Reacher is back. This time it’s Joe.

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FULL SMOKE

The John Rockne Mysteries

Book 8

Dan Ames

Praise for Dan Ames

"Packed to the gills with hard-hitting action and a non-stop plot." –Jacksonville News

“A fast-paced, unpredictable mystery with an engaging narrator and a rich cast of original supporting characters.” –New York Times bestselling author Thomas Perry

"Dan Ames writes fast-paced, gripping tales that capture you from Page One and hold you enthralled till the last word. He brings a strong, clear voice to whichever genre he chooses. This guy is one hell of a storyteller. Watch for him." -Amazon Review

Dan Ames' writing reminds me of the great thriller writers -- lean, mean, no nonsense prose that gets straight to the point and keeps you turning those pages.” –Robert Gregory Browne

These Jack Reacher stories are packed with action and unforgettable twists and turns. Great reads! -B & N Review

“Cuts like a knife." -Savannah Morning News

“Grabs you early on and doesn't let go."   -Tom Schreck

“From its opening lines, Daniel S. Ames and his private eye novel DEAD WOOD recall early James Ellroy: a fresh attitude and voice and the heady rush of boundless yearning and ambition. Ames delivers a vivid evocation of time and place in a way that few debut authors achieve, nailing the essence of his chosen corner of high-tone Michigan. He also deftly dodges the pitfalls that make so much contemporary private detective fiction a mixed bag and nostalgia-freighted misfire. Ames’ detective has family; he’s steady. He’s not another burned-out, booze-hound hanging on teeth and toenails to the world and smugly wallowing in his own ennui. This is the first new private eye novel in a long time that just swept me along for the ride. Ames is definitely one to watch.” — Craig McDonald, Edgar-nominated author

“Dan Ames pulls off a very difficult thing:  he re-imagines what a hardboiled mystery can be, and does it with style, thrills and humor.  This is the kind of book mystery readers are clamoring for, a fast-paced story with great heart and not a cliché to be found.” -- Jon A. Jackson, author of Badger Games

“Dan Ames is a sensation among readers who love fast-paced thrillers.” – Mystery Tribune

“A smart detective story stuffed with sharp prose and great action.” –Indie Reader

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Contents

FULL SMOKE

Part I

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Part II

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Part III

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Part IV

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Part V

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Part VI

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

About the Author

Also by Dan Ames

FULL SMOKE

A John Rockne Mystery

Book 8

by

Dan Ames

FULL SMOKE (noun-phrase)

Definition: A state of complete, no-holds-barred violence or deadly conflict, often in the context of organized crime or street warfare. When "full smoke" is on, all bets are off, and every move is made with lethal intent.

Part One

Chapter 1

Massive Fire Engulfs Harrington Industries Warehouse in Downtown Detroit

DETROIT – A devastating fire has completely destroyed a warehouse owned by Harrington Industries, one of the most prominent and wealthiest companies in the region. The fire, which broke out early this morning, ravaged the facility located near Detroit’s waterfront, sending plumes of thick smoke visible across the downtown area.

Firefighters responded quickly to the scene, but the intense flames and the size of the building made it impossible to contain the fire before it spread throughout the entire structure. By the time the blaze was extinguished, the warehouse was reduced to a smoldering shell, with no chance of salvaging the property.

At this time, the exact inventory housed inside the warehouse remains unclear. Sources suggest the facility was used for storage of various goods, but the extent of the damage could run into the tens of millions of dollars. No injuries have been reported, though the investigation into the cause of the fire is ongoing.

Harrington Industries is owned by the Harrington family, a name synonymous with wealth and influence in the Detroit area. The family’s main offices are based in Grosse Pointe, Michigan, but their business interests stretch far beyond the city, with holdings in numerous sectors, including manufacturing, real estate, and finance.

While the cause of the fire remains under investigation, authorities have confirmed that they are not ruling out foul play. "Given the scale of the destruction, we are exploring all possibilities," said a spokesperson for the Detroit Fire Department.

The Harrington family has yet to release an official statement, but sources close to the company expect the loss to be one of the largest in the city’s recent history.

This fire has also raised concerns about fire safety in older warehouse structures near the waterfront.

Chapter 2

The name of the place wasn't the No-Tell Motel, but it should have been.

It was a single-story affair, yellow-beige stucco with dark trim and doors, a neon "Vacancy" sign flickering like it was sending Morse code.

I'd been sitting outside the rundown hotel in a little town north of Detroit for half the day and so far, at least three "couples" had gone into the hotel, stayed for an hour or two and then left. No luggage unless you count a couple of condoms and a cheap bottle of wine.

I wasn't getting paid to judge anyone's moral standards. My job was to photograph a husband named Dale, who told his wife he was at an out-of-town business meeting. Dale's only business so far had been an overweight blonde with bad highlights and a worse sense of discretion. Twice they'd come to the window, curtains wide open.

She wasn’t pretty, but with that physique I figured she could play nose tackle for the Detroit Lions. And she could probably do it better than the guy they had now.

The hotel’s office door opened. A bored clerk stepped outside and lit a cigarette. He glanced in my direction, probably wondering if I was a cop. I could tell he didn’t care.

My phone buzzed. I looked down at the screen.

A text message. 

From a number I didn’t recognize, inquiring about my availability.

I replied I was available.

The hotel’s parking lot held only four cars, including Dale's silver Accord. The place was a perfect setting for affairs and drug deals – generic, forgettable, cash only.

The sky hung low and gray, threatening rain but never quite delivering. Just like this town – all threat, no action. The main street was a collection of pawn shops, liquor stores, and empty storefronts with "For Lease" signs faded by years of neglect.

My plan had been to get a few photos of Dale and the linebacker leaving the motel but I knew it wasn’t necessary. Besides, my case load was light and I didn’t want to miss a good opportunity.

With that settled, I fired up my car and started the drive back to Grosse Pointe.

Twenty minutes and I'd be back in the city, leaving Dale to his afternoon delight. I didn't envy the conversation he'd have with his wife once I delivered the photos. Fifteen years of marriage reduced to a stack of 8x10 glossies and a hefty bill.

After a boring drive lasting less than an hour, the skyline began to appear on the horizon, glass and steel against the gray sky. Whatever was waiting for me had to be more interesting than another afternoon watching Dale fumble with a hotel ice bucket and minibar bottles.

I flipped on the turn signal and changed lanes, heading toward the exit that would take me into Grosse Pointe. Behind me, the little town and its dark dramas grew smaller in my rearview mirror.

Ahead, the city waited with its own, probably bigger, secrets.

Chapter 3

Having an office right smack dab in the middle of the village of Grosse Pointe wasn’t a bad thing. I quite enjoyed it, in fact. There were a few restaurants, bars and shops all within walking distance.

Sometimes, they came in handy.

After parking my car out front, I climbed the stairs to my office, which occupied a space just above a jewelry store.

I opened the door, its hinges protesting with a high-pitched whine that I kept meaning to oil. I tossed my keys on the desk where they landed with a metallic clatter, then crossed the room to where my little sitting area was positioned, next to a small refrigerator.

From the fridge I grabbed a beer, the glass cold and slick against my fingers, twisted off the cap with a satisfying hiss, and leaned back against the desk, the edge digging into my lower back as I surveyed the modest space.

My office wasn't anything special, but it was clean, and it suited me. A small Detroit Pistons basketball sat on a shelf behind my desk, signed by a few of the guys from the team, the blue ink signatures fading slightly with time.

Next to it, a framed photo of golfer Marcus Tate stood slightly crooked. Tate had been my last big case. He'd been murdered, and I'd found out who did it. The signed picture had arrived shortly afterward from his family, a thank-you I hadn't expected. His wide grin in the photo seemed to mock the circumstances of his demise.

The intercom buzzed, breaking the silence with its harsh electronic tone. I set the beer down on a water ring that had long since become a permanent feature of my desk and pressed the button. The plastic was worn smooth beneath my thumb. "Yeah?"

"Mr. Rockne, we spoke on the phone," a voice said.

“Yes, come on up,” I replied and pressed the buzzer to unlock the downstairs door.

A second later, I heard footsteps on the stairs, not the hesitant treads of most first-time clients but confident and measured. The door opened, and a tall, neatly dressed man stepped into the room. His dark suit was clearly of high-quality, but plain.

He scanned the office briefly, his eyes coolly assessing, then turned and held the door open. Behind him appeared an older woman, elegantly dressed in a silk blouse and wool skirt, pearls at her throat. She looked around the room with eyes that seemed accustomed to better places.

"Mr. Rockne," the man said, his voice crisp and professional, with the faintest hint of an East Coast accent. His cologne, subtle but expensive, reached me across the room. "We have a problem we’d like to discuss."

I gestured toward the two chairs across from my desk.

“Please, I’m all ears.”

Chapter 4

‘You may wait outside, Gerald,” the old woman said.

Gerald hesitated for only a fraction of a second, then nodded politely and stepped out, pulling the door shut quietly behind him. The woman moved forward, gracefully taking the seat opposite my desk without waiting for an invitation. Her movements were precise and refined.

“I am Greta Harrington,” she said clearly, folding her gloved hands in her lap. It seemed as if I should know the name. I’d heard of the Harringtons, of course. They were one of the wealthiest families in Grosse Pointe, which is saying something.

Her voice was composed and measured, carrying the subtle hint of someone who had spent her entire life in command. She paused, considering her next words carefully. “He knows everything, of course,” she continued, tilting her head slightly toward the door, “but the appearance of discretion is almost as important as discretion itself, wouldn't you agree?”

“Absolutely.” Of course, I didn’t actually agree, but why antagonize an extremely wealthy possible client?

“Good,” she said, satisfied. She settled back into the chair slightly, maintaining perfect posture, her back straight, her chin lifted. “Then you'll understand why I'm here. I assume you've heard about the fire at our warehouse?”

“I saw the news,” I replied, recalling the vivid footage of flames and smoke pouring out of the building near the waterfront. "Looked like a lot of damage."

"Extensive," Greta confirmed, her tone even and emotionless.

“Do you suspect something beyond an accidental fire?” I asked.

She leaned forward ever so slightly, the pearl necklace catching the soft glow from the lamp on my desk. “Buildings don't simply burst into flames—do they, Mr. Rockne?"

There is such a thing as spontaneous combustion, but again, disagreeing with Mrs. Harrington seemed like a dumb idea.

“Not usually, no,” I replied.

“That's precisely why I'm here,” Greta said. “We’re successful, and success creates enemies. But accusations without evidence are worthless. What I require is someone capable of discreetly discovering precisely what happened.”

“Won’t your insurance company do an investigation?”

“I suppose you could call it that,” she replied. “But I’d like to run a parallel investigation. Run by you.”

Her statement hung in the air between us, unambiguous and purposeful. She expected results, not promises or reassurances.

“Do the authorities have any leads?” I asked, knowing full well that someone like Greta Harrington wouldn't be here if they did.

She shook her head slightly, her expression unchanging. "They're investigating, of course, but slowly and without direction. We can’t afford to wait. Each passing day allows the truth to vanish deeper into the shadows."

“Why me?” I asked. Surely, the Harringtons had private investigators and attorneys and all kinds of folks on the payroll.

“Why not?” she replied.

“Okay,” I said.

She stood, smoothing her coat gently as she rose. "Excellent. Gerald will remain behind and complete any necessary paperwork as well as cut you a check for your retainer.”

Mrs. Harrington turned to the door and then glanced back. “I trust you'll keep me informed. And remember, Mr. Rockne," she added, "discretion above all else."

“Of course.”

Greta Harrington offered a faint, almost imperceptible smile before turning and walking gracefully toward the door. As she exited, Gerald stepped back inside.

“You probably have some kind of intake form?” he asked, pulling out a checkbook from his inner coat pocket.

“I do,” I replied.

It was tempting to ask him if the check would bounce but I held back the smart-ass comment.

Discretion, of course.

Chapter 5

Early the next morning, I parked my car in a vacant space near the waterfront in downtown Detroit.

Stepping out into the chilly air, the temperature couldn't have been more than forty degrees, causing my breath to fog instantly. Sharp and acrid smoke still lingered faintly around the area, clinging to my clothing and infiltrating my nostrils with each breath.

Across the street lay the charred remains of the Harrington warehouse, reduced to little more than a smoldering shell against the pale morning sky. Fire crews had completed their work hours ago, leaving behind yellow caution tape that fluttered weakly in the breeze.

Gravel crunched under my feet as I crossed the street slowly, the sound seeming unnaturally loud in the morning quiet. The scale of destruction appeared staggering up close – far worse than what early news reports had suggested.

Steel beams twisted and contorted into unnatural shapes, their industrial strength rendered meaningless by the intensity of the blaze. Concrete walls had crumbled into mere fragments, scattered across what once had been the warehouse floor. Soot and ash blanketed everything in sight. Pools of stagnant water glistened in the morning sunlight.

"Rockne?"

Hearing the familiar voice, I turned quickly toward the east side of the site. Standing near the edge of the wreckage, clipboard in hand and dressed in standard-issue protective gear, was Lisa Summers. Her face appeared drawn with fatigue, dark circles prominent beneath observant eyes that had likely been on scene since the first alarm. She had earned her reputation as one of Detroit's best fire investigators. We had worked on a case a couple of years ago.

"Morning, Lisa," I said while stepping carefully over scattered debris to meet her. "What've you got so far?"

She shook her head slightly, eyes remaining fixed thoughtfully on the devastation surrounding us. "The preliminary assessment doesn't add up. Fires in these old warehouses aren't uncommon, but this one presents several anomalies in both origin points and progression patterns."

I said nothing.

Lisa glanced at me. “John, are we off the record?”

“Of course.”

She tucked the clipboard under her arm and gestured toward the northwest corner. "Unofficially, witnesses reported flames were first spotted there, near what used to be the loading bay. Yet the burn patterns suggest multiple points of origin, with unusual acceleration signatures throughout the main storage area."

Lisa pointed toward a relatively intact section. "Furthermore, that eastern office section should have gone up completely, given the paper storage and the direction the wind was blowing last night. Instead, it shows minimal thermal damage comparative to surrounding areas."

"Inconsistent with accidental causes?" I asked.

"Highly." Her voice lowered slightly as two uniformed officers walked past. "The chemical residue preliminary tests are showing doesn't match anything that should have been stored here according to the manifest. We're running more comprehensive analysis now, but between us, somebody used an accelerant – and knew exactly where to place it for maximum effect."

"Insurance angle?" I prompted.

She consulted her clipboard. "Too soon to know. I’m sure their policy was substantial."

"Previous violations? Disgruntled employees?"

"Minor safety citations two years ago, all addressed. As for personnel, that's more your department than mine."

"Good point,” I said.

“Hey, how’s your sister?” Lisa asked.

Ellen, my older, obnoxious sister had been a cop in Grosse Pointe before she took a job as Chief of Police up north.

“As mean as ever,” I replied.

Lisa laughed. "We should have some preliminary findings by tomorrow afternoon." She handed me a business card with a handwritten number on the back. "That's my direct line."

“Thanks,” I said. The morning sun cast long shadows across the devastation as I headed back toward my parked car.

Chapter 6

Overlooking the Detroit skyline, a man sat alone behind a polished desk, the surface clear except for a single phone. He picked it up and dialed, waiting patiently as the line rang once, then twice. On the third ring, a voice answered, flat and toneless.

"Yes?"

"There's a complication," the man said calmly, choosing his words carefully. "The police are taking more interest than we expected. And there's a private investigator now, asking questions."

A brief pause on the other end. "And?"

"I’m concerned."

“How much so?”

The man at the desk rolled his eyes. It’s always about the money. ‘How much so’ actually meant how much are you willing to pay?

"Too soon to tell," the man said.

"Call me again when you’re ready," the man on the other end of phone said. And he hung up.

The man at the desk sighed.

Some days, like this, he wondered if it was all worth it.

Yeah, he thought. Of course it is.

He almost laughed at himself for pretending to have a conscience.

Part Two

Chapter 7

I joined my buddy Nate Becker at a small diner downtown, a place he frequented for both lunch and gathering bits of information from the city's various characters. We sat in a corner booth, coffee and sandwiches laid out between us.

The place had that comforting scent of slightly burnt coffee and grease that seemed standard issue for any establishment with vinyl booths.

"So what’s happening?" Nate said, taking a bite of his sandwich.

"You hear about the fire downtown? A warehouse?”

“Yep.” He grabbed a handful of sweet potato fries and shoved them in. Nate was a big guy. Those calories had to go somewhere.

“What have you heard?” I said, stirring my coffee.

"Nothing, really. Why?”

“I heard it belonged to the Harrington family.”

“Ah, there it is," Nate smirked, setting his sandwich down. "Nothing happens in Grosse Pointe without John Rockne being involved."

Ignoring him, I took a bite of my burger. It was good.

Nate shifted into reporter mode, figuring he’d given me enough bullshit for the moment. "Alright, Harringtons in a nutshell. Thomas Harrington was the big man who started it all. Built the family and the business from nothing, became a titan in Detroit. Real self-made type."

“Yep, I’d heard that. Where is he now?"

"Good question," Nate said. "Thomas hasn't been seen publicly in nearly a decade. Some say he's sick, some say he's already dead. But no one's talking openly. The family's tight-lipped."

"Greta seems to be running things now," I offered.

"There’s a tough old bird," Nate replied. “And then the kids: Michael and Vanessa. Michael, the eldest, is ambitious, very corporate. Spends most of his time in boardrooms and charity events."

"What about Vanessa?" I asked.

Nate smiled briefly. "Vanessa's the wildcard. More interested in art galleries and parties than business. But don't underestimate her. She's smart—just prefers keeping a lower profile."

"Any other family members involved?"

"Extended family hangs around," Nate explained, waving his hand dismissively. "Cousins, nephews, a niece or two. All have stakes in the company, but none have much influence, so I hear. Greta runs a tight ship."

No surprise there. "Any trouble within the family lately?"

Nate leaned back, pushed the empty plates away from him. I was hoping he didn’t order dessert. "The usual rumors: tension over succession, disagreements about investments, typical family drama—but amplified by money and power."

"Anything specific?"

“Of course not. Shitty rumors are never specific. That would require too much truth.”

Our server came to collect the plates and Nate asked for a slice of pie before I could request the check.

He winked at me.

“It’s a business lunch,” he said. “You’re going to write it off. Might as well enjoy some dessert.”

Deciding not to save my front-row seat to the spectacle of Nate Becker devouring pie, I got up and paid the check at the counter.

“Where’s the fire?” Nate asked as I headed for the door.

A joke, but as it turned out, accurate.

Chapter 8

I left the diner and drove north toward Birmingham, the upscale suburb known for its immaculate streets, luxury boutiques, and the occasional high-rent office buildings.

The late afternoon sun glinted off the windshields of expensive European imports that lined the curbs. I guided my car past manicured hedges and ornamental trees that dotted the median strip.

Michael Harrington's office was located in one of the newer glass-and-steel towers near downtown, a far cry from the smoky wreckage of the warehouse I'd inspected earlier.

Parking was predictably scarce, but I eventually found a spot in a public structure three blocks away, feeding a small fortune in quarters into the meter. The walk gave me time to gather my thoughts.

Inside, the lobby was cavernous and smelled like lavender and lemongrass. A digital directory dominated one wall, while a curved security desk manned by two uniformed guards controlled access to the inner sanctum.

I checked in with the receptionist. She nodded politely, inspected my ID and directed me to the elevators with a precisely rehearsed hand gesture.

As I stepped into the elevator, the doors closed smoothly with barely a whisper, and I pressed the button for the tenth floor. The button illuminated with a soft blue glow under my fingertip. Soft classical music—Vivaldi, I thought—played gently in the background.

I wondered briefly how much of Michael Harrington's persona mirrored this polished exterior—all shine and no substance, or something more complex? It also occurred to me that as wealthy as the Harringtons were, why was Michael working in an office? I thought these families had underlings do all the work while they got stoned in their oceanfront estates on Nantucket.

The elevator doors opened silently onto a hallway lined with discreetly labeled offices. The walls were painted a subtle cream color that seemed to absorb and reflect the hidden lighting in equal measure. Original artwork—not prints—hung at measured intervals, each piece illuminated by its own dedicated light.

At the far end was a set of double doors bearing the name "Michael Harrington" etched tastefully into the frosted glass. I walked down the hall, noting the plush carpeting muffling my footsteps, adding to the sense of exclusivity. The air was cool and still, the climate control maintaining a perfect temperature.

A young woman at the front desk looked up as I approached. Her desk was an elegant slab of what appeared to be black marble, utterly bare except for a sleek computer monitor and a single white orchid in a ceramic pot. Her blouse was silk, her makeup flawless, her expression professionally neutral. "Can I help you?"

"John Rockne," I said simply, feeling the roughness in my own voice contrast with the smoothness of the surroundings. "Michael Harrington is expecting me." I resisted the urge to straighten my tie, which was odd as I wasn’t wearing one.

She glanced at her screen, her manicured fingers hovering over a glass touchpad, then nodded and offered a polite smile. "Yes, Mr. Rockne. Please go right in." She pressed something on her desk, and I heard a faint click as the double doors unlocked.

I pushed open the double doors and stepped into Michael Harrington's office.

The office was large, sleek, and tastefully expensive. Minimalist furniture in buttery leather and brushed steel created conversation areas around a central workspace. Oversized windows overlooking Birmingham's manicured streets. A massive abstract painting dominated the wall behind the desk.

Michael Harrington stood at the window, hands in his pockets, watching the world below with the detached interest of someone who considered himself above it all. He wore a tailored suit in charcoal gray. His silver cufflinks caught the light as he shifted his weight. He didn't turn as I entered, though the faint tensing of his shoulders told me he was well aware of my presence.

"So you're the detective," he said, his voice cultured and confident, with just enough dismissive edge to establish dominance without being overtly rude. "Private investigator. Whatever the term is now." The slight pause before the correction suggested he knew the right terminology but wanted to diminish it somehow.

"John Rockne," I said, remaining standing, taking in the details of the man and his space. The office smelled of expensive cologne and the faint leather aroma from the furniture. No family photos adorned his desk, I noticed. No personal touches at all. "Your mother hired me."

He turned then, revealing a face that matched his voice—handsome in a conventional way, with the kind of features that photographed well for annual reports. A faint, amused smile played across his lips, never reaching his pale blue eyes that assessed me with cool calculation. "Of course she did. Greta likes her little projects." His tone when speaking of his mother carried a complex mixture of affection and irritation, the familiar cadence of long-standing family dynamics.

"This one involves a warehouse that burned to the ground." I kept my voice neutral, not wanting to antagonize the man right off the bat.

Michael walked over to his desk with unhurried confidence, his Italian leather shoes silent on the carpet. He sat down in a high-backed executive chair that probably had been custom fitted to his frame, the mechanism adjusting soundlessly to his weight. He gestured vaguely at the chair across from him—not quite an invitation, more a permission. I sat, feeling the chair envelop me with unexpected comfort.

"Let me save you some time," he said, arranging a monogrammed pen perfectly parallel to the edge of his spotless glass desk. "The fire was unfortunate. Yes. Costly. Yes. But not mysterious. These things happen." Each sentence was clipped and efficient. And, I wondered, rehearsed?

"Your mother thinks otherwise."

Michael snorted softly, the first genuinely unguarded reaction I'd seen from him. His nostrils flared slightly. "Greta thinks a lot of things. She watches too many old mystery shows and still uses a landline. She's a kooky old lady with money to burn and too much time on her hands."

"That kooky old lady owns most of your company and runs it from what I hear.” I kept my tone conversational, but I didn't miss how the muscles in his jaw tightened, the skin around his eyes tensing. So much for not pissing him off.

"For now," he said, smiling again, this one showing a flash of perfect teeth. His right hand moved to adjust his platinum watch, a Patek Philippe I guessed.

That sounded ominous, I thought. “She asked me to look into the fire. I'm doing that."

He leaned back in his chair. "And I'm telling you it's a waste of your time. And mine." His emphasis on the latter suggested which he considered more valuable.

"So you have no interest in who might have torched your company's property?" I asked.

"We don’t know it was arson. What we do know is that we have insurance. We'll rebuild." He waved one hand dismissively, the gesture practiced to appear casual. "If someone did set the fire, the police will sort it out. I don't need a freelancer poking around and wasting company resources." The slight emphasis on "freelancer" carried all the corporate disdain for those outside the system.

"Your mother's the one paying me." I shifted forward slightly, the leather of the chair creaking softly under the movement.

"Not for long," he said, his smile tightening, showing less tooth and more intent. "I'll be speaking with her. If I have anything to say about it, your little assignment ends today." The threat was delivered pleasantly, wrapped in the confidence of a man accustomed to having his way.

That was my cue to exit. There was no more to learn here. I stood. "Good luck,” I said. “And good day.” I didn't offer my hand. We both knew this wasn't that kind of meeting.

Michael gave a dismissive wave as he turned his chair back to the window, presenting me with his profile—a pose likely practiced for its authoritative effect. The sunlight outlined him in gold, a man enthroned in his kingdom of glass and steel. "Close the door behind you, would you?" he said, already reaching for his phone, signaling my dismissal from his world.

Chapter 9

It was late afternoon by the time I left Birmingham. Traffic on Woodward was steady, but not enough to slow me down.

The autumn sun hung low, casting long shadows across the pavement and glinting off chrome bumpers ahead. Occasional maple leaves, turned crimson and gold, tumbled across my windshield as I drove.

I kept the radio off and let the drive unwind my thoughts. My shoulders gradually loosened their knot of tension from the meeting.

Michael Harrington had made his position clear. He didn't want me involved. His voice had that practiced corporate calm, but his eyes were predatory.

I drove east until I reached Grosse Pointe, watching as the landscape gradually shifted from commercial blocks to manicured suburbs. The streets there were quiet, lined with trees and brick homes that hadn't changed much in fifty years.

Late October had painted the neighborhood in burnt oranges and deep reds, leaves gathering in piles against wrought iron fences and stone walls. The smell of wood smoke drifted through my cracked window as someone enjoyed an early evening fire in their backyard.

As I turned onto my block, I saw the cruiser before I saw my house. My detective's instincts kicked in before I could even process what I was seeing, my hand instinctively checking for the weight of my holstered Glock beneath my jacket.

A black-and-white squad car was parked in my driveway, angled slightly as though the driver had pulled in hurriedly. But it wasn't from the local precinct. The markings said it belonged to a department up north. The paint job was slightly different—more rugged somehow, like the vehicle itself had adapted to the harsh northern Michigan winters. The badge on the door confirmed it.

My sister had arrived.

I parked at the curb and walked up the drive, taking in the cruiser, noting the light coating of highway dust, the tactical gear visible through the rear window.

Then I glanced at the front window of my house. Inside, I saw two silhouettes in the living room, backlit by the warm glow of the reading lamp Anna had insisted on buying last year. One of them laughed, a familiar sound that carried even through the glass. It had to be my wife. Ellen rarely laughed, she preferred to smirk.

I opened the door and stepped inside. The house smelled of coffee and something savory. My wife was in a wing backed chair, my sister on the couch. Each had a glass of wine.

"Well," I said, after getting a beer from the fridge and joining them in the living room. “This is unexpected.”

Ellen turned and gave me a once over. When she was done, she looked at me with a sense of disapproval. It was her customary expression when regarding me.

“Took a few days off. Figured I'd head downstate and breathe some of that fresh Detroit area air." She took another sip of wine.

"Ellen brought pasties. The real kind. I’m warming them up."

"Then I guess she can stay," I said, the familiar banter slipping into place like it had been only days since we'd last seen each other, not months.

"You look tired, John,” Ellen said. “Work, or your poor diet?"

"Bit of both," I said, taking a long pull from the bottle. "You working on anything interesting?”

“Just the low-key stuff, you know. Shoplifting. Someone stole a cow. The usual. How about you?”

“Looking into a fire for a client.”

“The Harrington thing?” Ellen asked.

I don’t know why I was surprised. My sister was always one step ahead of me. “Yeah.”

“There are deep pockets, and then there are Harrington pockets,” Ellen said. “I hope this case takes a long time, for your sake.”

It was a joke, but for some reason, I didn’t laugh. Mostly because I had a feeling it was going to turn out to be just the opposite.

Chapter 10

It was well after midnight when the phone rang.

I came awake slowly, the sound pulling me out of a restless sleep. The harsh electronic chirp cut through the darkness, echoing off the walls. I reached for the phone on the nightstand. The digital clock next to it glowed 3:17 AM in angry red numbers.

"Rockne."

A voice on the other end—familiar. Nate Becker. "There's another fire. North side. Off Eight Mile, near the research facility. Thought you'd want to know. Sorry to interrupt your beauty sleep, God knows you need it.”

Before I could come up with a response, Nate had ended the call.

I hung up, rolled out of bed, and started getting dressed. The floorboards creaked beneath my feet as I pulled on a wrinkled shirt from the back of a chair. After dressing and putting on my shoulder holster I went down to the kitchen to see if there was any leftover coffee.

My sister Ellen was sitting there, fully dressed.

"Was that call about the Harrington case?"

“How the hell did you know?” I asked.

“Please John, you know you’re always way behind me. Grab your coffee, let’s go. I’ll drive.”

Funny, I didn’t recall inviting her.

We drove north in silence. Her squad car was rock solid and steady. Heavy engine. Extra firm suspension.

The streets were empty except for the occasional delivery truck or taxi, their headlights cutting yellow swaths through the fog that had rolled in from the river. The radio played static and fragments of dispatch calls as we crossed into the industrial district. As we got closer, we saw the glow on the horizon—faint but unmistakable.

Police had already roped off the perimeter when we arrived, blue and red lights painting the faces of onlookers in alternating flashes. Fire crews were still working the scene, their silhouettes moving like shadows against the orange glow, the hiss of water hitting hot brick audible even from where we parked.

The worst of the blaze looked contained, but smoke still billowed upward, disappearing into the night sky. The smell of wet ash and scorched insulation hung thick in the air, coating the back of my throat with each breath.

Ellen flashed her badge to the officer at the tape, a young patrolman with circles under his eyes and coffee stains on his uniform. He waved us through with a tired nod. We walked toward the main group near the charred entrance of what had been a single-story commercial building, our shoes crunching over broken glass and debris. Water from the fire hoses ran in rivulets along the curb, black with soot.

One of the cops broke off from the group when he saw Ellen. They exchanged a quick handshake.

"Didn't expect to see you here," he said, his breath visible in the cold night air. The smell of cigarettes and peppermint gum clung to him. “Thought you’d moved up north.”

"Just visiting," she replied. "This is my brother, John."

The cop nodded at me, giving me a once-over. "Investigator?"

"Something like that," I said. "What are we looking at?" Beyond us, a photographer's flash illuminated the scene in stark white bursts, revealing charred beams and collapsed walls.

He looked back toward the still-smoking shell of the building. “Not sure yet,” he said. “Usually it’s easy to spot what caused the fire, but this time, no one’s saying much. Which, of course, tells you everything.”

“Is this pretty much like that recent fire in downtown Detroit?” Ellen asked. “The warehouse?”

“No,” he said.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

He gave me a hard look. "This time, there's a body."

Part Three

Chapter 11

I stood next to Ellen on the far side of the police tape, the air still heavy with smoke. The smell was distinct—not like a campfire or burned food, but synthetic and sharp, catching in the back of my throat with each breath. Most of the structure was gone—just a caved-in skeleton with blackened steel beams.

A puddle near my feet reflected fragments of gray sky and yellow tape, distorting as a cold breeze rippled its surface. My shoes were already caked with mud from the site⁠—.

A plainclothes detective came over. I recognized him vaguely—Sullivan or Sulloway, something with an S. He'd been a cop with Ellen, and now, he nodded at her and looked at me.

"You're the P.I.?" The question held an edge of territorialism, like a dog growling at the fence. “Used to be a cop, right?”

I didn't answer right away. A cardinal landed on a piece of twisted metal twenty yards away, its red feathers incongruously bright against the charred backdrop. It tilted its head, examining the devastation with more curiosity than concern before flying off.

I’d been a cop, all right, until a poor decision on my part had resulted in the murder of a young man. Eventually, I caught the killer, but by then, my career as a cop was over.

Ellen said, "This is my brother." Her voice carried that specific tone she'd perfected over years of explaining me to people—half apology, half challenge.

"Right." The detective didn't seem to care. His coat was missing a button, and the replacement he'd sewn on was a different shade of brown. "Guy's name was Paul Voss. Fire marshal says he poured gas on the place, set it off, and then stayed inside."

"Suicide?" Ellen asked. She'd pulled her hair back with the elastic band she always kept around her wrist.

"Left a note in his car. Confession. Said he lit the first one too. Said he did it alone. Claimed it was 'righteous.' Whatever that means."

"What else was in the note?" I asked.

The detective shrugged. "Mostly nonsense. Something about justice. Didn't mention anyone else. Didn't say why the Harrington properties specifically." He had a coffee stain on his collar that he'd tried to hide with a poorly positioned tie.

Ellen crossed her arms. "No criminal record?"

"Clean. Thirty-six. Lived alone in Clinton Township. Worked security detail on and off."

"For Harrington Industries?"

The detective looked at me, surprise flickering across his face. "Yeah. How'd you know?"

The scent of wet ash mingled with diesel from the fire trucks and something else—something metallic that might have been blood or might have been my imagination.

The detective walked away, stepping carefully around a twisted piece of metal that might have been part of a filing cabinet.

Ellen gave me a look. "You think he was tied to them?"

"He was on their payroll. That doesn't mean he wasn't working for someone else, too." I watched a firefighter methodically spray down a section of still-smoking debris.

"So what are you thinking?"

I kept my eyes on the smoldering remains. "I'm thinking whoever he was working for wanted this to look neat. One man. Two fires. Case closed."

Ellen didn't say anything. Her silence had the quality of allowing space for truth to settle.

"But it's never that neat," I said.

“Yeah,” Ellen agreed. “It never is.”

Chapter 12

Vanessa Harrington’s house was in Bloomfield Hills. Modern, clean, and oversized. The kind of place that didn't show up in family press releases, but you knew was paid for in cash. The gates were open. I drove straight in.

She answered the door barefoot, holding a glass of white wine. It wasn't noon. Her hair fell in expensive waves around her shoulders, and her casual outfit somehow managed to convey the price tag hadn’t been casual at all. Everything about her screamed old money trying to look effortless.

“You’re Rockne?” she asked.

“I am.”

"You're early," she said, her voice cool.

"No better time than the present." I kept my tone neutral.

"I thought my mother hired you.”

“She did.”

“So why are you here?”

"I'm here about Paul Voss."

She tilted her head. "The one who lit himself on fire?" Her voice carried just enough detachment to be disturbing.

"That's one way to put it." I let the words hang between us.

She stepped back, motioning me in. I didn't hesitate. The entryway opened to cathedral ceilings and a sweeping staircase that probably led to rooms nobody used.

The house was colder than it needed to be. Clean furniture, soft lighting, big art on the walls that didn't say anything. Abstract splashes of color in expensive frames - the kind rich people buy because their decorator told them to.

She walked ahead of me with practiced elegance. Her body was curvy in all the right places and her tan legs were smooth and alluring. She sat on a long white couch and gestured to the opposite seat.

"Why would I know anything about Paul Voss?" she asked, swirling her wine absently. The sunlight through the tall windows caught the liquid, making it glow amber.

"It’s quite possible you don’t," I said. "But the building he burned belonged to your family."

“My family owns lots of buildings that haven’t burned down. I don’t know anyone who works in those, either. She ran a manicured finger along the rim of her glass.

“Voss was a security guard,” I prompted.

“He was also, from what I hear, quite flammable.” She smiled, took a slow sip of wine, leaving a perfect lipstick print on the glass. The cruelty in her offhand joke surprised me, but I kept my face still.

I didn't say anything.

"You're trying to connect the fires," she said, leaning forward slightly. "The one downtown. The latest one with the dead man and the suicide note.” Her condescension was palpable, a defensive mechanism I'd seen countless times before.

"Is that what this is?" I asked.

She uncrossed her legs, the expensive fabric of her lounge pants whispering against the leather. "You came all this way to talk about an arsonist. I was hoping for something more interesting." Her smile turned predatory.

“There’s nothing interesting about why I’m here.”

“You can say that again. Maybe another time you can come back and try a little harder?" She tilted her head, a practiced gesture of feigned interest.

This time it was me who smiled. “You never know, do you?”

Chapter 13

The text came through just after noon.

Driftwood Café, Russell St. – Come alone. Sit at the table by the window. I have information.

Why not? I thought to myself.

The Driftwood Café sat just east of Eastern Market, wedged between a boarded-up bakery and a juice place. Outside, a kid in a hoodie pushed a broom through a pile of glass that hadn't been swept in a week. His shoulders hunched against the wind, face half-hidden beneath a frayed Tigers cap.

Inside, the walls were exposed brick and reclaimed wood. They sold coffee, Wi-Fi, and the illusion that everything was going to be just fine.

I parked two blocks away, and walked to the café, glad to have my gun in my waistband. Not because I was in Detroit, but agreeing to a meeting with an unknown element was never a great idea.

Inside, the place was empty except for the barista, and a guy sitting alone at the table by the window. He glanced up, nodded toward the barista. I went and got a coffee then took a seat next to the guy by the window.

He had on a black wool coat that looked expensive without being flashy. No visible jewelry.

He didn't look up.

I took a sip of coffee that was too hot and too bitter, but I didn't say anything.

The guy reached into his coat and for a second I thought he might shoot me, but instead, he pulled out a white envelope. It was thick and neat and smelled faintly of aftershave and cigars. Cuban, if I had to guess. He placed it flat between us on the table. His hands were immaculate, with manicured nails.

"I looked into you," he said. "Cop. Messed that up pretty badly. Now private detective.”

"Thanks for the career review. And you are…?”

"You've been asking questions about the Harringtons."

"I've been asked to look into the recent fires," I said.

He nodded slightly, like that's what he figured I'd say. A car horn blared outside. He didn't even blink.

"And now it's led you to us."

"Us?" I leaned back slightly, feigning a relaxation I didn't feel. My spine pressed against the wooden chair.

He finally looked at me. Eyes brown and flat.

"You’ve met Michael Harrington?"

He said it like a fact, not a question. I still didn't touch the envelope. Outside, sleet began to tap against the window, a gentle percussion to our quiet confrontation. The café's heating system groaned to life, pushing stale air through vents in the ceiling.

"Why do you ask?”

"He gambles," the man said. "He drinks. He lies. And he owes us a lot of money. Seven figures. Unpaid." He spoke with the calm certainty of someone who kept meticulous records of debts owed.

I watched a drop of condensation slide down my coffee mug, leaving a trail on the scarred table.

“You asked me to meet you here for that?”

"We gave him time,” the man said. “We gave him options. He made promises. Real ones. Said he had ways to move money through side holdings. Said he'd leverage assets." His fingers tapped once on the table, the only sign of impatience he'd shown.

It didn’t take a genius to understand what he was implying. Michael Harrington was burning down his family’s business to pay off his gambling debts. But it sounded like he hadn’t been cutting anyone checks.

“That’s really between you and him, isn’t it?” I asked.

“We let it slide because of the name. Because Greta still carried weight. But now the warehouses are burning, and a guy who worked for the family is found charred in a building with a suicide note and no details." He actually laughed slightly. “Which is total bullshit by the way.”

"Paul Voss," I said. The name of a dead man hung between us.

He nodded once. "You see the problem." It wasn't a question.

I kept my hands on the table. The wood was sticky with old sugar and spilled drinks. "So what’s the plan here? " I asked. "You trying to hire me?"

"No," he said. "We have people. You're not one of them." The way he said it made it clear that was a good thing for me.

"So this is a warning."

He shook his head. "This is a request. You tell Michael Harrington we want our money. Not a body." The last three words hung in the air like smoke.

"Why tell me?" I asked. "Why not go to him directly?" A woman with a stroller struggled through the front door.

"We’re killing two birds with one stone.”

He left it there. I didn’t get it.

He stood up, slow and careful, like a man who didn't like to make sudden moves. He adjusted his coat, looked at the envelope one last time, and said, "That's not for you."

"Then who's it for?"

"It's so you understand we're serious." His gaze swept across the café, the rain now falling steadily outside.

He walked out without looking back. The bell over the door jingled softly and then went still. Through the window, I watched him disappear into the gray afternoon without hurry or hesitation.

I sat there for another minute, then slid the envelope toward me and opened it. The paper was expensive, thick stock that didn't bend easily.

Inside: a single photo. Michael Harrington, at a club somewhere dark and loud, sitting between two women who looked rented. His eyes were glazed, pupils wide with something chemical. The timestamp said two weeks ago. Behind the photo, a stack of fifties. Five grand, maybe more. Crisp. Rubber-banded. New bills that hadn't had time to circulate, straight from a bank somewhere.

No instructions. No signature. Just money and implications.

I finished my coffee, took the envelope and walked out the back. The alley reeked of garbage and cigarettes. A stray cat darted between dumpsters as my boots splashed through puddles.

The money would go to a charity, and the threats and implications would stay with me until I figured what in the good goddamn hell it all meant.

Chapter 14

I left the coffee shop through the back, cut through an alley littered with cigarette butts and rain-soaked newspapers, and took a longer route to the car. Just in case anyone was curious where I'd parked.

By the time I got back to Grosse Pointe, the city was softening into afternoon. Golden light slanted across the storefronts.

My office parking lot was half full, mostly sedans and minivans belonging to the usual crowd of professional types who populated this part of town. Someone had left a folded newspaper wedged in my doorframe, the edges curled. I stepped over it and climbed the stairs.

Inside, the air was stale, carrying the faint scent of old coffee and the lemon-scented cleaner the janitorial service used once a week whether the place needed it or not. I flipped the light on and saw the envelope right away—thick cream stock, my name written in ballpoint across the front in a hurried scrawl that slanted to the right.

No return address, but I recognized my buddy Nate Becker's handwriting.

I opened it, the paper making a satisfying sound as I tore the sealed flap. Inside was a printed ticket, the kind that feels expensive between your fingers. Big fundraiser at the Grosse Pointe War Memorial, tonight at seven. Heavy cardstock. Expensive ink. Gold foil trim around the edges that caught the light when I turned it in my hand.

There was a Post-it note stuck to the back of the ticket, its adhesive barely holding on anymore. "Can't make it. Figured you might want to crash the party. —Nate."

No mention of the Harringtons, but I knew they'd be there. It was their kind of crowd. Legacy families. Money in suits. Old fortunes pretending they'd never been touched by scandal.

I checked the time. Just after five.

After checking my messages and following up on an invoice or two, I drove home.

Anna was finishing a phone call when I walked in, her voice trailing off as she noticed me pulling out my good suit

"Where are you going?" she asked, setting the phone down on the nightstand where a dog-eared paperback lay open and waiting.

"Some fancy fundraiser where the Harringtons are going to be," I replied. “Might be a good place to learn a few things since they’ll all be there, I’m assuming.”

I changed. Dark suit with subtle pinstripes that had been fashionable about five years ago, pressed white shirt still crisp from the cleaners, real shoes that pinched at the toes because I so rarely wore them. I didn't own a tux, but I knew how to look close enough to pass inspection at the door. I stood in front of the mirror for a few seconds, adjusting my tie. Then I went back downstairs.

"When will you be home?" she asked.

"Not late,” I replied.

“Easy on the martinis,” she said with a smile. “You’re not exactly James Bond.”

It was an inside joke as I preferred a good beer instead.

“Okay, Moneypenny,” I said.

The Grosse Pointe War Memorial sat on a stretch of manicured lawn overlooking Lake St. Clair, where small waves lapped against the shore in a steady rhythm. The building loomed against the sky, lights already blazing from every window.

Stone pillars, weathered by decades of Michigan seasons, framed the entrance. American flags snapped in the evening breeze atop gleaming flagpoles. A curved drive lined with rental cars and town cars—mostly black, all expensive—led to the grand entrance where men in red vests waited with practiced smiles.

A valet with carefully combed hair took my keys without comment, handling my sensible sedan as if it might be contaminated with germs.

Inside, the building was warm and white and filled with old money. Chandeliers cast a soft glow over gathering clusters of Detroit's elite, their jewelry catching the light. The sound of a string quartet carried across the marble floor, playing something classical and inoffensive that nobody was really listening to.

Tables lined the edges of the room, each one branded by a sponsor that paid too much to be ignored—banks, auto companies, and law firms. There were name tags arranged alphabetically on a table near the entrance, passed hors d'oeuvres on silver trays carried by servers, and just enough lighting to keep people from falling asleep in their drinks while they waited for the evening's program to begin.

I walked past a table offering glossy brochures about youth development and community outreach. It was the kind of event where nobody knew the cause unless they'd written the check themselves, and even then, most were just there to be seen writing it.

The Harringtons had a table near the center of the room, positioned perfectly to see and be seen. Michael was holding court in a navy tux that looked custom-tailored, a glass of amber liquid in one manicured hand as he laughed too loudly at someone's joke.

Greta sat beside him, not smiling, her posture rigid, diamonds at her throat. Vanessa stood nearby in a black dress cut to remind people she could still get attention without trying, her dark hair swept up to expose the elegant line of her neck where a simple pendant hung. There were others—cousins maybe, or board members—but the three of them were the core, the triumvirate that controlled the family fortune.

I didn't approach right away. Just watched from behind a column, noting how people orbited around them like satellites, seeking warmth from their proximity to power.

A waiter passed with a tray of champagne flutes, bubbles rising in perfect streams. I took a glass and didn't drink it. Someone brushed my arm and turned—recognition in his eyes, then a polite nod before he moved on, probably mistook me for someone with a trust fund and a seat on a subcommittee for downtown development.

Vanessa saw me first. Her eyes landed, cold and calculating, stayed a beat too long, then she turned back as if she hadn’t recognized me, even though we both knew she had.

Michael hadn't seen me yet, too busy playing the generous patriarch for a circle of admirers. Greta was half-listening to a man her age and looked supremely bored.

I circled toward the edge of the room, past a display of black and white photographs showing the memorial's history and found a small high-top table with a half-eaten napkin of shrimp and a discarded program listing the night's honorees.

A server cleaned the table for me and I stood there, alone, waiting. There was no hurry.

Plus, I hadn’t had any of the appetizers yet.

A couple minutes later, Vanessa drifted away from the main group and passed through a side doorway near the bar, holding a fresh drink—something clear with a lime—and glancing once over her shoulder, a quick sweep of the room.

A man followed—mid-forties, tan that seemed too perfect for this time of year in Michigan.

There was a hallway off the main ballroom, lined with framed photos of politicians shaking hands with donors. The carpet here was thinner, less plush than in the main hall. I kept walking until I heard them. Her voice first, low and controlled but with an edge of tension.

"No. That's not what we agreed." The words clipped and precise.

Then his, a baritone rumble with a hint of Southern drawl. "I'm telling you what changed. If we don't move it, we lose it. Simple as that." He emphasized each point with what I imagined was a jabbing finger.

A pause. Fabric shifting. Maybe she moved closer, invading his space the way people with power often do.

"And the other thing?" Her voice softer now, almost intimate, the kind of tone that makes men forget themselves.

A longer pause. "Handled."

Vanessa said something quieter, her voice barely a whisper against the distant music. I only caught one word. "Cleanup."

They went silent. I didn't linger. Just turned and made my way back into the crowd, past a waiter collecting empty glasses and a woman adjusting her uncomfortable shoes when she thought no one was looking.

I was halfway to the exit when I saw her—my sister Ellen, in a dark dress that looked like it had been chosen last-minute off a department store rack. Her hair was pulled back in a simple knot, no jewelry except a small gold necklace.

She was standing near the coat check, talking to a man in uniform—private security, not police, based on the cut of his jacket. When she spotted me, she broke off the conversation with a small nod and walked over.

"Nice suit," she said. “Should be back in style in a decade or two.”

This was the deal: my sister gave me so much crap, but I sort of enjoyed it.

“Thanks,” I replied. “I’m very forward thinking. What the hell are you doing here?”

“Got an invite, figured, why not?”

She looked around, her gaze lingering on the Harrington table where Michael was now standing, one hand on Greta's shoulder, poised for a photographer who was framing the perfect shot.

"You see the family?"

"I did."

“I heard a rumor and I know how much you like to gossip.”

“Shoot.”

“Paul Voss, the vic in the most recent fire? Smoke inhalation may have killed him, but he was already on his way.”

“How so?”

“Internal bruising and bleeding. Fractures in both hands. Signs of restraint. Mouth injuries." She listed them like items in a grocery list.

"To get him to write the ‘suicide’ note.”

She nodded. “Most likely.”

Chapter 15

The flight landed late, just before the airport started to empty out.

Rain peppered the tarmac and he didn't wait for checked luggage. He just carried a small, black hard-shell case with no tags and no markings.

Outside, the night air was cool as he bypassed the taxi line, ignoring the drivers who called out destinations and rates. He took a town car instead of a cab—black Lincoln Continental with tinted windows and discrete plates.

No conversation.

The driver, a heavy-set man with a neatly trimmed beard, made no attempt at conversation. The man in the backseat gave the driver an address downtown. He kept his eyes on the buildings as they passed—abandoned schools with boarded windows, chain-link lots where weeds pushed through concrete with stubborn persistence, glass towers still lit at midnight.

He said nothing until they reached the hotel, his reflection in the window glass occasionally catching the passing streetlights.

It was one of the newer places on Jefferson, the kind that tried hard not to look like it was in Detroit, but rather Singapore or Dubai. Tall lobby with a three-story atrium. The elevator was mirror-lined, forcing him to see himself from all angles. He stood perfectly still, eyes forward, the small case held loosely at his side. The key card in his pocket had been waiting for him at check-in—along with a second case. No name required, just a confirmation number memorized and then discarded.

The room was on a high floor, corner suite, facing the river. Two entrances, three exit routes including the service corridor he'd already memorized from building plans. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view. You could see the lights from Canada across the water.

He ignored the view.

He locked the door—deadbolt, chain, then wedged a doorstop underneath for good measure. Old habits. He swept the room methodically—checking corners, closets, under the king-sized bed, behind the heavy curtains, inside the air conditioning vent near the ceiling. Only then did he pull the shades with a soft mechanical whir, plunging the room into artificial twilight, and set the second case on the bed.

Then he opened it.

Inside: a compact silenced pistol—Walther PPK with custom suppressor, serial numbers filed away with surgical precision. A thin fighting knife with a carbon-fiber handle, flat black and deadly sharp. A roll of piano wire, coiled neatly. Gloves of thin, supple leather that allowed for perfect tactile sensation while leaving no prints. A burner phone, still in factory plastic. A folded sheet of heavy-gauge plastic, vacuum-sealed and compact. A collapsible baton that extended to twenty-eight inches with the flick of a wrist. work.

He unpacked without hurry, laying out each item on the dresser in a neat row like a surgeon preparing for an operation.

Then he removed his jacket—charcoal gray, expensive but unremarkable, the kind that blended in anywhere. He hung it carefully in the closet, smoothing an invisible wrinkle. His shirt was crisp white cotton, collar unbuttoned but still perfectly aligned. He stepped into the bathroom, flicking on lights that illuminated his face with unforgiving clarity.

He looked at himself in the mirror—just for a second. Not vanity, but assessment. A face assembled from perfect averages—nose neither too large nor too small, eyes neither wide nor narrow, mouth a straight line neither smiling nor frowning.

The kind of face witnesses struggled to describe later.

Except for one detail.

A deep scar curved along the left side of his neck, just under the jaw. Pale and clean, the kind that never fully faded.

He turned off the light and returned to the main room. Sat on the edge of the bed.

He knew Detroit.

He knew the target.

John Rockne.

Part Four

Chapter 16

Ellen sat across from me in the office, near the window. Rain pattered against the glass, creating rivulets that distorted the view of the street below.

I'd cleared the desk except for the basics—notes scribbled on legal pads with coffee ring stains, a timeline pinned to a cork board with red string connecting key events and players.

“When do you have to go back?” I asked her.

“Couple days. I’ve checked in and nothing requires me to race back.” As chief of police of a small town in northern Michigan, Ellen’s work wasn’t super intense.

Rain drummed harder against the window, punctuating the silence between us.

"So Voss was supposed to be the fall guy," I said, tapping a pen against a photo of the downtown fire. The image showed the charred remains of what had once been a storage facility, yellow police tape fluttering in the foreground like misplaced party decorations.

Ellen didn't argue. "We know he was tortured. We know the note wasn't voluntary."

"That means someone wanted a story on record,” I said. “A single actor, conveniently dead. All questions answered in one final fire."

Ellen was studying the photos again, looking for something we both might have missed.

"The second fire was cleaner," she said, picking up a black and white image of the second scene. Her fingernail traced the outline of what had once been a building, now reduced to skeletal beams and ash.

Outside, a car horn blared, followed by the squeal of wet brakes.

"Downtown fire makes a splash,” I said. “North of the city, you wrap it up before the morning news cycle."

“You sound so cynical, John,” Ellen said with a smirk. “I must be rubbing off on you.”

“No, I’m still too nice,” I replied. “So we're back to the two possibilities. Someone inside the family—or someone outside with a reason to burn things down." She glanced at the photos of the Harringtons I'd pinned to a separate board—society page clippings, press releases, photos from other highbrow events.

"The Mob angle makes sense on paper," I said, dropping back into my chair. "They've got leverage on Michael. They've got the experience. But that kind of statement usually comes with blood, and the heads of horses in people’s beds, not careful paperwork and staged suicides."

“Fair point,” she said. "And inside the family?"

I rubbed my eyes. The coffee in my own mug had gone cold, but I took a sip anyway, grimacing at the bitterness. "Vanessa's got reach. She's evasive. Michael's running scared, maybe worse."

"But even if one of them's involved, they'd need someone to carry it out. Someone quiet. Professional.”

“Or desperate."

"And Greta?" Ellen asked, her eyes on the society page photo where the matriarch stood stone-faced beside her late husband's portrait, not a hair out of place even in mourning.

"If she's orchestrating this, hiring me was one hell of a smoke screen." I leaned back, the chair protesting.

We sat there for a minute, neither of us speaking. Rain continued its steady percussion against the windows. The jeweler's light downstairs finally went out, plunging the street below into deeper shadow. The only sound was the soft ticking of the clock on the wall.

My phone buzzed, and I glanced down. Ellen must have seen the expression on my face.

“What is it?” she asked.

I sighed.

“Michael Harrington has disappeared.”

Chapter 17

The sky was turning over, pale and flat when I left the office, the lake pulling in cold air from the east.

Michael Harrington had vanished. Not surprising for a guy with no job and plenty of money. The question wasn't how he pulled it off—it was why now.

Too much pressure? Possible. The mob was leaning in. The family was in disarray. Maybe he got spooked and ran.

Or maybe someone helped him vanish.

If Michael knew something—about the fires, about Paul Voss, about the flow of money in and out of various companies—then maybe someone with more to lose had decided it was safer if he went quiet. For good or just out of reach, I didn't know yet.

It was time to ask my client, Greta Harrington, if she knew anything about it, and if I could pry any more information out of her. I didn’t have high hopes, but figured I might as well roll the dice.

Naturally, her place sat on the edge of Lake St. Clair where all of the old money tended to congregate. Broad lawns, hedges cut to military precision, iron gates that looked original and probably were. The kind of property that didn't get sold—it got passed down.

I pulled through the gates and followed the curved drive past the manicured gardens and old stone fountains. Lights were on in the windows.

After parking near the side entrance, I killed the engine.

Let's see what Greta had to say now.

The night air held that specific chill that comes off water. Not the sharp bite of winter yet, but a warning of what was coming. The house loomed above me, three stories of old money and older secrets. How many generations of Harringtons had lived and died here, passing down their fortunes and their sins?

My breath clouded in front of me as I approached the door. Something moved in my peripheral vision—probably just the wind in the hedges, but I found myself scanning the shadows anyway.

A man in a dark suit answered the door. Not Gerald—someone younger, built like he'd been hired for his shoulders, not his manners.

"Ms. Harrington is expecting you," he said.

He led me through the front hall, past a grand staircase and into a sitting room lined with old furniture in perfect condition. Greta Harrington sat in a high-backed chair by the fireplace, a thin book closed in her lap, her reading glasses resting halfway down her nose.

"Mr. Rockne," she said.

"Mrs. Harrington."

She gestured toward a leather chair across from her. "Please."

The servant vanished without another word. I sat down.

"Michael," I said. "Is it true? He's disappeared?"

Her expression didn't change. "Define disappeared."

"No one's seen him. No contact. Not with you. Not with the people he owes. Not with anyone."

She folded her glasses and set them on the armrest. "Michael is… unpredictable. This wouldn't be the first time he's decided to take a break from accountability."

"How long has it been?"

"Not long."

The fire snapped, sending a shower of sparks against the grate. Outside, the wind picked up, rattling a loose pane somewhere in the house's vast network of windows.

"So what do you think happened?" I asked.

"I think he left," she said. "He's done it before."

"You don't think someone forced him to disappear?"

"No one can make Michael do anything he doesn’t want to do.”

She definitely spoke from experience.

Her tone was calm, but something underneath was pulling tighter. Her fingers tapped once against the book's leather cover.

"I'm trying to understand the pattern," I said. "Two fires. A dead man with a staged confession. And now a missing son. Either someone's cleaning house, or someone's using your family to cover something else."

"And you think I know the answer?"

"You might."

She shifted in her chair, the book now forgotten. The firelight carved deeper lines into her face, showing the woman behind the careful facade. For a moment, I saw a flash of something—fear? Anger? It disappeared too quickly to name.

"You were hired to investigate, Mr. Rockne. Not to interrogate. If I had the answers, I wouldn't need you."

"You've kept things from me."

"I've kept a great many things from a great many people. That's how families like mine survive."

I didn't respond. The silence stretched between us. A clock ticked somewhere in the depths of the house.

She stood slowly, steady, one hand on the chair. The diamond on her right hand caught the light.

"Let me remind you of something," she said. "You're not a detective anymore. You're a man with an office above a jewelry store and just enough curiosity to be dangerous. If you want answers, find them. That's what I'm paying you for. And if you want me to keep paying you, I suggest for your next visit you arrive with answers.”

The fire crackled behind her.

"Understood," I said.

The suited man materialized in the hallway, silent as a shadow. I followed him back through the maze of corridors, noting the family portraits watching from the walls—stern faces spanning a century, all with those same Harrington eyes. Cold. Assessing. Even in paint and canvas, they seemed to be measuring what you were worth to them.

We reached the door, and he opened it without a word. The night had grown colder while I was inside. The clouds had cleared, leaving a sky full of distant, indifferent stars. As I walked to my car, I heard the distinct click of the door being locked behind me.

I reached for my keys and paused, looking back at the house. A silhouette stood at an upstairs window.

The Harrington estate retreated in my rearview mirror.

The timing wasn't coincidental. I needed to find him before someone else did, preferably alive.

But for some reason, I was already thinking he was dead.

Chapter 18

The phone buzzed just after seven. I was halfway through a cup of coffee. Nate Becker's name lit up the screen.

The mug was chipped at the rim, and the house was cold—the morning chill had settled into the floorboards and walls. Outside, the sky was the color of wet concrete, threatening rain that would probably turn to sleet by afternoon.

I answered.

"You're up early," I said.

Nate never called before nine unless something had broken. In our line of work, news that couldn't wait was rarely good.

"Check the front page of the Detroit News site," he said.

I opened the laptop on the kitchen table and pulled up the page. It took a second to load.

The headline sat dead center, black on white: "Harrington Family Confirms Return of Long-Missing Heir."

The words hit me like a slap. The case was already complicated enough—this was going to make it exponentially worse.

I scrolled. The photo hit like a slow punch.

Catherine Harrington. Mid-forties. Controlled smile.

She looked good for someone who was supposed to be dead.

The caption: Catherine Harrington, believed dead in a private plane crash over a decade ago, confirmed alive and now has returned to Detroit.

I kept reading. The article was light on details. No explanation about where she'd been. No explanation about why she was back now. Just a few quotes about "privacy," "healing," and "transitioning leadership."

The article danced around the obvious questions. Where had she been for ten years? Why come back now, right when the family business was dealing with a possible arsonist? The timing was too perfect to be coincidence.

Nate's voice came through the phone again. "So, what do you make of that?"

I could hear traffic in the background. He was probably calling from his car.

"I make it about twenty years too late."

"The other Harrington kids can’t be happy," he said.

“Maybe Michael knew what was coming, so he skedaddled,” I replied.

“Bad move strategically. You would think he might want to stay and fight.”

I was staring at Catherine's face in the photo, trying to read into something that probably wasn’t there.

"Catherine," Nate said. "She came back for a reason."

Of course she had. The Harrington empire was having issues. Michael had been gambling away his portion. The fire at the warehouse had destroyed evidence that might have pointed to insurance fraud. Now Catherine returns, right when the family needs to close ranks and present a united front.

I stared at the screen.

One heir vanished. Another one reappeared.

My coffee had gone completely cold. I pushed it away, suddenly aware of how quiet the house was. Anna and the girls were at the school.

And now, my case had just taken another strange turn.

"I've got to go," I said.

"Keep me posted," Nate said, and hung up.

Catherine Harrington was alive.

I grabbed my coat and keys.

Something told me it was going to be a very long day.

Chapter 19

The black limo eased to the curb.

Having just left the office, it occurred to me someone had put me under surveillance.

Tinted windows, polished finish, engine purring. The streetlights caught the glossy surface, reflecting distorted versions of the empty sidewalk.

The rear window dropped halfway with a soft electric hum.

"Rockne," Vanessa Harrington said. “Get in. I’ll pour you a drink.”

No hesitation in her voice. Just weariness and vodka. The words hung in the damp night air between us, not a request but a command she was used to having obeyed.

The driver didn't move. Eyes forward, hands still on the wheel. Clearly not a conversation he planned to participate in. His rigid posture and the tight set of his jaw suggested he'd learned long ago when to become invisible. The Harringtons paid well for that skill.

The door opened with a muted thunk, and the air inside hit sharp—leather, perfume, and the unmistakable bite of alcohol. Premium vodka, certainly. The interior lights were dimmed to a soft amber glow that couldn't hide the storm brewing behind her eyes.

Vanessa lounged in the backseat with a drink melting in her hand. Legs crossed, black nylons, very sexy. Diamond earrings caught what little light there was, cold fire against her flushed skin.

"You're working hard,” she said, lifting the glass in a loose mock-toast. "Good. Saves me the trouble of tracking you down." Ice clinked against crystal as she took another sip, her lipstick leaving a scarlet smudge on the rim. Her pupils were dilated, whether from the dim light or the alcohol, I couldn't tell.

The limo pulled into traffic. No destination given, which meant the driver knew to keep moving until told otherwise. The privacy partition was already up—another unspoken rule of employment with the Harrington family.

"Catherine's return caught you by surprise too, didn't it?" I watched her face carefully as I settled into the leather seat opposite her, keeping more distance than the enclosed space really allowed.

She shoved a drink into my hand.

A short laugh broke from her throat. "One day she's a ghost, the next she's the heir apparent. No warning. No explanation. And Greta—so calm, like she expected it all along." She swirled the remaining liquid in her glass, eyes fixed on the miniature whirlpool she'd created.

Silence filled the space for a beat. The only sounds were the muted hum of tires on asphalt and the slow melt of ice in her glass.

"She just shows up, smiles for the cameras, and now we’re supposed to welcome her back. Do you believe this shit?”

Her voice took on an edge that hadn't been there before. She knocked back the rest of her drink in one swallow, throat working as the alcohol disappeared.

Her hand reached across, brushing my jacket, lingering just a second too long. Fingernails painted deep burgundy traced a line down the lapel, stopping just above my heart. The car took a turn, and she used the momentum to slide closer, her knee now pressing against mine.

"We don't have to make it complicated." The tone dropped a notch, half-invitation, half-dare. Her breath was warm against my face. "Just two consenting adults who understand how the world really works." Her hand moved from my jacket to my thigh, fingers digging in slightly. "I could make it worth your goddamn while, Rockne. Share things Greta would never tell you."

"The offer is tempting, but I don’t think my wife would approve." I kept my voice neutral, but firm.

The hand lingered, then fell away. Something flashed in her eyes—anger, embarrassment, or both.

"Still loyal," she muttered, eyes turning to the window. "Maybe I misread you." Her reflection in the glass showed a tightening around her mouth, pride wounded. She reached for the bottle beside her, pouring herself another drink without offering me any. "Or maybe you’re just too weak to handle a woman like me.”

The ice in her glass clinked as she shifted her weight, creating more space between us now. The city lights streaked past the window, painting her profile in alternating shadow and harsh illumination.

"Let's talk business, then,” she said. “What have you found?" She was trying to sound casual now, but I figured this was the real reason she’d ambushed me.

"It's between me and my client."

She turned her head slowly. "You’re a real bastard, aren’t you?" Her eyes narrowed, calculating. The rejection had sobered her or at least focused her anger.

“No, my birth certificate is valid.”

Silence.

"Greta gave you a job,” Vanessa spat at me. “Doesn't mean you owe her the truth. Hell, she doesn't even know what to do with it." She leaned forward, close enough that I could see the tiny crow's feet beginning at the corners of her eyes that even the best plastic surgeons couldn't erase completely. "You think I don't know what she's hiding? Everyone’s got secrets, right John?”

I braced myself because I knew what was coming next.

“Like you getting kicked off the police force. For incompetence. Letting some kid get carved up and tossed into the lake? Nice going, hotshot.”

“So you’re a mean drunk,” I commented.

Her smile twisted into something colder. The transformation was remarkable—one second a would-be seductress, the next a killer.

"You really think you're important in this? You're a paper badge and a bad reputation. Fired from the department, shoved out the side door, and now playing dress-up in an office above a jewelry store." Each word was precisely aimed to cut deep. "When this is over, they'll toss you aside like every other hired help. That's what we do, Rockne. That's what the Harringtons have always done."

Her voice dropped again, quieter this time.

"Get out."

The car stopped without warning. No signal from her. No words to the driver. Just another unspoken communication in a family that specialized in things left unsaid.

The door opened, streetlight spilling across the sidewalk. I realized we had looped back to where we started. The timing, like everything else, perfectly calculated.

She didn't look at me when I stepped out. Just stared straight ahead, jaw set, one hand clutching her glass so tightly I thought it might shatter.

The door shut behind me, and the limo disappeared into the dark, leaving me alone with the taste of her perfume still lingering in my nostrils and the distinct feeling that I'd just survived something more dangerous than I'd initially recognized.

Chapter 20

A part of me wished I had taken that drink from Vanessa. What the hell? When was the last time a hot woman bought me a cocktail?

It would make for a good story, if anyone actually believed me.

I walked around the building to my car. In the distance, the sound of a garbage truck turning onto Charlevoix was fighting the sound of a siren from somewhere, probably the dangerous neighborhoods on the border of Grosse Pointe.

My car really needed a wash and I debated about zipping up to the self-serve car wash but I was hungry and Anna had mentioned she might be making lasagna. With her homemade sauce rich with garlic and oregano.

My stomach grumbled as I slid behind the wheel.

Not as nice as the damn limo I’d just been in but it got me where I needed to go.

I keyed the ignition and the world detonated.

A blast of white and orange erupted in my face and then the sound hit–deep, violent, hollow—and the entire front of the car lifted and slammed back down.

The concussion hit my chest like a sledgehammer, compressing my lungs, forcing the air out in a rush. I couldn’t see but felt fragments of something hitting me in the face.

The blast threw me sideways. My shoulder crushed into the inside of the door. Something sharp tore into my thigh. The windshield exploded outward, glass slicing through the cabin like shrapnel.

The impact drove splinters of safety glass into my forearm where it had come up reflexively to shield my face. Blood beaded along the cuts, bright against my skin in the infernal light. My ears rang with a high-pitched whine that drowned out everything else, the audio equivalent of staring into the sun.

A rush of smoke poured in from the dash vents, thick and chemical. Couldn't see. Couldn't think. Just motion and pain.

The acrid smell filled my throat, coating it with something that tasted like burning plastic and copper. The heat was unbearable. Briefly, my vision came back and I saw flames licking at the edges of the warped and burning dashboard, hungry and growing.

The rearview mirror had detached, striking me across the temple. Something warm trickled down the side of my face—blood or sweat, I couldn't tell. Probably both.

My hand groped for the door handle. Found it by luck or instinct. Fell sideways out of the car. Crashed onto the pavement. Heat rolled across my back. A second blast—smaller, deeper—pushed a wave of air over me.

The impact with the asphalt sent new pain shooting through my already battered body. Sharp, jagged pieces of gravel embedded themselves in my palms. The explosion had superheated the metal of the car; I could feel the blistering heat radiating off it even as I lay sprawled two feet away. My lungs struggled to pull in clean air, finding only smoke and dust.

Tried to move but nothing happened.

The world tilted and spun. Pain lanced through my left side—hot, wet. My breathing turned sharp, shallow. Couldn't fill my lungs.

The rough surface of the asphalt scraped against my skin. My vision was gone again, maybe from swelling shut.

Voices rang out in the distance. A woman yelling. Footsteps pounding closer.

The sounds seemed to come from underwater, distorted and unreal. Someone was shouting about calling 911. Another voice—male, panicked—saying something about the gas tank, about getting back. The footsteps grew louder, more distinct than the voices, vibrating through the pavement into my cheek.

Hands on me. Pressure on my shoulder.

The movement sent fresh waves of agony through my chest. I wanted to scream, but nothing came out.

"Sir—hey! Sir!”

Her voice broke through the ringing in my ears.

The smoke, the heat, the pain in my chest—all of it closed in on me like someone slowly turning a dial.

The sirens, the crackling of the fire, the urgent voices—all faded until only the beating of my heart remained, loud at first, then softer, irregular. The ringing in my ears gave way to a cottony silence, a vacuum of sound more profound than mere quiet.

The orange glow dimmed. Strange patterns danced across what remained of my vision—bright white spots and dark blotches. No pain, no fear, no thoughts. Just darkness, absolute and complete.

The last firing synapse in my brain registered a single, crystal-clear thought before everything went black.

Someone had tried to kill me.

And then a second thought before everything went black.

Maybe they had succeeded.

Part Five

Chapter 21

Reed sat in a black sedan with stolen Michigan plates, engine off, parked at the end of a quiet side street a block from the blast. The explosion had drawn sirens from every corner of the village. Red and blue lights bounced off shop windows. A handful of pedestrians stood frozen on the sidewalks, phones out, mouths open.

The sedan—a Chrysler 300, five years old, with aftermarket tints just dark enough to obscure his features without attracting attention—had been purchased in cash at a dealership outside Chicago. Clean interior, nothing personal inside. Just like Reed himself.

A thin trail of cigarette smoke curled toward the ceiling. He'd allowed himself this one indulgence while he waited. The ashtray held three perfectly crushed butts, evenly spaced like soldiers at attention. His watch—a plain Timex with no distinguishing features—read 9:52. Four minutes since the explosion. Response time was better than he'd anticipated.

Through the windshield, he had a clean angle on the lot behind the jewelry store. What was left of Rockne's car still smoked in the middle of it—hood blown open, glass scattered across the pavement like confetti after a parade gone wrong.

Flames still licked at the undercarriage, casting an orange glow that illuminated the smoke billowing upward into the night sky. A police officer attempted to cordon off the area with yellow tape that fluttered in the slight breeze. Another stood by his cruiser, radio to his mouth, speaking urgently into it. The explosion had been louder than Reed had calculated—he'd felt the pressure wave even at this distance, a soft push against the car windows like a gentle hand.

He watched a pair of paramedics kneel beside a figure slumped near the curb. Couldn't see the face from this far out, but Reed was sure it was Rockne.

A third responder arrived with a stretcher. The flashing lights caught the chrome edge of a portable oxygen tank as they positioned it beside Rockne's prone form. A small crowd had gathered at the edge of the lot, held back by another officer who seemed overwhelmed by the chaos.

Rockne wasn’t dead, Reed thought. Goddamnit.

His eyes—pale blue, almost colorless in certain light—remained fixed on the scene.

The device had been flawless. Planted the night before. Triggered by ignition, set with the right spread and pressure. It should have worked.

The components had been sourced from three different countries. Military-grade, but modified to appear cruder, more amateurish—the kind of signature that would point investigators toward organized crime, not a professional.

Reed had calibrated the exact distribution of the charge to ensure maximum force directed upward at a seventy-degree angle. He'd accounted for the vehicle's age, the worn springs in the seat, even the average weight distribution of a man of Rockne's build.

But something had changed—timing, posture, position. A small variable. That's what annoyed him. Not the failure. The sliver of movement that threw the whole thing off by inches.

A droplet of condensation formed on the outside of the car window, tracking a slow path downward. Reed followed it with his eyes for a moment, then returned his attention to the scene.

Grosse Pointe didn't offer much for shadows or high ground. No rooftops to watch from. No crowds to disappear into. Everything here was neat and quiet and exposed. Reed had parked under a maple tree.

A late model SUV drove past, the driver slowing to rubberneck at the commotion down the block. Reed kept his gaze forward. The car passed without pause.

He adjusted the rearview mirror, checked the side street.

Still clear.

The adjustable phone mount on the dashboard held no phone. The cup holders were empty and he had tossed the cigarettes. The glove compartment contained only the vehicle registration and insurance—both immaculately forged, both leading to dead ends should anyone check.

Reed had left no fingerprints, no DNA, no trace of himself anywhere in the vehicle. He wore thin surgical gloves under driving gloves, both of which would be incinerated at the next stop.

The briefcase sat closed on the passenger seat. He didn't look at it.

German-made, with reinforced corners and a custom combination lock. Inside, nestled in precision-cut foam: a disassembled Beretta M9 with suppressor and three magazines.

Plan B.

No need for anything fancy next time. No need for distance.

Just one clean moment.

He visualized it—the hospital corridor, the gentle hiss of ventilators, the soft beep of monitors. The moment of entry. No drama, no spectacle.

Just two shots to the head.

End of story.

Reed started the engine and pulled away.

Chapter 22

Someone was banging on a door. Could've been mine. Could've been years ago.

The sound pulsed through my consciousness like a heartbeat, insistent and irregular. Dreams and reality blurred at the edges.

A dead man, young, floating in the water, his body slashed and torn.

Voices blurred. Some yelling. Then another door slammed.

The dream shifted.

Images blurred, reality fragmenting into pieces before reforming into something else. The transition was jarring, like a record skipping, throwing me into another memory without warning or context.

Back in the squad car, but I wasn't driving. Rain on the windshield, wipers dead. Streetlights flashing in slow motion. My hands were on the dash. Sirens far away, like they belonged to a different city.

The images melted away, dissolving into darkness. The sensations lingered longer—the cold rain, the smell of blood and gunpowder, the taste of fear at the back of my throat.

Nothing for a while. Just a long, cold drift.

And then the beeping started.

Not loud. Steady.

A rhythm that pulled me back, a metronome marking the boundary between then and now. It grew more insistent, more present, until it became impossible to ignore.

Everything hurt.

The ceiling above me was white. Tubes ran from my arm into a bag hanging from a metal stand. Something beeped behind my head.

Breathing took effort. Talking wasn't an option yet.

I was alive.

The realization came slowly, pieced together from evidence rather than memory. The explosion. The car. The heat and pressure and pain. The knowledge that someone had tried very deliberately to kill me and had very nearly succeeded.

When the door opened, I was already awake.

I'd been drifting in and out for hours, watching the changing light through the blinds. The pain had settled into a dull throb. The television mounted in the corner remained off, its black screen a merciful absence of noise.

Ellen stepped in first, carrying a plastic cup of coffee and a smirk like she'd been practicing it since sunrise.

"There he is," she said, standing at the foot of the bed. "The legend lives on."

Her voice carried what only a sibling can properly convey: a mixture of concern and mockery.

Her gaze moved methodically over the monitors, the IV, the bandages visible at the edges of my hospital gown, taking inventory of the damage.

"We needed a new car anyway," I said. My voice came out rough.

My lips were chapped, cracking at the corners. The water cup on the side table was empty, the straw bent from earlier attempts to drink.

Ellen ignored me. "Figured I'd swing by before they rolled you into a padded cell,” she said.

Anna came into the room and stood next to the bed, her hand on my chest.

"Only you, John,” she said. "Only you would get blown up and still find a way to look bored."

I laughed but my ribs protested.

Anna stepped closer, resting a hand on the rail. "You scared the hell out of everyone."

"Sorry."

The pain medication was wearing off, edges of discomfort seeping back into awareness.

"Here’s an idea, John," Ellen said “Maybe don’t park in the same spot every day, especially when you’re working a case where someone has died.”

There was an edge to her voice now, professional assessment breaking through the sibling concern.

"Noted."

Before either of them could come up with something else, the doctor walked in. Early forties, efficient. Clipboard in hand, not bothering with small talk.

His white coat was starched crisp, name badge clipped precisely to the pocket. The clipboard held several pages of charts and notes.

"You're awake. Good. Let's get through this," he said, checking something on the monitor. "You were lucky. No broken bones. Soft tissue damage, some burns on your side. Mild concussion. Honestly, it's a miracle."

His gaze flicked between the monitors and my face, assessing responses and readouts with equal attention. The pen in his hand moved quickly across the chart, updating information as he spoke.

"Everyone says I work miracles,” I offered.

Ellen scoffed, Anna let out a quiet breath.

"You're cleared to leave," the doctor said. "Take it slow. No running, no lifting."

“You’ll have to stop training for your triathlon,” Ellen said.

The clipboard shifted in his hands, a subtle sign he was ready to move on to the next room, the next patient.

"Thanks," I said.

He nodded and left without another word.

Anna dropped a bundle of clothes on the bed. “Let’s get you dressed and home.”

"Try not to get blown up again," Ellen said. "It’s a real inconvenience for us."

I tried to laugh and this time, my ribs allowed it.

Chapter 23

Couch potato.

I’d always wanted that job title, and now I had it.

The painkillers were down to half-strength and the bruises had settled into a dull throb.

Movement still hurt, but at least I could move. I'd been on the couch most of the afternoon. Anna had gone out for groceries and to fill my prescriptions. Ellen sat in the chair across from me, looking at her phone.

"I've got an idea,” I said.

Ellen didn't look up. "Oh, this will be good,” she replied in a tone that suggested she expected nothing good would be involved.

"They came for me once, they’ll try again."

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she replied. “Maybe they were just sending a message.”

“Bait.”

Now she looked up and waited.

"I tell Greta and Vanessa I've been contacted by a whistleblower. Somebody connected to the Harrington’s business. Says Voss was set up, and that there are files—financials, shell accounts, payroll inconsistencies. Loads of good stuff showing who’s behind it all.”

The words came easier now, momentum building as the plan took shape. I shifted slightly, ignoring the protest from my side. A patch of sunlight warmed my arm where it rested on the couch.

"And then what?" A hint of skepticism colored her voice.

"I’ll tell them I want to meet. My office. Tomorrow."

Ellen set down her phone. “And in your condition, you will do….exactly what?”

"See who shows up. See who panics. If someone's in the middle of this, they'll want those files."

"You need backup."

Not a question. A requirement. The non-negotiable term of her participation. Her hand moved unconsciously toward her side, where her badge rested in its leather case.

Outside, a car drove past. Both of us tracked the sound until it faded, a shared instinct neither of us acknowledged.

"Fine,” I said. "But try not to get in my way.”

She scoffed again.

My phone sat on the coffee table, charged and ready. One call to set everything in motion.

It was time to rattle the cage.

Chapter 24

Michael Harrington Found Dead on Belle Isle in Apparent Suicide

By Julia Bensen – Detroit News Metro Desk

Detroit, MI – Michael Harrington, youngest son of the prominent Harrington family, was found dead early this morning on Belle Isle in what authorities are calling an apparent suicide.

According to police, Harrington’s body was discovered by a jogger near the south shoreline shortly after 6 a.m. A vehicle registered to Harrington was located nearby. No signs of foul play have been reported at this time, though investigators have not released details regarding a note or timeline. The Wayne County Medical Examiner's Office has confirmed the identity but has not yet issued a formal cause of death.

Harrington, 36, had largely stayed out of the public eye in recent years following reported financial and personal troubles. His death comes just days after a highly publicized announcement by the Harrington Foundation confirming the return of Catherine Harrington, long believed to have perished in a private plane crash over a decade ago.

The Harrington family has issued a brief statement through their attorney: “We are devastated by the loss of Michael. We ask for privacy as we grieve and attempt to process this tragedy.”

The Foundation has not commented on how the recent developments will affect its leadership transition or ongoing projects.

Detroit Police say the investigation remains open pending toxicology and autopsy results. Anyone with information is encouraged to contact the department’s tip line.

Part Six

Chapter 25

The house was quiet. Anna and the girls were already gone—planned trip to her sister's. She had wanted me to come along, to be safe, but I wouldn’t agree. However, having them safe and out of the way was a good thing.

Ellen had just texted, said she'd be back in twenty minutes. Last-minute errand. I'd be at the office by then, ready for someone to take the bait.

My coffee mug sat half-empty on the counter, a ring of brown already forming at the bottom.

The decoy file was already in my bag. A clean setup. Nothing real inside, just enough to rattle someone if they were guilty—or desperate.

Manila folder, neatly labeled. Twenty pages of carefully selected bank statements, shell company registrations, and just enough real foundation letterhead to make it look official. The documents I'd fabricated overnight were imperfect enough to be believable—hastily assembled by a scared whistleblower.

A layer cake of bullshit with just enough truth sprinkled on top to make someone nervous. The bag itself was worn leather and scuffed at the corners.

I moved through the kitchen, pulled on my coat. The pain in my side was still there, but manageable.

The coat settled heavily on my shoulders, the left side noticeably tender where the explosion had left its mark. Bandages beneath my shirt pulled tight with each movement. The doctor's warnings replayed in my head, along with Anna's worried eyes as she'd packed her overnight bag, clearly torn between staying and going.

I'd insisted she take the girls as planned. Better they weren't around if whoever planted that bomb decided to try again.

My reflection caught in the windowpane above the sink—three days of stubble, shadows under my eyes, hair that needed cutting. I looked like what I was: a man recovering from nearly being killed.

The kitchen itself was a snapshot of interrupted domesticity—breakfast dishes in the sink, the girls' school permission slips magnetized to the refrigerator, Anna's gardening magazine splayed open on the counter.

A knock came at the back door.

Soft. Two short taps.

Probably Ellen or a neighbor.

I opened the door, just a sliver.

Cool morning air rushed in, carrying the scent of cut grass from somewhere down the block.

Probably a high school kid selling coupon books as a fundraiser.

The door slammed into my chest and a large, dark shape followed it inside. My hand reached for my gun, but it was at the office. Of course it was.

A face appeared before me.

Gerald. Greta’s bodyguard.

And then he was on top of me, pinning me to the floor. And then something white covered my face and I smelled something chemical, sweet, and suffocating.

Chloroform, my brain registered distantly. Stronger. Harsher. The fumes burned into my nasal passages, scorched down my throat. My lungs seized, trying to reject the invasion, but the instinctive gasp only pulled more of the vapor deeper.

Tried to pull back. Too late.

My free hand clawed at his huge arm, finding only the resistance of bulky muscle. I attempted to swing the bag, to create distance, but my movements were already uncoordinated, strength draining with each heartbeat.

Gerald's grip remained firm, professional—the actions of someone who had done this before.

My legs buckled.

The strength simply evaporated from them, as if someone had cut the strings on a marionette. The bag slipped from my fingers, landing with a soft thud beside me. Papers spilled out—the fake evidence, now irrelevant.

The kitchen lights stretched and smeared.

The edges of the room began to soften and blur, details melting into each other. Gerald's face remained in focus longer than anything else—not triumphant, not angry, just intent on his task.

Ellen would be arriving soon, would find the empty house, would know something had gone wrong. But that thought, like all others, dissolved into an unforgiving chemical darkness.

Chapter 26

Consciousness came back slow. First the sting in my wrists, then the hard bite of metal in the back of my skull. A dull, rhythmic clanging somewhere in the building—wind catching a loose sheet of siding. Cold concrete under my legs. My ribs felt like they were on fire.

The smell of old soot and dust settled in my throat, coating over the chemical residue from the chloroform.

Another warehouse.

A Harrington property, I thought.

That was definitely not good news.

A woman sat across from me on a folding chair. Crisp black coat, hands folded neatly in her lap. The harsh industrial light cast shadows across her face, accentuating the elegant lines of her cheekbones.

She was quite pretty, with a natural tan that spoke of weekends on private islands rather than tanning beds. Her light blonde hair was pulled back, a distinctive streak of silver-gray cutting through it. Diamond studs glinted at her ears, understated but unmistakably expensive.

“Catherine Harrington,” I said, recognizing her from the news story. “Can’t say I’m shocked.”

Gerald stood behind her, arms crossed. Same dead stare as always. I couldn't see a weapon, but it didn't matter. He didn't need to show it. His massive shoulders strained against his tailored suit, knuckles white from the tension in his crossed arms.

"I suspect you actually are," Catherine said. “Shocked, I mean. Surprised, certainly.”

Her voice wasn't cold—it was oddly warm, and she even gave me a soft smile. The perfect manicure on her slender fingers caught the light as she brushed an invisible speck from her immaculate coat.

"Ah, I knew it was one of you," I said. "You're all the same anyway. The Harringtons are just white trash with money, that’s all."

She didn't react. Just glanced once at Gerald, then back to me. The calm in her amber eyes was more unsettling than rage would have been.

"Much like you, your thoughts don’t matter.”

“Sounds like you didn’t matter much for all these years. Did they even look for you?”

She gave a small shrug. Not defensive—dismissive. The movement was elegant, practiced, like everything else about her. A wisp of her blonde hair fell loose, and she tucked it behind her ear with deliberate precision.

"Paul Voss was never supposed to be involved. He was a byproduct. A man who read too much and didn't know when to stop."

"He figured out your game."

"Parts of it," she said. "But even if he had all of it, no one would have believed him. Just like they won't believe you."

"You faked your death. Burned your own family's property. Had a man tortured and killed."

"And what do you think will happen if that comes out?" she asked. "I'm not Michael or Vanessa. I don't panic. I simply eliminate threats."

She stood. The faint scent of expensive perfume—something with sandalwood and spice—drifted across the space between us.

"The papers you brought were bogus, but that’s what I figured. Still, Gerald thought it would be nice to dispose of you and the so-called evidence all at once.”

I looked past her, at the far end of the warehouse—two red gas cans lined up near a pile of broken pallets. Classic. The metal containers gleamed dully in the half-light, their purpose unmistakable.

"What are you two?” I asked. “Lovers?”

Catherine smiled. “No. He’s the father I never had."

Gerald finally moved, stepping forward with slow precision. Pulled something from his coat—a metal Zippo. The silver case caught what little light filtered through the grimy windows, his thick fingers surprisingly nimble as they handled the lighter.

"It's poetic," Catherine said, almost smiling. The expression didn't reach her eyes, which remained as cold as winter water. "Your career flamed out. You burned your reputation to the ground. Now we return the favor."

Gerald struck the lighter once, flame flickering in the dim space. The orange glow illuminated the planes of Catherine's tanned face, casting her features in sharp relief.

I braced my hands on the concrete, wrists still bound, pain crawling up both arms.

Not good, John, I thought.

Not good at all.

Chapter 27

The fire started fast.

Gerald had been methodical—kindling piled high, accelerant poured across the base of the wall and fanned out like a signature.

Flames caught immediately. They climbed the pallets, snapped across the floor, fast and hungry.

Heat thickened the air. Smoke poured into my lungs with every breath. The ropes around my wrists bit deeper. Sweat trickled down my back, stinging the raw abrasions where they'd dragged me earlier.

The metal handcuffs they'd used before the rope had left deep purple rings around my wrists, now hidden beneath the coarse hemp fibers.

Ten feet away I saw a pallet board, half-splintered, pressed against the wall. Just above it, an old nail—bent, ugly, and sharp. The nail had been hammered in crooked, then bent downward from years of neglect and moisture. It jutted from the board like an accusation.

I tipped the chair sideways. The wood slammed hard against the concrete. Shoulder flared white with pain. The impact jarred my collarbone. My vision swam for a moment, black spots dancing at the edges. I blinked them away.

It was time to crawl. The ropes scraped along the floor, digging into my skin. The concrete scraped my cheek raw. The taste of blood and dust filled my mouth.

I dragged myself inch by inch toward that nail, the fire crackling louder behind me. Heat blooming across the side of my face.

The flames roared behind me now, consuming the wooden pallets with insatiable hunger. The smell of gasoline and burning wood filled what little air remained. My lungs burned.

Finally, I reached the board and got my wrists over the nail. Angled it. Started sawing. Twisted my body awkwardly. The nail was dull, pitted with rust. Each movement back and forth was a monumental effort.

Slowly, I tried to work and not panic. The metal bit skin. Tore it. Blood mixed with sweat. The sticky warmth of it coated my fingers, making them slip against the rope. I gritted my teeth so hard I thought they might crack. Kept sawing, the nail scraping bone-deep at times.

Kept going.

The ropes frayed. One strand popped.

Then another.

The whole thing gave.

I was free.

The flames were already reaching the ceiling. Black smoke rolled low and fast. Beams creaked overhead, threatening to give way. The warehouse had become an inferno, flames dancing across every surface, painting the walls in shades of orange and red. The heat was unbearable now, like standing inside an oven.

Coughed once, stumbled to my knees. Ropes fell away as I freed myself from the chair. The side door was twenty feet across the room. My legs felt like rubber and my lungs strained for oxygen.

Gerald and Catherine had left and locked the door behind them.

How thoughtful.

I kicked it once. It didn't budge. Put my shoulder into it. Gathered what strength remained and slammed forward.

Something snapped and I hoped it was the lock as opposed to one of my bones.

Light burst in. Cold air. Real air.

Staggering outside, my skin was blistered, my shirt soaked and singed.

Two bodies were sprawled on the ground.

Their faces were illuminated by the raging fire. Gerald and Catherine Harrington. Both of them sporting monumental damage thanks to more than one bullet to the head. Blood had pooled, spreading outward from their bodies.

I stared, uncomprehending. They'd been alive minutes ago. Catherine's perfect posture, Gerald's dead eyes watching me as the flames took hold.

Now they were nothing. Their immaculate clothes soaked in blood, their power and threats extinguished more completely than I could have managed.

“Admiring my work?”

I managed to turn and see a man standing to my right. He was tall, thin and pale. He had a huge scar on the side of his face. He also had a pistol with a sound suppressor.

“Who are you?” I asked.

“Reed is what they call me now.”

“Why do you look familiar?” I asked.

The man smiled.

“You knew my brother.”

It was like the ground collapsed beneath me. I knew that face. The hitman known as the Spook. The one who killed an innocent young man and destroyed my career.

“Imagine that,” I said. “Two brothers. Both of them assholes.”

Chapter 28

"You look like hell," Reed said.

"Thanks, I’ve been working out a lot,” I replied.

Behind him, the warehouse was a furnace. Flames licked out of the broken windows, casting an apocalyptic orange glow across the alleyway. The heat was palpable even from thirty feet away, rippling the air between us like a mirage.

My skin throbbed where it had blistered, raw and angry. Sirens were coming fast—close now. Their wail echoed between the buildings, bouncing off brick and concrete.

But Reed didn't seem concerned. He stood with one hand in his pocket, the other casually holding the gun.

"Funny how this ends," he said. "You standing there with half your skin cooked off. Me walking away."

“Why did you kill them?” I asked. “Didn’t pay you enough?”

Reed smirked. “They didn’t hire me.”

“Who did?”

“Same person who hired you.” He paused. “You really are an idiot," he said. His voice was soft but carried easily, like he was discussing business over dinner.

"Maybe,” I replied. “Yet somehow, I outsmarted your brother. And killed him.”

Reed tilted his head slightly. A faint smile played at the corner of his mouth. A predator savoring his next kill.

The scar along his jawline stood out white against his skin. His eyes reflected the flames. A muscle in his jaw tightened, the only indication he felt anything at all.

He raised the pistol. The barrel looked impossibly large from my perspective, a dark eye staring me down. His finger tightened on the trigger, knuckle whitening with pressure.

Then his head snapped back like someone yanked it with a hook.

A hole bloomed in his forehead—neat going in, messy coming out. A perfect circle appeared just above his right eyebrow, followed by a spray of crimson mist behind him. His eyes went wide with surprise, then vacant.

His body went limp and collapsed, the gun skittering into the shadows. It struck the pavement with a metallic clatter, spinning twice before settling against a drainpipe.

Ellen stepped into the light, lowering her Glock, eyes locked on the body. The barrel of her weapon still smoked.

"Jesus, you look like hell,” she said.

Blood bubbled at the corner of my mouth. I spat it onto the pavement, watched it sizzle in the heat radiating from the warehouse.

“Thanks,” I said.

“That’s what sisters are for,” she replied.

Ellen glanced down at Reed's body. Blood spread out beneath his head, black in the uncertain light. His eyes stared sightlessly at the sky, still registering that final moment of surprise.

She looked back at me. "You need a full-time babysitter," she said. "Or a new job.”

The sirens screamed closer, red and blue lights beginning to splash across the buildings at the end of the street.

Behind us, the warehouse continued to burn.

“No, I just need a vacation,” I said.

Chapter 29

ONE WEEK LATER

I walked into the Harrington estate under my own power.

The estate looked different in daylight. The manicured lawns stretched out like a green carpet, immaculate despite the late season. The fountain in the circular driveway burbled serenely, water catching the afternoon sun.

A new butler opened the door. He wore the same impeccable uniform, not a wrinkle to be found. His white gloves were spotless.

"Ms. Harrington is expecting you, sir," he said, stepping aside with a slight bow. The marble foyer echoed with my uneven footsteps.

Vanessa was waiting in the sunroom. No alcohol in sight. Light streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows. She stood when I entered and didn't pretend to smile. She wore a simple black dress, severe and elegant. Her hair was pulled back tightly, accentuating the sharp angles of her face. The dark circles under her eyes suggested sleep hadn't come easily.

"Thanks for coming," she said. Her voice was smooth and cultured. Different from our last meeting when panic had edged every word.

"No problem,” I said.

She gestured to a chair. I took it, slow. The leather was soft, expensive. It creaked slightly under my weight as I eased myself down, careful not to jar my injuries. Through the windows, I could see a gardener trimming hedges with methodical precision.

The house was too clean. Like someone had gone through and scrubbed out the last twenty years. The scent of lemon polish hung in the air, barely masking something else—the chemical tang of industrial cleaner. The family photos that had lined the hallway were gone. No more smiling Harringtons pretending to be normal.

She sat across from me, posture perfect, no makeup, no jewelry. Just clear-eyed and calm. A stark contrast to our last meeting when her fingers had trembled around her glass.

"So," she said, "you somehow managed to survive all of this." Sunlight caught the edges of her profile, outlining her against the window.

"Yeah, barely. Have you heard from my client?”

Vanessa shrugged. “You know how this family works. She’s gone. Flown the coop. Probably in Argentina or something.”

“What, in ten years she’ll come back, just like Catherine did?”

“I highly doubt that.” She sighed. “Not that you care, but I didn't know what Catherine was planning," she said. "Hell, I didn’t know she was alive. She used Gerald. He was loyal to her for some ungodly reason.

Silence stretched out for a beat. A grandfather clock ticked somewhere in the house, the sound carrying through the empty halls. The air conditioning hummed softly beneath it, maintaining the perfect temperature that wealth demanded.

“I’m assuming you were happy with your compensation?”

“Yes.” The paycheck had been quite large, a bonus, apparently.

She looked at me carefully. Her gaze was calculating but not cold—assessing rather than judging. The sunlight revealed fine lines around her eyes.

"The family and the family business will both survive," she said. "The board is in chaos. But there's still money. Still assets."

"Still a name." Sort of, I thought.

"Yes."

She reached for a folder on the side table, opened it, and slid a contract across to me. The paper was heavy, expensive. The Harrington Foundation letterhead gleamed at the top in embossed gold. A fountain pen rested beside it, cap removed, ready for use.

"Head of security. Harrington Foundation. Three hundred thousand a year. Full benefits. You'd report only to me." Her tone was matter of fact, as if discussing the weather.

I looked at it, then back at her. The contract was thick, at least ten pages of legal language. My name was already printed on the signature line, waiting.

“Why me?” I asked.

“You know us now,” she said. “You know what we’re up against.”

"I've already got a job."

"This would be safer. Better for a family man.” Her tone changed slightly, barely conveying a hint of sarcasm.

"No, I don’t think it would be safer.” Nothing involving the Harringtons would ever be simple.

She sat back, watched me for a second.

"So you’re turning me down? Is the pay not enough?” There was genuine curiosity in her voice.

"The pay is fantastic, and I’m sure you’d be a great boss,” I lied. “But I like working for myself.”

Something like a smile crossed her face. Not happiness—understanding. She closed the folder with a soft snap, accepting my decision without argument.

I stood. Carefully. My body protested each movement, muscles stiff and unwilling. The painkillers had definitely worn off now.

"Good luck, Vanessa." And I meant it, despite everything.

"Same to you." Her eyes followed me as I turned to leave.

Once outside, my cell phone buzzed.

An incoming text.

I glance down at it.

It was from Ellen. She had gone back up north, back to her job.

The message was short and to the point.

Next time you barbecue yourself, remind me to bring marshmallows.

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About the Author

Dan Ames is a USA TODAY Bestselling Author, Amazon Kindle #1 bestseller, GoodReads Readers Choice finalist and winner of the Independent Book Award for Crime Fiction.

www.authordanames.com

dan@authordanames.com

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