars; and some documents, one of which looked like a passport. After he reviewed the contents of the box, El Jefe smiled, which also made Mateo smile.

El Jefe rose and walked toward Mateo. “Do you speak English?” he asked.

“Sí, señor. A little,” Mateo answered, still trembling a bit.

“You were not followed.” El Jefe’s glare showed it was more of a statement than a question.

“No. I’m sure of it.” Mateo had taken great pains to ensure he had arrived undetected.

“Good. Here are 1,000 Cuban pesos for a job well done. Make sure no one sees you when you leave,” El Jefe said, and motioned for Mateo to go.

“Sí, señor. Gracias,” Mateo replied as he made a hasty retreat. He had literally dodged a bullet.

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37

CHAPTER 38

CHAPTER 39

CHAPTER 40

CHAPTER 41

CHAPTER 42

CHAPTER 43

CHAPTER 44

CHAPTER 45

CHAPTER 46

CHAPTER 47

CHAPTER 48

CHAPTER 49

CHAPTER 50

CHAPTER 51

CHAPTER 52

CHAPTER 53

CHAPTER 54

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

OTHER BOOKS BY HARRY PINKUS

CHAPTER 1

Miles Darien was sure the pounding in his head was from the three vodka martinis he’d had the night before. Turns out it was actually someone knocking loudly at his front door. He crawled out of bed and tripped over the pile of clothes he’d dumped on the floor after returning from a birthday party for his assistant, Anne. Before answering the door, Miles looked out his second-story window and, much to his surprise, saw his friend George Willis’s car out front. When Miles opened the door, there was George looking downright bewildered and disheveled, with his shirt half tucked in and his hair sticking out in all directions.

“George, what in the world are you doing here at 4:00 a.m. on a Monday morning?” Miles asked.

“I’ve been trying to get you for an hour, but you wouldn’t answer your phone,” George growled.

“Come in. It’s cold outside. Strange I didn’t hear the phone.” Miles then saw the phone sitting on the coffee table in front of the TV. He’d forgotten it there when he dragged his martini-addled self up the stairs to bed. “It’s January, so you’re not picking me up to go fishing. Why are you here?”

George’s voice quivered as he spoke. “There’s been an explosion at the marina. Our boat blew up in dry dock.”

“Let’s go!” Without a moment’s hesitation, Miles grabbed a warm jacket and slipped his phone in the pocket. His golden retriever, Molly, was wagging her tail and squealing, clearly indicating she wanted to go out to pee but she’d have to wait.

“What the hell happened?” Miles asked before George had even started the car.

“I have no idea. There was nothing flammable in the boat once we took it out of the water. I can’t believe this happened! I’m out of business.” George’s voice grew louder with each spoken word.

“I assume the police are already on the scene investigating,” Miles said as calmly as he could in hopes of settling George down.

“Yes, they called me from there. No one on the police force has the investigative skills, or the personal interest, to get to the bottom of this—not like you.” George obviously thought this was more than a mere accident.

Miles had a million questions, but he knew it was likely the answers lay at the marina dry dock.

When they arrived at the marina, the crew of Lakeville firefighters had just finished stowing their equipment on the three fire trucks that had been called to the scene. Much of the water they’d used to douse the fire had already begun turning to ice thanks to the brisk, wintry breeze off Lake Michigan. The dark and cold January night had already erased any of the warmth the burning boat had created, and there was barely a whiff of the smoke left from the fire the explosion had produced.

Miles introduced himself to the cops on the scene as one of the boat’s owners. In actuality, he was; and it was prudent to leave it at that, as they’d likely not be happy with a private investigator nosing around a potentially fresh crime scene. As he perused the damage, Miles first noticed the giant, charred hole in the center of the deck. The few boards remaining were badly burned and pointing downward, strongly indicating the blast had originated on the deck, not from the cabin below. This was more than odd, as none of the equipment on the deck contained fuel, or operated on a combustible material. All possible culprits lay below the deck or in the engine compartment.

This was unlikely to have been an accident, Miles thought. It appeared to him as if someone deliberately set off an explosive device intending to destroy the boat, and they did so in the middle of the night, likely to avoid turning this incident into a homicide. Miles stood off to the side simply observing the gathering of evidence by the Lakeville PD. When Jim Rathburn of the Medical Examiner’s office pulled up to the scene, Miles realized that theory was, at least, partially wrong.

Miles watched as Jim maneuvered his large six-foot-four frame though the mangled wreckage of the boat. About thirty minutes after he had arrived, Jim and his team emerged from the boat’s wreckage with a bagged body on a gurney. He saw Miles and walked over to say hello.

“Your boat?” Jim asked, offering his hand.

“George’s and mine. At least what’s left of it, I guess. Learn anything about the identity of the body?”

“Nothing definitive at this point. I’ll keep you up-to-date as our investigation proceeds.” Jim turned to George and asked how his wife, Cora, and daughter, Olivia, were doing.

“Fine, other than this mess. Since you brought them up, I want to thank you again for all you did to help Olivia through that nasty business with the loan sharks. She could have died if it weren’t for you.” George’s eyes teared up as he spoke.

As they parted company, Jim added, “I’m so glad everything worked out for her. I can’t believe that bastard Reese’s company forced her to surrender a kidney to pay off a loan. Hope he gets his comeuppance one day, and soon. Miles, I’ll call you later. I have a couple of other issues to chat with you about. Sorry about your boat, by the way.”

Miles smiled and waved as Jim walked back to join his team. When Miles turned back to George, he saw bewilderment and fear in his friend’s face.

“Someone tried to kill us!” George exclaimed.

“Actually, it was not a murder attempt at all,” Miles assured him.

“I don’t understand.”

“Think about it. If someone wanted us dead, the last thing they would do is set off a bomb in a deserted storage facility in the middle of the night. This was intended for another purpose.”

“What other purpose?” George was obviously confused.

“I’m not entirely sure at this point, but I intend to find out.” Miles’s voice was ripe with resolve.

“Well, you’re the private investigator. Where do you begin?” George asked.

Miles winked. “With breakfast.”

After breakfast, George dropped off Miles at home. The first order of business was to take Molly out. She barely made it out the door before letting loose, while flashing Miles her most appreciative golden-retriever smile. Once back inside, he headed upstairs to wash up and get ready for a day at the office.

After his shower, he checked his phone for messages. There was a text from Jim Rathburn asking Miles to call as soon as possible. Miles called him back immediately.

“Hi, Miles. I have some preliminary information for you about the man’s body we discovered on your boat. There was enough forensic evidence left on the body to identify him as Todd Morton, a small-time criminal who has been arrested numerous times in numerous municipalities. Does his name sound familiar?”

“Sorry, Jim. Doesn’t ring a bell.” Miles had hoped the man’s identity would have been an obvious clue to who perpetrated this attack.

“Well, just be careful,” Jim warned. “It’s entirely possible somebody out there wants to harm you and George, and it may not have been the man whose body we found.”

“Believe me, I totally understand. We’ll take all the necessary precautions. Why don’t you think the guy you found was the guilty party?” Miles asked.

“Did you see the article in the Examiner a month or so ago where a dog dug up a man’s hand?”

“Of course. Aguy was out walking his dog near a construction site, and the dog literally dragged him to the spot where it was buried.”

“Yep, that’s it. Well, the hand was sent to us for analysis, but there was no identification possible due to the length of time it had been buried and how the chemicals in the ground had eliminated the possibility of a DNA match, so we cataloged our findings and closed the case.”

“Sure. But what’s changed?”

“Well, a guy showed up at police headquarters the other day claiming the missing hand was his, and he wanted it back.”

Miles burst out laughing. “Sorry, Jim. I couldn’t help myself. Did you give him his hand back?”

“Of course not. Actually, it no longer exists. Apparently he was in a gang way back when, and they caught him stealing from their stash. They cut off his hand in retribution. He went to jail for an unrelated crime shortly thereafter. Once he was released from jail, he saw the article in the paper about the dog finding the hand. He thought it was probably his and wanted it back so he could feel whole again.”

“That’s hilarious!” Miles exclaimed.

“That part is quite funny, but this part isn’t. The guy who came looking for his hand was Todd Morton.”

“I’d never heard of him before all this, so it’s unlikely he had a beef with me, or George for that matter. It would appear he was either just seeking shelter, or he was hired by someone I do know who wanted to blow up the boat. If that’s the case, the question is who?” Miles was thumbing through his mental Rolodex, searching for a likely suspect.

“That’s the right question, but unfortunately not much to go on. By the way, the police forensics lab is trying to find out what material was used to cause the explosion. I’ll keep you posted on anything they uncover.”

“Guess I now have myself as my new client,” Miles acknowledged.

Jim’s face turned serious. “Changing subjects, I’d like your advice on a personal matter. My son, Danny, came out to us the other night at the dinner table. It wasn’t really a shock. My wife and I were fairly certain he was gay. Now that he’s sixteen, he’s getting pressure from his teammates on the football team to date. They’ve even tried fixing him up with one of the girl cheerleaders. He doesn’t want to pretend, but he’s afraid to to explain to his friends why he’s resisting for fear ostracization, or worse. I was hoping you could offer me some advice on what to say to him.” Jim’s voice cracked as he finished his explanation.

“Jim, I’d be happy to talk to him if you’d like. Insights from someone who’s been through it all would likely be more helpful for him,” Miles suggested.

“Truth be told, that’s what I hoped you’d say. How about dinner at our place on Wednesday evening?”

“That works. Text me your address and what time you’d like me to be there. Oh, and please be sure your son knows and approves of my reason for coming over. An ambush would be a big mistake.”

“I will. Thanks, Miles. We really appreciate your help.”

Miles’s thoughts returned to the body they’d discovered on the boat. His training told him he could not totally dismiss a possible connection between him and George, and the man with the missing hand. At least, not until another more likely motive was uncovered.

CHAPTER 2

After the early events at the marina, it had been an uneventful morning at the office since Miles arrived just after 9:00 a.m. Uneventful mornings were unusual, as Miles’s caseload had recently increased dramatically. The high-profile cases he had recently solved made him the go-to PI in Lakeville, Wisconsin. Not that there were a lot of PIs in Lakeville, but he was definitely at the top of that short list. The phone finally rang just after 10:00 a.m. and Miles’s assistant, Anne, immediately answered it.

“Miles Darien, Private Investigations. Anne speaking.”

“Hi, Anne. It’s Ken.”

“Agent Caldwell, how are you?” she replied.

“I’m fine. Is the boss around?” Ken inquired.

“Yes. I’ll buzz him and let him know you’re on the line.” She put him on hold and buzzed Miles.

“FBI holding for you.” Anne loved using a dramatic-sounding voice when announcing Agent Caldwell of the FBI was on the line.

Miles picked up the phone. “Hi Ken, I was just about to call you.” He filled in his beau on what had transpired with the boat.

“Wow. That sure is troubling,” said Ken, before shifting into full FBI-agent mode. “I can immediately see three possible scenarios. First one is that the guy, Todd Morton, was sent to blow up the boat and ended up blowing up himself in the process. The second is that he was simply squatting there, and was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“What’s the third possibility?” Miles asked.

“He was murdered and your boat was merely the scene of the crime.”

“All reasonable hypotheses. We’ll likely be able to narrow things down quite a bit once we get the lab reports on Morton’s cause and time of death, and then the explosion analysis.”

“How soon do you expect to receive the results?” Ken was now fully engaged in the investigation.

“In a day or so, I’d assume. Any chance I can get you to look into Todd Morton’s background? I may have trouble getting that information from Lakeville PD, particularly if they decide to open a criminal investigation.” Miles knew it was a big ask.

“I think I can make that happen. There’s another possibility I hate to even bring up, but do you think there’s any chance that George needed money and blew up the boat to collect on the insurance?” It was in Ken’s job description to look at a crime from every possible angle.

Miles thought for a moment and then dismissed the idea. George was an incredibly honest guy, and if he needed money he would have at least tried to sell the boat before blowing it up. It was a vintage Chris-Craft that would surely bring him more from a sale than an insurance claim. Wouldn’t it?

“Any news on your vacation request?” Miles said, moving the conversation to a happier topic.

“I’ve secured the last two weeks of March for our vacation,” Ken proudly announced. He and Miles had been trying to find time for a getaway ever since they had become a couple several months before. They were both eager to escape the brutal midwestern winter, and now they had two full months to plan their warm-weather getaway.

“I’ll come up with some potential destinations, and we can discuss them when I get to Chicago this weekend,” Miles proposed.

“Good. Let’s decide on where we’ll go while you’re here, and then book it right away. I have a ton of travel rewards points sitting in my credit card account, ready for action. Promise me you’ll finish up all your cases before we leave town. I want us both to concentrate on simply having fun.”

Ken put particular emphasis on the word “fun.” This would be their first time traveling together, and Ken had made it perfectly clear he wanted to take every precaution to head off any work distractions. Miles promised to do his best to tie up any cases he had before they left on vacation. It would be difficult turning down any new ones, as he had just become accustomed to taking on all the new cases his newfound notoriety had delivered.

Miles set his work aside for the moment and spent the next two hours combing the Internet travel sites for possible vacation destinations. The place had to have warm weather, no more than a half day’s worth of travel, and a load of fun activities to choose from. The good news was there were numerous viable candidates. The bad news was also that there were numerous viable candidates. He decided to take a break for lunch before narrowing his list to three or four choices. It was an unseasonably pleasant Wisconsin-winter afternoon, so he took a two-block walk to the Blackhawk Diner for a bowl of chili.

When Miles arrived back at the office, Anne was on the phone. She waved him over and gave him a couple of phone messages without missing a beat in her phone conversation. The only important message was from Bobbie Martin, his friend and former landlord. Miles returned Bobbie’s call before the others.

“Hey, Miles. How are you and Ken doing?” she asked.

“We’re good. Looking to plan a warm-weather vacation this March.”

“I’m envious. I’m buried in cases and don’t see a break anytime soon. On to the reasons for my call. First, I have some good news for you, which may actually help to fund your vacation. I’ve finalized the Jefferson/Shaw settlement for the case we worked on. As further thanks for a job well done, they’ve authorized an additional $5,000 bonus for you.”

“That is great news! You said ‘reasons’ before. What else is on your mind?” Miles asked.

“I’d like to get a few more of the boxes you’ve been kind enough to store for me. I also have a potential new client for you. Oddly enough it’s quite possibly another corporate-larceny-type case. Can I talk you into bringing the boxes to Madison on Friday morning and then meeting with the client over lunch?”

Miles quickly accepted but added a caveat. “I need to be in Chicago Friday evening, so I guess that’ll work.”

They finished their call with Bobbie requesting he bring boxes marked two, three, and four with him on Friday. She was extremely organized, having individually numbered each of the fifteen boxes she’d left in his care. Miles decided not to mention the boat incident, knowing Bobbie was a worrier and would be disturbed by his account of what had happened. He would only bring it up if he solved the case by the time they were together on Friday.

Miles returned the other calls, and even though it was just a little past two o’clock, he decided to call it a day. All that had transpired since his 4:00 a.m. wake-up call had worn him out.

CHAPTER 3

Miles stopped by the marina early Tuesday morning to see if he could uncover any leads from the boat wreckage. Yellow police tape surrounded the boat on three sides, connecting to the chain-link fence serving as the fourth side, thereby securing the perimeter of the crime scene. He also noticed his boat was the closest one to the marina’s refueling station. It was extremely fortunate the blast hadn’t ignited the fuel-storage tanks. The resulting explosion would likely have severely damaged the entire facility, including the several dozen boats stored there as well as the six adjacent public piers.

He slipped underneath the police tape and walked around the boat, looking for any evidence the police might have missed. Sticking out of a footprint frozen in the mud was a sliver of paper. The police had probably missed it because it was obscured by the water from the fire hose. Once the water in the footprint had frozen over, it exposed the piece of paper. Miles went back to the car and retrieved a bottle of water from the cup holder, and a pair of nitrile gloves to handle the evidence. Using a few drops of water and his pocketknife, he was able to free the piece of paper intact. The numbers 6-6-2-6 had been written there, which happened to be the last four digits of his boat’s license number. Obviously, Morton had used it to identify which boat he intended to blow up. It also pretty much negated the theory that Morton was simply an unlucky squatter.

Miles climbed into the boat to have a look around the interior. The area below deck was in shambles. None of the boat’s equipment currently rested in its original location, and bloodstains were splattered throughout. After a thirty-minute search for additional clues, he came up empty. Apparently the police had been quite thorough in their combing of the rest of the crime scene. If they’d found anything, he might need Jim’s help to get his hands on it.

Miles headed from the marina to his office, arriving at the office a little after nine o’clock.

“Good morning,” said Anne. “May I mark the Fremont case invoice as ‘final’?”

“Yep,” Miles replied as he stepped into his private office. His rather mild OCD tendencies were on full display, with all his office tools and files neatly tucked away in his desk drawers. His desktop was uncluttered except for the bare necessities which included his computer; office phone; a small, neatly stacked pile of papers; and a digital clock Ken had given him at their Hannukah/Christmas dinner in Chicago. He decided to check in with George, who was likely still traumatized by the boat bombing. George answered the call on the first ring.

“How are you doing, George?” he asked.

“Okay, but I’m beginning to rethink our friendship. Every time you and I get involved in something, it blows up in my face.” George laughed at his own attempt at a joke.

“It’s totally understandable,” Miles replied, sharing a laugh.

“Actually, it could have been far worse,” George added. “After we lifted the boat out of the water for the season, I had the maintenance guys drain and remove the gas tank so it could be repaired. It had started to rust through, and it was sorely in need of a fix. Normally the tank would be full of fuel and a stabilizer.”

“So, if the bombing had gone as it was likely planned, the gas tank would have also exploded and done far more damage.”

“No kidding. Given the boat’s proximity to the refueling station at the marina, the whole place and all the boats, buildings, and equipment could have gone up with it.” George confirmed Miles’s theory about the bomb’s potential for destroying the entire facility.

Miles’s mind immediately shifted to another motive for the bombing. “Who might have benefited from such a catastrophe?”

“The entire operation is owned by Bill Cisco. I know he operates it on a shoestring. It’s unlikely he has enough insurance to survive the financial impact on the property, let alone when the insurance companies for all the boat owners try to hang him with the liabilities. It’s pretty clear to me he wasn’t behind it.”

George’s analysis made sense.

“Any other ideas?” Miles asked.

“Developers. The property has a wonderful location at the harbor’s edge with plenty of land to build condos or apartments complete with piers for boat-access to the lake. Bill told me they have been after him big time, and he had told them he wasn’t interested in selling.”

“So, one possible way to force an underfinanced and reluctant owner to sell his property would be to destroy it,” Miles theorized.

“Yep. If they’d done it right, there likely wouldn’t have been enough evidence left to pin it on anyone.” George was tracking right along with Miles.

“Thanks, George. We now have a theory about what happened. If I’m right, the bombing might not have been directed at us, but rather at the location of our boat.”

“I sure hope that’s the case. Then there would be no one out to get us, and Bill Cisco would have dodged a bullet.” There was a definite note of relief in George’s voice as he chose to accept this latest hypothesis.

After hanging up, Miles decided rather than wait for Jim to find out what the police had uncovered, he would be proactive and share what he had with the police. After all, they not only had all the necessary resources to investigate, they could initiate charges if they found a crime had been committed. Let them put in all the legwork, he thought.

A quick call to a former colleague on the force, Detective Don Maxwell, did the trick.

“Maxwell,” Detective Maxwell answered using his officious police voice.

“Hey, Don. I have a piece of evidence for you in our boat bombing case,” Miles offered. He went on to describe what he had found at the scene of the bombing.

“Thanks, Miles. This gives us a viable new lead. Can I send an officer to your office to pick up the slip of paper?” he asked.

“Of course. It’s safely inside an evidence bag. I’ll leave it with my assistant, Anne, in case I’m not here. Please keep me up-to-date on how the investigation unfolds.” Miles knew he had just earned an informal attachment to the investigation.

“Will do,” Detective Maxwell promised in closing.

Miles mused about how, based on recent events, he had wrongly assumed the bombing was about someone out to do him harm. The fact that Jonathan Reese, the man who’d forced his victims to sacrifice transplantable body parts to pay their debts, was still at large continually fed that paranoia. Even though Miles and the FBI successfully brought Reese’s criminal loan-sharking enterprise down, his disappearance and penchant for eliminating those who opposed him, still fueled Miles’s nightmares.

It was just before 5:00 p.m. when Miles left for home. It was already pitch-dark as the winter-shortened afternoon had already turned to nighttime. Molly’s walk that evening was abbreviated considerably by an afternoon shift in the weather. Now lake-effect snow driven by a bitter cold breeze had left the sidewalk slippery and the landscape barely visible. Once finally inside the house for the night, he retreated to the basement to bring up the three boxes Bobbie had requested, leaving them by the back door so he’d remember to put them in his car.

Just as he reached the top of the stairs with the last box, his phone rang. It was Ken.

“Hi. I have some information for you on Todd Morton. As you mentioned, he’d been in and out of trouble for decades. According to his most current parole officer, he’d been working doing odd jobs in the Waukegan area. Most recently at the site of a newly completed apartment complex.”

“Well, that could explain how Morton got involved.” Miles immediately saw the construction work fit with his suspicions about who might be behind the bombing. He filled Ken in on what he had learned, and how the ever-growing number of pieces fit together.

“What time do you expect to be in Chicago on Friday?” Ken asked, shifting subjects.

“I have a lunch meeting in Madison on Friday. Bobbie has another potential client for me.”

“So you don’t have to rush, I’ll make a seven-thirty dinner reservation. Any preferences?” he asked.

“Not really. Surprise me.” Miles didn’t really care what they would be doing as long as they would be doing it together.

With that, they hung up and Miles turned his attention to a light dinner and an evening of Seinfeld reruns, which he knew would provide the perfect distraction from the dramas of the day.

CHAPTER 4

As promised, Miles showed up promptly at six o’clock on Wednesday night for dinner at Jim’s house. He approached the front door full of mixed emotions. While he welcomed the opportunity to offer counsel to Danny, it came with a huge responsibility. Coming out is always a milestone event, but for a sixteen-year-old boy, it was monumental.

Jim opened the door and stepped aside, allowing Miles to enter. “Hi, Miles. This is my wife, Laura, and my son, Danny.”

“Nice to meet you both. Thank you for having me over.”

Laura greeted Miles with a hug, which took him by surprise since they hadn’t met before. He assumed it was likely a show of appreciation for what he was there to discuss with Danny.

After seeing the three Rathburns standing next to one another, Miles was struck by the height difference between Jim and Laura. She was much shorter than Jim, perhaps five foot three or so. Danny’s height fit him right in the middle.

Jim took Miles’s coat and motioned for him to have a seat in the living room. A bottle of wine and a platter of cheese, meats, and crackers filled the glass-topped coffee table in front of the couch. After he selected his seat, Jim poured Miles a glass of wine, and then he and Laura excused themselves. Obviously, they felt it best to let Miles and Danny talk before sitting down to dinner.

“Danny, let me first say how pleased I am that you’ve decided to talk with me about your coming out. That’s a huge step. Really brave!”

“I guess the real first step was telling my parents,” Danny pointed out.

“Seems to me it was actually the second step. The first step was you accepting yourself for who you really are. I’m sure your mind is swirling with what to do next. Maybe, to start, I can answer some questions for you?” Miles offered.

Danny asked the first basic question. “Okay. When did you tell your friends?”

“I was about your age. Maybe a little younger. I started by telling my friend Ryan Duffy. In fact, I confided in him before I revealed it to my family. Ryan and I have been friends since the third grade. He actually laughed when I told him. Turns out he knew possibly even before I was sure. Anyway, once I knew Ryan was cool with it, I realized that anyone who was truly my friend would accept it as well. Those who wouldn’t, well they could just go fuck themselves.” Miles emphasized the last phrase in particular.

Miles’s rather frank proclamation momentarily stunned Danny. He paused for a moment before he replied. “I have a group of guy friends who I’ve been all through school with, but none of them would be what I’d call a best friend. Also, I have a number of buddies on the football team, but we’re not close outside of practice and games.”

“Do you have any female friends?” Miles inquired.

“Sure,” Danny replied, somewhat quizzically.

“Any that you’d feel comfortable confiding in?”

“I guess so. Why do you ask?”

“Because with your guy friends, their Y chromosomes may cause them to look down on you or feel threatened. Women are much less likely to assign any of those negative feelings toward you,” explained Miles.

“And they don’t have to share a locker room with me either,” Danny astutely pointed out.

Miles chuckled. “Precisely. Listen, Danny. Being gay is simply part of who you are. Just like the color of your skin, how tall you are, what talents you have, on and on. It’s just another component and one you will carry with you always.”

“But I want to continue playing football,” Danny lamented.

“You should. Football players are at their best when they go all out on the field. Leave it all out there, as they say. Self-awareness gives you the freedom to really leave it all out there, both on and off the field.”

“So, where do I begin?” Danny asked.

“Ultimately, you need to decide that for yourself. You needn’t feel rushed to share your story.” Miles thought for a moment, then continued. “When you’re ready, there are a couple of possibilities to consider. Maybe you begin by confiding in one of your female friends with whom you feel most comfortable. A bolder option would be to open up to one of your football team’s leaders. Show him the strength of your commitment to the team even in the face of possible backlash over your being gay. Whichever direction you choose to go, find an ally.”

“Sounds good, but if it doesn’t go well, the prospect of being alone, or bullied, scares me to death.” A quiver in Danny’s voice accompanied his declaration.

Miles placed his hand on Danny’s shoulder to comfort him.

“You conquer the bullies by standing up for yourself no matter what the result might be. You may also find, as I did, that your real friends will stand with you against the bullies. As for being alone, that’s a choice—not a consequence—of your decision. I did a little research online before coming over here, and found it is estimated that as high as 20 percent of the US population is LGBTQ. Add to that all the right-minded people who couldn’t care less about your sexual orientation, and you’ll have way more than half of the population on your side. Plenty of friends to choose from. I can see your mom is putting dinner on the table, so let me close for now with this. Coming out is your liberation from the anxiety of hiding who you really are. Look at it as an opportunity, not a drawback. I promise, once you do that, you’ll unlock your potential for finding happiness.”

Miles handed Danny his business card. “This discussion is just the beginning. Please call me with all the other questions you will come up with. I’ll do my best to be your sounding board.” Miles stood, and they joined Danny’s parents at the dinner table. A smile highlighted the look of resolve on Danny’s face.

CHAPTER 5

With the three boxes tucked safely in the trunk of his Camry, Miles dropped Molly off at George and Cora’s, and then took off for Madison for his Friday-morning meeting with Bobbie. The snow-covered landscape along the highway turned his thoughts to the warm-weather getaway he and Ken would be planning when he finally made it to Chicago that evening.

Once he arrived at Bobbie’s building, he pulled up to the loading dock and rang the bell at the door. When an attendant opened the door, he asked, “If it’s okay, I’d like to leave these boxes here for a few minutes. I’ll just go park the car and come back to fetch them.”

“I’ll run them up to Ms. Martin’s office if you’d like,” the attendant offered, seeing Bobbie’s name written on the boxes.

“That would be great, thanks.” Miles still marveled at the “Midwest nice” he so often encountered in his new home state. After finding a parking space just down the block, he walked back to Bobbie’s building.

As Miles left the elevator on Bobbie’s floor, he saw her talking to her assistant through the glass door. The window behind her faced the dome of the State Capitol building. Quite a real-life mural, he thought. She saw him as well, and smiled as he entered her office suite.

“Perfect timing. We have about half an hour before we meet with my client. Let’s go talk in my office for a couple of minutes before we go.” She motioned for him to walk down the hall to her private office.

“Sounds good. The guy at the loading dock said he’d bring up your boxes,” Miles mentioned while taking a seat across from her desk.

“We don’t have a guy at the loading dock!” she exclaimed.

“Oh, shit. I just gave some guy your boxes.” Miles’s face showed genuine panic; that is, until he saw the boxes neatly stacked in the corner of her office.

“Sorry. I couldn’t resist,” Bobbie said apologetically.

“Okay. Now that you’re done giving me a heart attack, what’s the meeting about?”

“We’re meeting with Peter Gonzales. His company has an affiliate in Mexico whose principals he believes are stealing from him. I’ll let him fill you in on the details over lunch. In keeping with the theme of the meeting, he’s asked us to meet him at Garibaldi over on Butler Street. We’ll leave in a couple of minutes and walk over to the restaurant. How’s it going with you and Ken?”

Miles smiled. “I mentioned when we talked the other day that I needed to be in Chicago this evening. It’s to spend a couple of days with Ken enjoying the city and planning a vacation somewhere warm. So, I guess you could say everything is going quite well.”

“I’m really happy for the two of you.”