Too Close to Home
Friday, 21 August
A light rain continues to fall after an afternoon of thunderstorms. The day was drawing to an end, its muted light reflecting off the wet surfaces and puddles on the sidewalks and streets. The streetlights come on as Brandon and Gabriel stroll down the sidewalk, walking arm in arm under a large black umbrella. They are in a jovial mood, neither having anything to stress over with their work and tonight is one of celebration. Anton and his partner were having a private opening of their restaurant and pub, The Mystic Hound. Anton had quit the police department nearly a year prior, having gotten fed up with the internal politics and finally deciding to do something he has thought about for years.
Carlos, Anton’s partner always wanted to open his own restaurant after managing for other owners for eight years. Anton wanted a bar, a place his friends could come hang out, while he served them a beer or some cocktail. After months of searching for a place, getting the lease in place, designing the upfit, then putting it under construction, they were finally ready to open and realize their dream.
Anton had kept working until the construction became too much for Carlos to handle on his own. It had caused arguments, took more money than the bank had loaned them, thus draining their personal savings, but they finally got it completed, and tonight was a dry run. They wanted to run the kitchen, get the wait staff sorted and simply get the rhythm of running the operation, so this weekend would be a soft opening. Tonight, it would be family and friends only, and tomorrow, they would open to the public.
Brandon and Gabriel entered the dimly lit interior, with dark woods, metal, and glass panels that defined or divided spaces, and ceilings of wood planes that seemed to float in space, gapped around the perimeter for indirect lighting. The dining room down the middle of the space with its low ceiling, was intimate, with booths along one wall and table and chairs along the other. Only about a third of the tables were occupied, and Brandon didn’t recognize anyone. Looking through the cased opening to their right, he saw another small dining room, with counter seating that overlooked the cooking line. Carlos stood at the far end watching the chef and her staff prepping for the night’s dinner.
“It really turned out nicely,” said Gabriel looking around Brandon.
“Yes. No wonder Anton was so freaked out about the cost,” Brandon replied, shaking his head.
“The bar must be on the other side. Let’s get a drink.”
They crossed the dining room and entered the room on the left side. It was the bar, with a lounge area at the front. There were sofas and armchairs positioned in three small groupings, and behind it, the bar that ran along the opposite wall. The ceiling was higher in this space, only the bar having a lower ceiling for the backbar area. The room felt looser, more relaxed, with heavy curtains at the windows and a ceiling painted a sky blue. Music played softly, a jazz sound that gave a retro vibe, fitting with the furniture utilized in the room.
Brandon scanned the room, seeing it was the busiest and the one where their friends were gathered.
“You finally made it,” Rachel Harrison, his FBI contact, called out as she approached, a cocktail in hand.
“Rachel, good to see you. Is Robert here?”
“Yes, he’s over…there,” Rachel replied pointing to Robert at the far end of the bar talking to Alex Wagner and Clayton Severs. Alex ran The Petal florist shop in the Elizabeth neighborhood, and looking at the arrangements on side tables, no doubt responsible for the night’s flowers. He and Clayton had been part of a case from a year ago. Clayton had been the target of assault that ended up including the two of them. Rachel had arrested his dad during the investigation. Brandon remembered how the case had troubled him, with the gay bashing and it done by a police sergeant from Butler, where Clayton’s father had been captain. He knew Robert Severs lost his job, served a month in prison before being released on probation, and now raised chickens and cows, settling down away from it all.
“How have you been. It’s been…two months since we’ve seen each other?”
“Oh, you know. Busy as hell. There is a new emphasis on the racist bastards, and goddamn there are a lot of them.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Gabriel, you still putting up with his ass, I see,” Rachel turned from Brandon, smiling mischievously.
“Yep. It’s a tough job, but someone has to do it,” Gabriel joked. “Shall we go to the bar?”
“Yes,” Brandon replied, motioning for Rachel to lead the way.
Brandon saw Anton behind the bar and seated at it, Paul Reynolds, Lucas Janssen, Sharon Mitchell, and Juan Oliveira, all detectives at the police department. At one of the four-top tables sits Bill Niemec and Diego Espinoza, two more detectives with two guys Brandon didn’t know. Bill looked up and waved for them to come over. Brandon waved in return, then pointed to the bar.
There are others at the bar that Brandon doesn’t know, but a couple he recognizes as friends of Carlos. He watched Gabriel slip in between Paul and Lucas, speaking to each one, then ordering drinks from Anton.
The festive nature of the night continued long after dinner was served, and the plates gathered by wait staff. Anton was still behind the bar entertaining those seated along its length. Carlos was at a table in the dining room, sitting among friends. Brandon eased up from the table where he and Gabriel were sitting with Paul, Lucas, Rachel, and Robert, and made his way back to where Bill and Deigo were still seated with the two men he didn’t know.
“Brandon, come, sit,” said Diego as Brandon came to the table.
“What do you think?” asked Brandon.
“It’s great. The food was really good, and Anton has a heavy hand with the alcohol,” Bill replied.
“Well, he knows we’re nothing but a pile of lushes,” Brandon joked.
Brandon moved around to the chair Diego had slid from the next table, putting it between Bill and him. Brandon sat and looked across the table at the two men he doesn’t know.
“Brandon, this is Evan Cannon, one of our new detectives, and this is Jonathan Porter, his partner who works at one of those big banks downtown,” said Bill. “And this is Brandon Nichols.”
“Brandon, Bill and Diego have told us about you,” said Evan.
“That’s not good,” Brandon joked, looking over at Bill, then Diego, wondering how much they revealed.
“Paul keeps saying you need to come back.”
“Yeah, he mentions that from time to time. But he knows that isn’t happening.”
“About that…I’ve met your father. Nice guy, with lots of charm.”
“What did he call you? Faggot? Cocksucker? Or something I’ve not heard myself?”
“I think the phrase he used in my case was queer bent bastard.”
“Nice. I’d steer clear of the bastard and hope you don’t have to work with him.”
“So, far, I’m working with Paul and Bill.”
“Where did you move from?”
“St. Petersburg, Florida. Jonathan needed to get transferred up here, so I put in my notice and applied with the department up here.”
“You’ll have to travel three hours or more for a beach, but the mountains are close by.”
“We’ve made a few weekend trips already. Asheville, Blowing Rock and we’ve done our first camping in Linville Gorge.”
“A good place to start camping. The section of the AT along the state line with Tennessee is good too.”
“AT?” asked Jonathan.
“Appalachian Trail,” Brandon and Diego replied in unison.
“Jonathan, you needed to transfer?” asked Brandon.
“My father is not doing well, and Sam, my brother, has his hands full, so can’t devote the time dad needs. Our sister is up in Raleigh, but with two young children, she is not in a position to help either.”
“So, it leaves you to make a sacrifice.”
“Not really a sacrifice. I could do my job from anywhere really. I was afraid it would be tough on Evan, but so far things seem good with the department here.”
“That’s good.”
“Hey, why don’t we cookout one weekend,” said Diego.
“That would be great. We could do it at our place,” Brandon replied.
“When do you think Gabriel would be free?” asked Bill.
“He’s free any weekend.”
“What? I thought he was every other weekend at the hospital?”
“Not anymore. He’s down to four days a week. Monday, Tuesday, Thursday, and Friday, and if he wants a long weekend, he’ll change a shift with someone and work Wednesday instead.”
“When did this happen?”
“Last month.”
“Damn, must be nice.”
“I’ll check with Gabriel on what weekend works best and call you. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I should get back to my table. Evan, Jonathan, it’s nice to meet you and I look forward to getting together soon.”
“Same here,” Evan replied as Jonathan nodded.
“I’ll talk to you later,” said Brandon, looking at Diego and Bill, then he headed back to his table, stopping at the bar to briefly say hello to Alex and Clayton.
The house was quiet, most of the lights turned out. Brandon came out of the bathroom to find Gabriel lying on the bed. The lone lamp on his nightstand gave a warm glow to him, the dark skin looking even darker, with shadows strongly contrasting against the light.
“You sleepy?” Gabriel asked in a playful tone.
Brandon knew what he referred, and he pushed his boxers down and stepped out of them as he climbed on the bed.
“No.”
Brandon moved up till at Gabriel’s waist and he tugged down on the boxers with Gabriel’s help. He slid them down until Gabriel was able to kick them off. A hand up the right leg, grazing the soft hairs and smooth skin. Leaning down, he kissed the abdomen just above the growing cock. He dragged his lips over the skin, down to the loose sac. He tongued it, moved the nuts around within it, knowing how this manipulation got to Gabriel. He could see Gabriel’s cock flex up and down, getting longer, thicker, by the second. He dragged his tongue upward, over the sac to the base of the cock, and didn’t stop until he was licking the spongy head. It flared wider, and he bore his tongue into the gapping slit.
“Fuck,” Gabriel whispered, then he shivered as Brandon took his cock.
Brandon sucked. Downward, until his nose pushed into the pubic hair, then up until only the head remained in his mouth. Faster and faster, he moved on Gabriel’s cock until fingers were digging into his shoulders.
He knew Gabriel was ready.
Brandon moved up until Gabriel’s cock slipped from his mouth, and he crawled over him. Legs wrapped his waist, and a hand took his hard cock as he got in position. He kissed Gabriel as his cock is guided to its target. He pushed against the tightness. Gabriel moaned, pushed back, and he felt the squeeze on his cock as it penetrated Gabriel. Inch after inch, he pushed into him until over halfway in. Then he began to fuck.
Brandon slowly increased his pace. Hips swing faster and faster until the familiar squeak of the bed added to the sounds of their fuck. The moans, the soft pleadings, and Gabriel crying out, pleading with Brandon to fuck harder, faster. The squeaking bed reflected their fuck, the rhythm of it, the physical nature of each shove inward.
Brandon pulled out and stands on knees between Gabriel’s legs. Sweat trickled down his chest and his stomach moved with his heavy breathing. Gabriel looked up, eyes glassy and speaking of his need.
“Let me on top,” Gabriel whispers.
Brandon knows what Gabriel wants and he laid on his back next to him. He watched Gabriel straddle his waist, work ass back and forth over his leaking cock, then raised up. Gabriel took his cock and eased down on it. There is no hesitation, none of the teasing of youth or inexperience, for he drops down until every inch is buried in his ass.
Brandon holds each thigh and fells the flex of muscle as Gabriel moved on his cock. Up and down, faster and faster, until Gabriel’s cock smacked wetly on his stomach. Their sex continued until bodies glistened wetly and muscles began to ache from their exertions. Brandon can’t hold back, feels the surge of release. He sits up, grabbed Gabriel in his arms and hugged him tightly, then pushed Gabriel down on his spurting cock. He shuddered with each ejaculation until spent. When he released Gabriel, he realized his chest and stomach are covered in cum. They smile at each other, giggle like devilish boys in college, experimenting with sex for the first time.
“Time for a shower,” said Gabriel, climbing off the bed and holding out his hand to help Brandon up.
Saturday, 22 August
The water swirls and bubbles in the hot tub. The two bodies in it rub against each other. One is aroused, the other doing what it takes for the apartment in Fourth Ward, the little convertible sitting in the drive, and a bank account large enough to satisfy her whims.
Angel (not her real name, of course) climbs out of the hot tub and pulls her blonde hair back.
“I’ve got to go to the bathroom. Should I bring another bottle of wine when I come back?” Angel asked, looking back at James Edward Swinson, lounging in the hot tub.
“Yes, let’s keep this party going,” Edward replies, smiling at Angel in a manner she struggles not to reveal her disgust.
James Edward Swinson, attorney at law, whose success was questionable four short years ago. He had gotten burned by the partnership, tossed out for the most absurd reasons, or so he thought. Then there was his divorce. It was particularly messy. It nearly bankrupted him, with the bitch getting more than her fair share. What was a man to do when she held all the cards? The threat of calling Raleigh and reporting him had been a line crossed. He would never forgive the bitch, but then again, she had made it plain, neither would she forgive him.
But he had made a comeback. He had crawled out of the ditch and made something of himself. Yes, it was a shady racket, but wasn’t all of it? What was our society but the rich devouring the poor, taking all the wealth out of the economy? Burn the whole world down, if you could just keep your own place in it safe and secure and rolling in dough.
Edward laughed, then took another puff on the Cuban cigar, letting the sweet smoke float in the air around him. It was the smell of money. He shifted his large girth around and peered into the house through the open sliding glass doors, trying to see if Angel was coming back yet.
He glanced at his watch, wondering if Solomon was ready for his next fall. It made him laugh to think how easy it was to scare some new business owner to fork over thousands of dollars, just to keep out of a court room, where the threat of things getting worse hovered over them. Solomon was a pansy, a real pain in his ass, but no one could take a fall like that bastard. There were four others in his little undisclosed partnership, but Solomon was the best. He considered the locations of his little stunt, each one bringing in enough zeros after the first digit to give a man a hardon. Solomon got thirty per cent, five more than the other bozos but worth every penny for the higher sums they were able to collect. The small locally owned restaurants in Kings Mountain, Lincolnton, Concord, Salisbury, and Monroe had been beautiful targets. Just beautiful. Then there were the four convenience stores.
Edward laughed at the absurdity of it. Then he added to the bubbles rising to the surface of the swirling waters. No one could tell them from those generated by the hot tub unless they were close enough to smell the foul stench when they popped. A stench Edward also considered the smell of money. Afterall, it wasn’t cheap hamburger and baloney sandwiches that was putting on the weight.
Sunday, 23 August
Solomon parked across the street and looked at his latest target, the first to be in the city. He thought it was risky. The small towns seemed safer. Doing the fall in town seemed to be inviting a scrutiny neither of them could afford. But Edward, that fat slob, promised it was as safe to do it in the city as it was in any of the small towns. And the payout would be more, or so Edward said between puffs on one of those nasty cigars.
The clock said 1:26, and for Sunday, meant The Mystic Hound would be busy, and thus easier to make a scene, one believable to all who witnessed his acrobatic feat.
Solomon waited for three cars to pass and crossed the road. He stepped into the cool interior with its white noise of conversations from all the rooms. The bar to the left, the main dining room in front of him and to his right, another smaller dining room off the open kitchen.
“Welcome, I’m Carlos, one of the owners. How many will it be?” said Carlos approaching Solomon in a steel gray shirt, black tie and black jeans.
“Just one for lunch. The bar would work, if there is an open seat,” Solomon replied, preferring the higher seats of a bar to perform his brief one act play.
“This way,” said Carlos, leading Solomon to the bar. It was the last stool on the far end, one that sat on the short side facing the front.
“Perfect,” said Solomon, as he moved to sit down.
Knowing there would be no paying this bill, Solomon didn’t flinch when he saw the prices that any other time would be too much for his fast-food budget. He ordered the two small tenderloins, grilled red potatoes, and asparagus, with a small mixed leaf salad. He savored each bite of the tender meat, taking his time. He wanted people stirring around more and knew by the other tables most had arrived just before him. He sipped the sweat tea, wishing for something stronger. But alcohol was off limits when he was to perform. Nothing could be laid back on him as to contributing to the cause.
Finally, it was time. His lunch was finished and there were two large tables getting up. He began to stand up, rose off the seat, then with a gentle push, tipped the barstool over. He crashed to the floor with such a racket everyone else stood in shocked silence. He lay on his back, moaning, then crying out for help.
In ten minutes, the restaurant would be a hive of activity with police, fire and medics crowding around the bar side of the restaurant.
Tuesday, 25 August
Brandon strolled along the car lot of the dealership, looking at the new Grand Cherokees, Wranglers, and Cherokees. He was flabbergasted by the prices, wondering when utility vehicles had become such premium vehicles in price. He kept glancing back at his old Cherokee, wondering what was wrong with it. Why was Gabriel pushing him to trade it? Sure, the paint was fading, and it had scratches, scuffs, and dents from hard use, and the interior was looking even rougher. But it was paid for, still ran well, and he didn’t have to worry about where he drove it, or how. The Grand Cherokees were too nice, and the Cherokees were just not the utility vehicle his old one was, which left the Wrangler. The four-door configuration was the most realistic, but he cursed under his breath every time he looked at a sticker price.
He walked along another row. Black, silver, green, blue, and even orange, the boxy rugged vehicles sat in a neat alignment beckoning him to choose one. But no matter what Gabriel had said about how they could afford it, he couldn’t justify it. He turned toward the front of the lot where his Cherokee sat waiting. It looked forlorn, an orphan waiting to be abandoned.
“Not today,” Brandon uttered as he picked up his pace.
“Can I help with something,” a salesman called out, approaching Brandon from the showroom.
“No, not today,” Brandon replied, more curt than he meant to be, but he didn’t slow to apologize.
The tires barked as Brandon accelerated hard out of the drive, desperate to get away. Soon he was within the traffic he had waited to pass, and he slowed falling in behind a Range Rover. He looked at the clean lines, and the name on the metal band across the rear, wondering what asinine price had been attached to it.
The six-lane road changed into a freeway as it neared the inner city, and Brandon moved to the right, preparing to exit. His phone rang, and he glanced at the screen, then hit accept.
“Hey, what’s up?” Brandon answered, wondering what his contact at the station wanted.
“Can you talk?”
Brandon knew it wasn’t good if there was no banter back and forth, not even a ‘hello, how are you?’
“Yes, what is it?”
“Anton and Carlos are getting sued and I’m pretty sure it is a scam.”
“What happened?”
“A guy took a fall on Sunday. Made quite the impression on the other patrons by pitching over a stool at the bar.”
“And you think it was an act.”
“I did a little digging around and…this Solomon Cullen has taken falls in several restaurants around the region, and in some convenience stores too.”
“I’ve never heard of him.”
“This is the first in Charlotte.”
“I see. What are the guys going to do?”
“They’re scared shitless about the public relations fiasco this is going to cause, so they are talking about settling out of court.”
“That would be a mistake.”
“I think so too. And there is one other thing.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s the same scumbag lawyer for each case.”
“Who, and why do you think he’s a scumbag?”
“James Edward Swinson…”
“I know that name,” Brandon interrupts.
“I bet you do. He was locally famous about four years ago, when it came out, he had been kicked out of the firm where he was a junior partner, and his wife divorced him. A nasty, messy divorce.”
“There was some talk of him being disbarred.”
“Yes, but nothing came of it. The rumor was his old firm didn’t want any more publicity from the asshole, so they didn’t push it.”
“And it seems he is running insurance scams?”
“He’s not going after the insurance. He threatens a lawsuit against the businesses, seeking an out of court settlement.”
“And Anton and Carlos came up on their radar.”
“Yep. Call Anton.”
“I’ll do it as soon as we hang up.”
“Then you can do it now; I have to go.”
An hour later, Brandon was sitting at the bar of the restaurant, Carlos next to him and Anton behind the bar, wiping the same glass over and over. He had gotten their side of events, and how a letter had been delivered right at 12:30, in the middle of the lunch hour rush, seeking a huge sum of money.
“You haven’t replied to that letter, have you?” asked Brandon.
“Not yet, but we think we should make some kind of reply,” said Carlos.
“No, not yet. You have your attorney up to date on it?”
“Yes, and he said to keep quiet and let him handle it,” Anton replied, and Brandon could hear the nervousness in his voice.
“Call him and tell him I’m on the case, and to give me a couple of weeks before doing anything. Put them off if they seek some reply. Keep them guessing but don’t let them know I’m looking into it.”
Anton smiled for the first time, nodding his head. “Thanks, Brandon.”
“I’ll go call him now,” said Carlos, jumping off the stool and heading to his office in back.
“He is freaked out so bad, it scares me,” Anton whispered.
“As are you,” Brandon replied, looking at his friend.
“I know. It just pisses me off, how we just got open and…” Anton stammers to a stop, eyes tearing up.
“I think we can handle this fairly quickly if I’m right about these two characters.”
“I hope so. Paul seemed to think it was a scam, and the attorney is in on it.”
“I think so too but keep it yourself. Don’t repeat that to anyone. Pretend to be in the dark on everything. It’ll make it easier if the attorney doesn’t suspect we’re looking into him and his fall boy.”
“I’ll tell Carlos.”
“Email me a copy of that letter, and if you get a call, let it go to voicemail, so we have a recording of anything they might say. And don’t talk to them.”
“Okay.”
“I’m heading out to get started.”
Brandon drove toward his office on the west side of town, and when he stopped at a traffic light, he brought up The Ghost, smirking at the contact name. It was so silly, but he couldn’t help but to play along with Marcus Klosowski’s little ruse. The phone rang twice.
“Well, where have you been? Have you stopped working and just become that doctor’s little bitch?”
“You still living in your mother’s basement eating dog food and masturbating to bondage porn?”
“Very funny, I don’t eat dog food.”
“You got time to do some digging around in that thing you call the matrix?”
“Depends. Is it worth my time?”
“A scumbag attorney and his fall guy. I want everything you can find on them. Their social security numbers, current and previous addresses, girlfriends or boyfriends, or if they fuck their dogs. I want everything.”
“What did these two do to piss you off?”
“They’re suing two friends after faking a fall in their new restaurant.”
“You want me to get the police report?”
“I can get that from another source.”
“I bet you can. When are you going to tell me who your contact at the department is? I could use him from…”
“Not going to happen.”
“I could find out, you know. I could…”
“It’ll be the last thing you do as a free man,” Brandon cut him off, his tone hard edged.
“Okay…no snooping around the police department.”
“How long will it take?”
“If that attorney is the typical unscrupulous asshole, his trail will be easy to follow. Give me a couple of days, maybe less.”
“I’ll email everything I have to you. Send me what you dig up as quick as you can,” said Brandon, hitting end before The Ghost could say something else.
In his office, Brandon wiped down the dry erase boards, and wrote across the top the basics of the case. He would wait on The Ghost and his contact at the department to give him the foundation for his investigation. But he knew this case would take more than digging around in that attorney’s past. He looked at the two trunks on the floor at the back of his office. He had found them at an Army-Navy store, knowing they would be perfect for storing some stuff. He went to the right trunk, released the latch, and swung the top up, letting it rest against the wall. He reached in and pulled out a clear bag of small cameras. They were a wireless system, all linked to a master module that would need to be set within a hundred yards or so for best reception. They could record video or still images. Inside the trunk sat a box with the module and microphones.
Back at his desk he took out the module and opened it. There were four data cards for storage inside it, and he popped each one out. In another bag were the larger data recording units, and he slipped one in each slot. He closed the unit and raked a hand over it, wondering what other things The Ghost had made down in that basement.
He pulled up one of the satellite maps and focused in on James Edward Swinson’s residence. It was in south Charlotte, one of the new money neighborhoods, with their large homes of fake stone and wood siding and all the appeal of a cardboard box with some embellishments pasted on the front. He looked at Swinson’s house, with its pool and hot tub in the rear yard, and to one side a large garage. Then he clicked on the house directly behind it.
Wednesday, 26 August
Brandon rode past 2418 Webster Lane slowing to get a good look at the two-story house. There was no sign of life, all windows curtained off. Continuing down to the end of the street, he turned right, then at the next street, Milton Avenue, he turned right again. When at the address he sought, 2415, he pulled to the curb and shut off the engine. It belonged to a Tom Wallace and his wife, Mary, who were expecting him. The house looked nicer, the landscaping well-tended, and the living room window was open, letting him see through the living area to the back of the house. A Tahoe sat in the drive, and as he got out, a five series BMW pulled in behind it.
Brandon went to the sidewalk that led to the front door and waited at the intersection where a walk from the drive connected to it. A man got out of the car and approached.
“Are you that private detective?”
“Yes, Brandon Nichols. We spoke yesterday.”
“Well, come on in. I must say I wasn’t surprised to hear from you.”
“You were expecting my call?”
“Not your call exactly, but someone’s.”
“Mr. Swinson causing some trouble in the neighborhood.”
“You could say that,” replied Tom Wallace, as he unlocked the front door and pushed it open. “Come on in.”
An hour later Brandon was getting back in his Cherokee amazed at the hate someone could have for a neighbor. It was to his benefit, but it still surprised him to listen to Tom Wallace describe late night parties, naked women running around the pool or frolicking in it, and Edward Swinson and another man parading around after them. He wondered how long it would take for another party to be held. Getting a sense of who Edward Swinson was, he knew it would not be long before the man needed his ego stroked.
The Wallace’s rear yard was perfect, with its higher elevation, at least ten feet, and trees that were perfect for the wide angled lens of the camera. Of course, he couldn’t aim them at Swinson’s backyard, but he could have it appear the wide angled lens just happen to capture his yard. And it would be even more convenient how there were three cameras set up to do so. One from the left side, one from the right, and one at a second-floor window, aimed over the Wallace rear yard, where it just so happens it also captured the lower yard.
Tom Wallace agreed to call him on the night of the next boisterous party, and Brandon hoped it was the weekend coming up, for Tom said it had been quiet for the last two weeks.
He drove back to his office, tossed his keys down on his desk, and looked at the dry-erase board waiting on more data. Almost immediately, his cell phone rang. It was The Ghost.
“Tell me you got something.”
“OH yes. I’ll email it over in a few minutes. Just waiting on one more file to download.”
“Give me a synopsis.”
“One James Edward Swinson was doing a few unscrupulous deeds during his time at ORA and got fired for it. The company didn’t pursue it, and from emails I could track down it was simply the desire not to have the publicity of illegal acts being done by one of their attorneys.”
“So, he didn’t get disbarred.”
“Nope, but they did look into it, based on an anonymous tip.”
“No doubt someone at the firm.”
“Probably. And at the same time, Mrs. Debra Swinson discovers her husband is fucking anything he can get into a hotel room. There were…12, no 13 confirmed women, very young women, benefitting from his generosity.”
“I saw something on it. Is it true she got way more than half of his wealth?”
“She practically bankrupted him. She had something on him, what I’m not sure. He gave up the car collection, the house in Myers Park, the one outside Blowing Rock and one down in Charleston, and he gave her more than half of the stock and cash he had on hand. And she let him keep the debt.”
“So, she really fucked him.”
“Yep.”
“And?”
“He was below the radar until two years ago and was suddenly representing people who had fallen in some public business, mostly small independently owned restaurants in surrounding small towns.”
“How many?”
“I think it was 37 cases, but there are some towns left to check.”
“And if he takes a large portion of each one…”
“He’s taken in hundreds of thousands of dollars in the last two years.”
“Explains how he could afford another large house. You got a list of the fall guys?”
“Why yes, I do, and guess what?”
“Give it to me.”
“One Solomon Cullen was a client since the beginning, hitting a restaurant in Kings Mountain.”
“What do you have on him?”
“A down on his luck salesman, who has worked at used car lots, furniture stores and for a brief time at one of the more high-end stores at the mall. And there is a little criminal record from his early twenties when he got busted for theft.”
“Send me everything you got.”
“It’s on its way, sweetheart,” The Ghost replied, his tone so sarcastic Brandon ended the call abruptly.
Brandon moved to his laptop and smiled at the files loaded in emails popping up in his account. He opened the first one, ready to get to work. He picked up a marker, ready to go to the dry erase board when he saw another email, one from his contact at the department. He opened it, seeing three files were attached.
“Here ya go. Make sure no one sees this, for you know who saw me looking at one of these files. He thinks I was searching for someone, trying to remember which file I saw their name in. Let’s not reveal it was for you.”
A glance at his watch revealed it was only 1:24 P.M., knowing he had plenty of time to dig through most of the files before he needed to be home.
Brandon pulled into the drive and saw Gabriel had mowed the grass. Pulling around the house, he eased into the garage. Coming into the kitchen, he found it lit only by the light over the range. Music played softly over the speaker system, otherwise the house was quiet.
“Gabriel?” Brandon called out, moving through the kitchen to the hall. It was dark, only the light from their bedroom illuminated it at the far end. He walked toward the light and entered the bedroom. One lamp on the nearest nightstand and light from the open door to the bathroom illuminated the room. He heard the shower running and knew Gabriel had not long come in from mowing. Smiling at his good fortune, he stripped off his clothes, tossing them on the bed, then entered the bathroom. The shower was at the end of the room and through the glass he could see Gabriel rinsing shampoo from his hair. He moved to it and slid the door open.
“Room for one more?”
Gabriel turned toward him and smiled. “Always.”
Easing up behind Gabriel, Brandon eased his hands around the soapy body and hugged it against his own. They kissed while moving against each other until cocks were hard, Gabriel’s in Brandon’s hand, and Brandon’s pressed against Gabriel’s ass. Brandon pulled Gabriel from under the spray of water and turned him toward the back wall.
Gabriel leaned forward, arms against the cool tile and felt Brandon kiss him between the shoulder blades, hold him by the waist, and pump cock along the cleft of his ass cheeks. He moaned and pushed back.
Brandon stretched Gabriel open, slowly, gently, sinking cock into his hole. There was a slow inward push, then a slow outward tug, over and over, until Brandon was in a slow fuck, sinking deeper and deeper until bumping against ass cheeks. He leaned against Gabriel, lay his body against Gabriel’s back and undulated with their fuck.
Gabriel felt the hot exhales, the soft kisses, and the firm hold on his waist as cock piston in his depths.
“Fuck,” Gabriel uttered
And Brandon did, increasing in pace, in physicality, until the sound of their bodies coming together echoed in the shower. He fucked until he felt the burn of muscle from his exertions. His breathing grew labored, panting like an animal. Then he tightened his grip, shoved into Gabriel’s depths, and hammered his abdomen against Gabriel’s ass as he came. He shuddered with each release, cried out, then rested his head on Gabriel’s back as his cock flexed for the last time.
Brandon needed only a few seconds to catch his breath, and he eased out of Gabriel, spun him around and went to his knees. He stroked the leaking cock, then swallowed it. Sank every inch in his mouth.
“OH…fuck,” Gabriel uttered, leaning back against the wall, and running his hands over Brandon’s head.
Brandon moved on Gabriel with a renewed passion, a desperate need for him. He ran his hands up the legs, then held the ass cheeks as he pumped his mouth along the hard cock. He tasted the precum, savored its odd sweetness, then he felt the cock swell thicker, flex against the roof of his mouth, then flood it with cum.
Brandon dried Gabriel, then himself, as the two smiled knowingly at each other. Then a soft laughter shared by lovers. They moved into the bedroom to dress.
“Put something decent on,” said Gabriel as he slipped boxers on.
“Why? Are we going somewhere?”
“Out to dinner. I don’t feel like cooking and it’s getting late, so let’s just go somewhere.”
“Okay,” Brandon replied as he went to the closet to get something to put on.
They drove to the Italian restaurant on the east side of town. It was locally owned and had three locations in the city. The new restaurants were in nicer locations, with a more polished décor, but it was the old original restaurant that everyone agreed was the best. And there was something about the simple décor of the interior and the more diverse wait staff.
Seated at a small table along the front windows, concealed from passing patrons of the shopping center by wood blinds in the lower section, they shared an appetizer and sipped red wine.
“How’s the case coming?” Gabriel asked.
“Klosowski has sent me everything he found on the fall guy and his unscrupulous attorney, so I’ve got a good picture of them.”
“How are you going to prove it was a stunt?”
“I may not be able to prove that in a manner the courts would accept, but there is more than one way to win,” Brandon replied, smiling across the table at Gabriel.
Gabriel shook his head, and while forking a piece of the calamari. “I’m not going to ask.”
It was late, later than they intended to be out for dinner, but they were sated and relaxed as they strolled out to Gabriel’s Tesla. Brandon’s phone rang and he pulled it out, seeing it was his contact at the police department.
“I should get this,” said Brandon, slowing down as Gabriel moved on.
“Hey, what’s up?”
As soon as his contact began to talk, he knew it was bad.
“Brandon, I just heard this, and it is not public yet, but you need to know. Your father…he’s saying…it’s crazy…”
“What? What happened?” Brandon interrupted.
“You remember Evan and Jonathan?”
“Yes.”
“Evan came home from a jog…and…”
“What happened?” Brandon asked, lowering, and calming his voice.
“He found Jonathan murdered. Knife wounds.”
“Oh shit.”
“And your father has focused the investigation on Evan.”
“Already?”
“He said, and I quote, that is one faggot that will rot in jail.”
“Call Paul and make sure Evan gets an attorney.”
“I’ve already called. Evan is in shock, but he has asked for council.”
“Good.”
“Who do you think he should get?”
“James Buchanan or…who’s the guy that did that Simpson case?”
“Thomas McKinley? He’s a fucking asshole.”
“But he’s a damn good attorney.”
“Yeah, you’re right.”
“Hey, Gabriel is waiting on me, but send me everything you got. Tell Evan I’ll look into it. And not to talk to my father without an attorney.”
“Will do.”
Thursday, 27 August
Brandon looked over at the clock again, seeing the soft glow of blue numbers. It was fifteen after four. He had lain awake all night, trying to process it. How two people who had moved to the city less than a year ago could be victims of one of the most heinous crimes. Murder. The shock of finding one’s partner taken in such a brutal fashion. Then to find out his own father was on the case and focused on a quick charge against the victim’s partner. The cruelty of it made him lay awake, plotting, working out an outline on how to investigate it. He looked over at Gabriel, who had finally fallen asleep, and saw the clock read four seventeen. When it read six, he would roll out of bed and hit the ground running.
Evan looked like he had not slept in a month. Eyes were red, hair messed up, and the orange prison coveralls took away any sense of his humanity. Brandon glanced back at the guard standing close by, wondering if he was a stooge for his father or just doing his job.
“Thanks for coming but what can you do?”
“First tell me what happened,” said Brandon.
Evan teared up and was visibly shaking. He looked to the side then back at Brandon. There was a slow inhale, then a composing of himself.
“I got home about six, and Jonathan was in the backyard weeding the flower bed around the patio. We spoke for a minute, making plans for dinner, then I went in, changed, and took off for a run.”
“How long were you gone?”
“50 minutes…maybe 55.”
“Okay, tell me how you approached the house, every detail you can think of from the time you came back.”
“I ran to within a block of the house, then walked the rest of the way. To cool down. I didn’t take a key, so I went up the drive and around to the back door. The one that opened into the kitchen.”
“Had the door been forced?”
“No.”
“Go on.”
I went in and called Jonathan. The house was quiet which was unusual, for if he was inside there was usually music playing…but there was nothing. I started for the bedroom but…” Evan stammered and began to cry.
“What did you see?”
“His foot. I could see his foot around the island in the kitchen. I went into the room and pass the dining table and I saw him. He was on the floor at the edge of the living area, and, and, and he had bled a lot.”
“Was he still alive?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. There was so much blood. It was…”
“Okay. Did you see a knife?”
“No. You know they found it in the kitchen, below the sink.”
“I didn’t know that. I’ve not gotten the police report yet. I wanted to talk to you first.”
Evan nodded his head, then looked at Brandon, his expression going serious.
“They’re going to pin this on me and send me to jail.”
“No.”
“Your father; he’s the lead on this, and he said I’d be one less faggot on the force.”
“I’ll handle my father.”
“But Brandon, he seems to have the authority to where no one questions him.”
“I realize that is how it looks, but there are some who work to keep him reeled in.”
Evan nodded his head.
“Paul said the same thing a while back when we were talking about him.”
“So, what happened after you found Jonathan?”
“I tried to revive him. I did everything they taught us, and nothing worked. I called 911 at some point and…it seemed to take forever for anyone to arrive.”
“The first responders: fire or police?”
“Fire.”
“And they saw you trying to revive him?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Anything else?”
“The police arrived next, and I remember being surprised your father and his partner was there so quickly.”
“He arrived shortly after the beat guys arrived.”
“Yeah.”
“Then the ambulance crew arrived?”
“Yes.”
“Evan, this is important. Think hard. Are you sure the knife wasn’t on the floor when you first found Jonathan?”
“I don’t know.”
Evan began to cry again and looked away embarrassed.
“Evan, stay with me for just a little longer.”
Evan nodded his head, wiped his eyes with his arm, then looked at Brandon.
“Do you know anyone who would attack Jonathan?”
“No.”
“No enemies or anyone felt wronged by him?”
“He mentioned some getting nasty when denied a loan, but…surely one of them wouldn’t do something like this?”
“In the current atmosphere, I wouldn’t bet against any cruelty someone was willing to do.”
“Jonathan had mentioned a couple in the last few months, but you’ll have to get who from the bank.”
Brandon knew getting information from a bank was impossible without a search warrant. He would have to rely on The Ghost for assistance in getting the names.
“What about you?”
“Me? No. I’ve not had anything at the department that involved anything serious to suspect someone.”
“What about back in St. Pete?”
“Just the usual threats from some arrests.”
“No one getting out with threats of revenge?”
“Probably, but you know how most of them are. They get out and either disappear or end up back in the system.”
“What about some old grudge?”
“Me? No. Jonathan…I don’t think so. You know he is from here. Still has a brother and his father living in the city.”
“I remember. Any reason to suspect one of them?”
Evan looked at Brandon with shock, the suggestion too much to consider. “No.”
“Okay, that is enough for today. I’ll get the report and start talking to people and see what I come up with. In the meantime, get an attorney on board and don’t talk to my father without them present.”
“There is a McKinley coming by this morning. Said he’d love to represent me, then…referred to your father in a really nasty way.”
Brandon smiled, then leaned forward, lowering his voice. “McKinley is a piece of work himself, a real curmudgeon but he’s a damn good attorney, and if he has a grudge against my father, that is even better.”
Evan smiled, nodding his head.
“Okay, keep your wits about you and watch your back in there.”
“Thanks.”
Heading out of the parking deck, Brandon called his contact. It rang four times and Brandon assumed he would have to call back, but a breathless voice answered.
“Hey, sorry, I was across the room.”
“You know why I’m calling?”
“Yep. I’ve already sent the police report to you.”
“Good.”
“And Brandon?”
“Yeah.”
“Be careful. Your father seems intent on crucifying Evan. He really has it out for him.”
“Does he say why?”
“One less faggot to have to deal with.”
Okay, thanks. OH, one more thing.”
“Yes?”
“Did the old man say anything about the knife? How he found it or anything?”
“He didn’t find it. One of the other guys found it when searching around the kitchen. Why?”
“I think it was moved.”
“By someone on the force?”
“I got to go,” Brandon replied, ending the call.
The room was brightly lit by the harsh fluorescent lights, revealing every cracked floor tile with scuff marks from years of abuse, the walls where visible needed a fresh coat of paint, and the ugly banged up filing cabinets lining one wall. Brandon leaned against his old desk and looked to his right. Two dry erase boards had his notes on the fall case. Names, addresses, and important aspects of the case. He stared at it, wondering how to bring that case to an end as fast as possible. On the corner of his desk was the printout of the stuff Klosowski had found. There was enough there to put Swinson and Cullen away, but there would be a problem of how to release it, then the fact that if he went that route, it could lead to some unwanted attention to the guys and their restaurant.
He looked left at the two boards at the back of the room, both now full of information on the Jonathan Porter murder. Based on what he had so far, there wasn’t much to go on. It made clearing Evan Cannon that much harder if there were no enemies or someone who felt wronged by Jonathan enough to lash out. Along the left side, he had listed Jonathan’s family, and he would start there first thing in the morning.
He picked up his phone and brought up Klosowski.
“I’ve been expecting your call,” Klosowski answered with the sound of fingers typing away in the background. “The Porter murder, right?”
“Yep. But first, I need your help with the other case.”
“The fall guy and his slimy attorney?”
“That’s the one. I’ve got an idea on how to bring it to an end. It’s a bit underhanded, and I need…”
“I’m in. What do you need?”
“First off, I’m waiting on them to have one of their little parties. Get some video to add to our little stack of information.”
“Oh, some visuals. I like that.”
“Once we have that, here’s what I’ll need you to do…”
Friday, 28 August
Brandon stood in front of the dry erase board, red marker in hand. He had been making notes to pay special attention. Late last night he got the police report and files from St. Petersburg on arrests by Evan, and now the board was covered in names, their relationship to Evan and Jonathan, and particular notes on the case. He stared at the photo of the knife lying in the base cabinet under the sink, thinking how that did not make sense. Evan was smart enough to know that would be easily found, and Evan had said he didn’t remember seeing a knife. Of all the details, this one nagged at him the most.
He scanned the names, working out in his mind how to approach each one. There was one name from the arrest record back in St. Petersburg. Allen Norris had been convicted of assault and robbery, and Evan had been the one to capture him and testify at his trial. Circled in red was 3 February, for it was the date Allen had been released from prison. Picking up his cell phone, he dialed The Ghost.
“I’m working on it; Jesus give me some time, will ya?” answered The Ghost, sounding exasperated.
“I’m not calling about the attorney.”
“Oh…what’s up?”
“Can you track down someone?”
“You know I can. Who?”
“Allen…” said Brandon, scanning his notes for the full name. “…Curtis Norris. Convicted of assault and robbery down in St. Petersburg. He served 14 months and was released on 3 February of this year. Last known address was 481 10th Street North, Apartment 3.”
“Got it.”
“Let me know what you find as soon as possible.”
“Is this for the Jonathan Porter murder?”
“Yes.”
“I’m on it,” and the connection ends.
Brandon pulls up in front of the modest brick ranch on Seaforth Avenue. He glances at his watch noting the time: 10:38 A.M. and gets out to go to the door. Halfway up the sidewalk, a Ford Fusion pulls into the drive, parking behind the Chevrolet truck. He stops and waits, seeing a man who looks late twenties or early thirties end a phone call, then climb out.
“Can I help you?” the man asked.
“I’m here to talk to John Porter regarding the murder of his son, Jonathan.”
“He’s my father. I’m Samuel. Are you the police? We’ve talked to them at length and…”
“I’m a private detective.”
“Oh. Are you working for Evan?”
“Yes.”
“That’s good, good. I’m not sure what else we can add.”
“Maybe nothing, but I’d like to talk with your father, and you.”
“Okay. Come on in. Dad should be up.”
“How is your father?”
Brandon sees Samuel hesitate, then proceed to the front porch. He knows the body language, and after reading the police report knows it is about his father’s cancer.
“Dad is hanging in there…so far.”
“I’m sorry to hear about his condition.”
“It’s strange. We lost mom two years ago in a car accident, now we’re…”
“It has to be tough.”
Samuel nods, then unlocks the front door. “Come on in.”
Brandon sits on the sofa looking at John Porter in the lounge chair near the front window. Samuel comes from the kitchen with a glass of water and three pill bottles. Brandon watches this ritual between son and father, the holding of pills, then the glass of water. Once swallowed, Samuel helps John slip the oxygen mask back in place.
“Have you found out anything about who killed my boy?” asked John.
“No, sir. I’ve just started, but I’ve got a few leads to chase down. Can you tell me if there is anyone who had an issue with Jonathan, or Evan?”
John shook his head, then looked at Samuel who was easing down in the armchair opposite the coffee table from him. “Sam, you know anyone?”
“Dad, we talked about this. I can’t imagine anyone wanting to do this to Jonathan. But…it had to be someone he denied a loan, or…” Samuel hesitates, looking over at Brandon, then he looks back at John. “Or it is someone Evan put away and they are out looking for revenge.”
“There are some leads in that direction,” Brandon replies, looking at John.
“It’s a terrible thing…burying a child,” John whispered. He turned from the window back to Brandon. “If you need anything from me, don’t hesitate to ask.”
“Thank you,” Brandon replied. “I’ll let myself out.”
“Dad, I’ll be right back,” said Samuel, getting to his feet. He followed Brandon to the front porch. “This has really taken it out of dad. I don’t think…”
After a moment of silence, Brandon knowing Samuel wasn’t going to finish his sentence. “Your sister? Catherine. She lives in Raleigh?”
“Yes, and with two young mans, its hard for her to come down, but she’ll be here this weekend.”
“Samuel, thanks for your time. I just wanted to meet your family before I really got into the investigation.”
Samuel looked at Brandon and smiled for the first time. “Just needed to make sure one of us didn’t seem like we were capable of murder?”
Brandon smiled, nodded his head, then headed to his Cherokee. He watched Samuel return inside his father’s house, then he pulled out his notes, and looked for the addresses of the next two people to interview. The two that stood out from Jonathan’s work as a loan officer. They had been rejected by him for a loan. There had been a scene by each, one making threats and the other acting so desperate, pleading and crying, that security had to escort both from the bank.
Chester Haines of Mint Hill
Shirley Adams of Pineville
Both would take forty minutes or longer to get to since they were outside the city in one of the adjacent incorporated areas. It was after ten thirty and he wondered which would be easier to catch just before noon. He plugged in Shirley Adams address and set it as his next destination. She worked from home as a massage therapist, so he knew she should be home.
By every metric, it was obvious Shirley Adams was struggling. The yard needed mowing, the sign out front was a cheap real estate size sign, leaning over, looking forlorn. An old Corolla sat in the drive but no other vehicles to indicate a partner or a customer.
Brandon strolled up the sidewalk, feeling this was going to be like the father, just a routine conversation to check her off the list. He rang the doorbell and waited.
The door swung open, and a blonde woman peered out with a smile that looked sadly fake.
“Yes, can I help you?”
“Ms. Adams? Shirley Adams?”
“Yes,” Shirley replied, the smile fading from her face.
“I’m a private investigator looking into the murder of Jonathan Porter.”
“Who?”
She looked confused, sincerely wondering who Jonathan Porter was and why she was being asked about him.
“He worked at American Bank as a loan officer, and you had been turned down. Several witnesses said you threatened him before leaving back in July, Wednesday the eighth to be specific.”
“I…I did loose my temper, but you suspect me of…no, no, I’d never do that.”
“You had no further contact with the victim?”
“NO! I never stepped foot in that bank again. I did lose my temper because…”
She hesitated, her expression showing a weariness and defeat she had initially masked from view.
“It was the fourth bank to turn me down. My husband left me, and debt I didn’t know about. He ruined me and I’m struggling to get back on my feet.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Look, I don’t need this, not now. I don’t remember John…Jonathan what’s his name, and I didn’t kill him.”
Brandon could see she was freaked out, ready to slam the door close any second.
“Well, I just needed to talk to you for a minute. I’ll not take up any more of your time.”
The door closed leaving Brandon standing on the front stoop, knowing she wasn’t one to keep on his list.
Driving through the small town, Brandon was leaning toward Allan Norris, the guy from Florida recently released. Those that he had on Jonathan’s side didn’t make sense. He still had Chester Haines to interview, but his internal sense was telling him he would be like Shirley Adams. Another down on their luck person who lashed out in a fit of despair and frustration. He turned onto 51, heading east, heading to the by-pass.
As Brandon came out of the small downtown area, his phone rang. It was Gabriel.
“Hey, what’s up?”
“Tomorrow night, do you have plans?”
“No, nothing.”
“Alex and Clayton want us to come over for dinner. Paul is coming with his newest boyfriend.”
Brandon laughed, shaking his head.
“This will be boyfriend number six, no, seven.”
“Don’t be mean.”
“I’m not but Paul just had rotten luck. He dates these guys who end up freaking out about his job or hating his long hours.”
“Maybe he should date doctors?” Gabriel joked.
“Oh no, they’re the worst,” Brandon laughed, hearing Gabriel laugh over the speaker. “Who is it? Do you know?”
“He mentioned a name: Ian.”
“I don’t think I know an Ian. But as to dinner, sounds good.”
“I’ll let Alex know.”
Brandon’s phone rang again before he could hang up. It was Klowoski, The Ghost. “I’ve got to take this.”
“Bye,” Gabriel quickly replied ending their call.
“What have you got?” Brandon asked as soon as he accepted the call.
“I found the ex-prisoner.”
“Good. Where?” Brandon replied, expecting to hear the man was still down in Florida.
“He’s in Chester, South Carolina.”
“What? Seriously?”
“Yep. Living with his mother.”
“That is close enough to easily make the drive up and back.”
“Yep.”
“Send me the address and whatever else you found out.”
“It’s in your email account already.”
“Thanks.”
Klowoski made no reply, simply ending the call. Brandon smiled at the lack of social skills, wondering if he would ever leave his mother’s basement.
Brandon drove back into Charlotte, crossing the imaginary line of its limits and back into his own city. The county had very little land unincorporated, and Brandon knew even that was spoken for by one municipality or another. He drove until in the commercial area where one of the malls sat, one that has struggled in recent times. One anchor closed, and a couple of others threatening to close. He wondered how they were still in business based on the news of their loses. He navigated through the traffic, having to stop at nearly every traffic light until finally at the by-pass that circled the city. He swung right on the ramp and accelerated with the other traffic and merged onto the busy road.
Most of the traffic exited at one of the next three exits, and the thinning traffic allowed the remaining traffic to increase its speed. Brandon stayed right, not pushing it, for he was lost in thought about the case. The family was crossed off, and now Shirley Adams. Allen Norris loomed large in his mind as the main suspect. Chester was less than an hour south of the city, making it far too convenient for Norris to drive up, kill Jonathan as a revenge against Evan, then drive back. But first, he was circling around the city to the south, then the east, heading to Mint Hill. It was a small community that was growing for the mere fact it was close to the city, a bedroom community where the center was just an intersection with shopping centers surrounding it.
Driving along an old two-lane road, Brandon noticed the houses scattered along its length were in different styles and from different periods of time. A place that grew up slowly for decades and still too far from the center of Mint Hill to be affected by its explosion of growth. Watching his mapping program on his cell phone and the addresses on mailboxes that sat by the road, he looked for 9812. When he finally saw it on a rusted mailbox, the numbers the cheap adhesive type any hardware store carried, he scanned up the dirt drive until it disappeared into a small woodland. He frowned, for the trees gave the residence cover and provided him no idea of its layout.
Following the dirt drive, he eased along its rough surface, winding through the trees until he came out into a clearing. There was a simple white farmhouse with a pond to its left. To its right, an old barn and a frame for another. It was obvious the framing had been there for some time, the wood long since lost its fresh yellow appearance, now going gray in the sun. A little further out, two greenhouses and a large garden plot. Caged tomato plants, okra and what appeared to be rows of beans covered much of the plot. It was obvious Chester Haines was still operating a small farm, growing vegetables. It was also obvious he was struggling and the loan he sought was probably for the barn, and maybe an expansion of the greenhouses.
Following the drive until stopped behind a Ford truck, he noticed it was one about ten years old. As he climbed out, a man come out of the house carrying a glass of tea. A quick look at his watch and Brandon realized it was lunch time.
“Can I help you?”
The question was spoken casually, sincere in its tone.
“Maybe. I’m looking for Chester Haines.”
“You got him,” stepping down from the porch and closing the distance between them.
“I’m sorry to disturb you during lunch, but I just have a couple of questions,” said Brandon, sensing this was another situation like Shirley Adams.
“Okay,” Chester replied, his tone suddenly sounding worried.
“I’m a private investigator, looking into the murder of Jonathan Porter, and…”
“And you’re interviewing anyone who appeared to have an issue with him.”
“Yes.”
“I see…walk with me,” said Chester, heading toward the unfinished barn and greenhouses.
Brandon fell in beside him, neither saying anything until they were standing in front of the framed structure sitting out in the hot sun.
“I did lose my temper with Mr. Porter. I was so upset. You see this? It was to be another barn and over there, behind the two greenhouses, that area leveled out, was to be four more greenhouses. I need to get bigger to make the economy of scale work, to have enough product to really make a living. My wife teaches school and if it weren’t for that…” Chester let his voice trail off, allowing a silence to settle around them that told Brandon all he needed to know. “Don’t get me wrong, I make a fair amount most years, enough to help but if I lose one crop, or like two years ago, a nasty thunderstorm come through and took out the greenhouses, then the farm goes in the red.”
“So, you went to the bank for a loan to expand?”
Chester nodded his head, then looked around to Brandon. “I really did lose my temper, just said some really nasty things, but Jonathan had been the third bank to turn me down. I was too great a risk, not the type of business they were interested in loaning money. Can you believe it? How the banks determine what is a legitimate business and what is not. We complain about zoning ordinances and the difficulties of meeting regulations, but if you ask me, its these damn banks that mess everything up.”
Brandon heard the harshness with the curse, realizing it was the only time Chester had uttered one.
“Have you had any contact with Jonathan Porter since that day?”
“What? No, none. I gave up after that. Just came home and wondered about shutting it down.”
Chester then looked over smiling.
“Two weeks ago, I went over to his credit union, the one my wife uses. I don’t know why I didn’t go there first. Some stupid ego thing about not relying on her, I guess. Anyway, they met with me and…” Chester laughed, “they approved a loan. I’ll be getting this barn finished before winter and the greenhouses will be going up at the same time for a winter crop.”
Brandon crossed Chester off his list, realizing it had just been a frustrated man losing his temper.
“I thank you for talking with me, and I’ll go now.”
Brandon turned to head back to his Cherokee when he heard Chester call out.
“That Evan fellow, Jonathan’s partner?”
“Yes, what about him?”
“You sure he didn’t do it? The news said…”
“Do you believe everything in the news?”
“No. You got any decent leads?”
“One.”
“Well, good luck. I do hope you find who did it.”
Brandon stood in his office, the White Stripes playing in the background. It was late, nearly eleven. He had gone home, had dinner with Gabriel, then come back to his office. He was frustrated with Evan’s case, for every lead had been a dead end, leaving him with only one left to pursue. If it didn’t work out, he was left with nothing, but speculation about the case being a random murder, maybe a break-in to rob them that had gone wrong. But with the evidence tampering, he knew it was going to be tough on Evan. And he knew that knife should not have been in the base cabinet under the sink.
Wondering about who would put the knife there, his father came to mind, or one of his buddies. As much as he hated to admit it, he knew one of them was capable, especially if it fucked with someone who was gay. He moved to the dry erase board, it nearly covered in names and notes, and he looked at the photo of the knife under the sink. Red marker in hand he wrote a name underneath it.
Louis Nichols
His hand shook as he wrote the name, an old anger he still struggled to contain, for Louis Nichols was his father. He knew his father didn’t kill Jonathan, but the tampering with evidence to make it look like Evan had done it, that he could see his father doing.
He picked up his cellphone to call Klowoski, when it rang in his hand. It was his contact at the department.
“Hey, what’s up?”
“I’m sending you something. You did not get it from me. If this blows up, and it will, you better cover your ass and have a story on how you got it.”
“Okay, what is it?”
“You’re a smart detective. You’ll figure it out.”
The call ended abruptly, and Brandon went to his desk, brought his laptop back online. There were the usual junk emails, and one from Anton asking about their case, and at the top, an email that had just landed in his inbox.
He opened it to see no text within the body. Just an attachment. He downloaded it, then opened it. It was crime scene photos of Jonathan’s murder. He sat up, looking at the first five photographs, five photographs that were not in the report. They were taken prior to the exterior shots and were overall views of the rooms of the house. In the living area, stood Phil Williams, his father’s partner, and two medics. In the next, aimed toward the foyer and front door, there stood two officers and the guys from the fire department heading out. The third showed the dining area and the place where Jonathan lay, with his father standing close, looking down at him. The fourth showed the kitchen, appearing normal, nothing out of place. In the fifth, was a shot down the hall leading to the bedrooms. It was empty.
Brandon sat back, looking at the image of his father standing over the body.
“What am I supposed to see?” he mumbled to himself as he looked at his father, as if the man in the photo would say something, reveal some secret. He stared at the image, the long day and the resulting fatigue making him feel like his eyes were about to cross. He considered calling it a night when he saw it. It was right there, lying on the floor about four feet away from Jonathan. The bloody knife, and the only person who was there to see it was his father.
He sat back, wishing he were surprised. He thought of all the times his father had made some disparaging comment about gays in the department, and how if it were up to him, they would be terminated. He could see it now, his father at the crime scene, looking at the murder victim, a partner to a gay cop, and a plan hatched to blame him for the crime and thus remove him from the force. He could see it and knew when this became public, it would blow up the department and his father would probably lose his position within it.
Leaning forward, flipping through the images till he was at a close-up of the body. In the background his father’s feet, with the ugly black shoes he always wore, and in the middle of the shot lay Jonathan. In the foreground where the knife should have been, just smears of blood on the wood floor. He looked at the date stamp and saw it was only five minutes since the other image. The photographer had gone outside, snapped a few images, and returned inside and began to take close-up shots. General views, then details, like some preferred to do to keep the images in alignment with the way a report may be written.
He looked at the clock and wondered if it was too late. He wanted to put this out in the public realm as soon as possible. He knew he couldn’t prove his father had done it, but it would stir things up, show Evan had not tried to hide the knife and leave everyone questioning who on the police force would do it, and if not his father, then who? And if his father hadn’t done it, surely, he saw it, having been in the room the whole time.
Brandon picked up his phone and made a call.
“Do you know what time it is?” Klowoski answered in a strained, aggravated voice.
“It’s 11:43 PM.”
Brandon knew answering Klowoski’s sarcastic questions would only rile him up more.
“Fuck, I know that. What do you want?”
“Sorry, I don’t mean to interrupt your masturbating, but this is rush job and one I know you’ll like.”
“Really, are we going to make headlines?”
“In Charlotte, possibly the state? Definitely.”
“Okay, what are we doing?”
Saturday, 29 August
Brandon rolled to his back and felt across the bed, finding he was alone. He opened his eyes and looked at the brightly lit room. The curtains were open, and the sunlight poured in. A noise from the kitchen and he knew Gabriel was preparing breakfast. He glanced at his watch, realizing it would be lunch, not breakfast.
A quick shower and dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, Brandon ambled through the house until standing at the island. Gabriel had his back to him, busy preparing something on the range. He smelled onions, garlic, and chicken, making his stomach growl.
“Hey, you should have woken me up earlier,” said Brandon moving to the refrigerator to get a drink.
“You didn’t come in until nearly three this morning and with the two cases, I figured you needed your sleep.”
Brandon saw the television was on with the volume turned down low. It was a local news broadcast, giving the weather for the coming days. Suddenly a red banner appeared at the bottom of the screen, and Brandon turned up the volume.
“…once again, there has been an allegation of tapering with evidence by the police in a recent murder investigation where one of their own has been accused. The initial reports are the knife used in the murder was moved to make Evan Cannon appear guilty of the murder of his partner, one Jonathan Porter…”
Brandon lowered the volume, smiling at how fast the news broke. The Ghost had done it again, releasing the photographs with a synopsis of what they revealed. It went to every local news organization, the mayor’s office, every city council member, the Police Chief, and the department’s internal affairs. There would be no sweeping it under the rug, and he knew his father would not escape scrutiny since he was labeled in each photograph.
“Is there some break in Evan’s case?” asked Gabriel looking from the television then to Brandon.
Brandon shrugged his shoulders and smiled, and Gabriel knew it was something he should ask no further questions.
Brandon couldn’t wait until this afternoon when The Ghost would release more damning evidence. It has recordings of his father going on homophobic rants at one time or another. Rants that he recorded for he knew the day would come they would come in handy. It would give motive as to why his father had moved the knife to implicate Evan. A motive that would stir up the city and demand his firing. He considered the third recording on the file, one taken when he quit, when his father gave him a good riddance speech, telling him how the rest of the faggots in the department would be leaving behind him, no matter what it took. The recordings would implicate him as being a part of the release of information, and some part of him, the old ugly human desire for revenge, relished it. But it would be separate from this morning’s release, and from a different email address, thus keeping secret the responsible party for the first release.
“What time is dinner with Alex and Clayton?”
“Seven, and don’t you get caught up in your cases and not get home in time to clean up.”
“I’ve got one thing to do this afternoon, so I should be home by four at the latest.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
Gabriel looked over his right shoulder with a stern expression.
“I promise,” Brandon replied, smiling back.
Tom Wallace came out of the gate from the backyard as Brandon pulled in behind the BMW in the drive, the Tahoe not in its spot. He climbed out and met Tom halfway.
“Mr. Wallace, thanks for texting me.”
“If it’ll take care of that ass, don’t mention it.”
“So, there was a party last night?”
“Yes, but it was different. Not as loud and a lot less people.”
“That might be better.”
“Really?”
“More prone to cross some lines if there are less people around.”
“Well, I hope so. Come on back and get what you need.”
“I’m just going to switch out the data cards and be on my way.”
An empty cup sat on the corner of the desk; the remains of the coffee purchased on the way to the office. Brandon leaned over, eyes glued to the screen on his laptop, Brandon was looking through the video from the cameras. A couple of women arrived around eight, then two more, plus a young guy. They all looked like high schoolers. Teenagers trying to act like adults. They hung out in the pool while Swinson lounged to one side watching them. Solomon showed up around nine thirty and the party was notched up another level. Brandon watched them do lines of coke, then drink more heavily. Two of the girls, the young guy, and Solomon horsed around in the pool while the other two girls sat with Swinson.
When Swinson climbed to his feet and headed inside with the two girls, Brandon stopped the video and ran the sound recording. He listened through it twice, noting there was nothing said that added to what the video showed. No confessions or comments of an incriminating nature, or of the scam Swinson was running. Then he watched the video from the other side and the one from the upper floor of Wallace’s house to see if they showed any additional activity.
He sat back and wondered about the girls, what their age might be. He picked up his phone.
“Hey Ghost.”
“Yes, what is it now?”
“If I send you a video, can you identify the girls in it, even if they might be just out of high school?”
“Send it over.”
Brandon set his phone down and resumed the first video, watching Swinson disappear in the house, then Solomon started to make out with one girl, while the other two watched. They horsed around, lounged in the pool, did more coke, then crashed on lounge chairs. Brandon sped the video up, until he saw the two girls go inside the house, followed by Solomon, leaving the young guy by himself.
Video paused, Brandon stared at the screen, wondering if he had enough to push Swinson to drop the case. He wanted to kill it, not let it go to court. There had been a hope of overhearing some conversation about the scam, but the party had been a bust. He looked at the young guy passed out in the lounge chair and was curious how long he was left out there. Speeding up the video he watched the night pass as the guy shifted and turned on the lounge chair until the sun began to come up. The guy stirred awake, staggered over to where he had taken off his shirt and shoes, putting everything back on, then he walked around the house to the gate and left. Fast forwarding it again, the house remained quiet until about nine o’clock when another woman showed up, coming through the gate, and around to the pool. She looked in the house, then brought out her cell phone making a call. A few minutes later, Swinson staggered out, and the two of them stood on the pool deck talking.
Brandon paused the video, then brought up the sound recording, fast forwarding it to the time the woman showed up. He listened to her call Swinson, inpatient for him to come out. The sliding glass door opens and Swinson gruffly greets her.
“…you’re early.”
“I’m not sure it is a good idea to hit that florist shop.”
“Why?”
“Solomon hit the restaurant just down the street and now I’m to take a fall in the same area. Don’t you think that is unwise?”
“Kylie, relax. If it were Solomon doing both falls, then yes, it would be stupid, but it’ll be two different people. No connection, other than each of you use the same attorney. That’s all.”
“I don’t like it, but okay. But this better go per the plan.”
“Have you scoped it out?”
“Yeah. The Petal looks a bit too nice if you ask me.”
“It’ll be easier to get them to pay.”
“Fuck, this is insane. Swinson, this is the last fall I take in Charlotte. You hear me? The fucking last one. After this, I’m back out in some shit hole town.”
“Okay, okay, relax, Kylie. After this fall, we’ll go back to the small towns.”
Brandon grabs up his phone and brings up Alex’s number.
“Hey, Brandon, you still going to make it tonight?”
“Yes, of course. Listen, I’m calling about something else.”
“What is it?”
“You know I’m looking into that fall at Anton and Carlos’ restaurant.”
“Yes.”
“I just found out another person is planning to hit you. Take a fall.”
“What?”
“I’m not sure when but get prepared. Did you set up the security system like we talked about it.”
“Yes, in fact I put in an extra camera.”
“Perfect. Make sure it is operating correctly. If they plan to hit you in the next day or so, I can’t stop them but if they are planning it during the week, and most do it then to keep from having too many witnesses, then I might be able to stop it.”
“Thanks for giving me a heads up. Should I call my attorney?”
“You might need to do so on Monday. I’ve got to make some more calls, and I’m sending you an image of the person planning the scam. I’ll see you tonight.”
Brandon immediately called The Ghost next.
“Fuck, what do you want now?”
“Can we get set up to put the fear of god into that attorney?”
“Time to give that heathen some righteousness?”
“Something like that. I’m going to send you videos and a voice recording. Put it with the other stuff we talked about. I want to hit that bastard now.”
“What’s with the rush?”
“They are going to hit The Petal next.”
“The florist shop in Elizabeth?”
“Yes.”
“I see. And you want to strike down the demon before they do it.”
“Yes.”
“And how do we deliver this?”
“Email it, text it, and any other way you can get it to the attorney and to Solomon Cullen too. There is another person set to hit the florist shop. If you can identify her, add her to the list. She’s already nervous and this would stop her in her tracks. Blind copy me so I know what you send and when I can call Swinson.”
“I can have this ready tonight.”
“Then we interrupt his playtime.”
“Okay. Are we going to send a package to the state and local police?”
“Yes, but not until I get them to drop the case against Anton and Carlos. I want them clear of this. As soon as we get Swinson to pull the lawsuit, then we throw them to the wolves.”
Klowoski laughs, then hangs up.
Brandon pulls into the garage at little after three, feeling anxious, psyching himself up for a fight. What kind of fight it will end up being, he’s not sure, but he feels its approach? He finds himself rushing inside, despite not needing to do so. He finds Gabriel in the study, seated at the window reading.
“Hey, you’re home early,” said Gabriel, looking up with a smile.
“Yeah, hey, you at a stopping point?”
“Yes,” Gabriel replied, closing the book, and getting to his feet. He recognized the agitated state Brandon was in. He saw it in his eyes and mannerisms. And he knew what Brandon needed to calm him. He followed Brandon down the hall to their bedroom, unbuttoning his shirt as he went.
Gabriel knew Brandon. Knew he’d be more physical, the frustrations of his job surfacing in ways some couldn’t begin to understand. But he did, for he had felt them too when working the emergency room. The constant pressure to be at their best even when so tired they could barely think straight. He lay on his stomach and felt this need for some release. The physical nature of it. The initial penetration. Then the thrusting into his depths, over and over, as Brandon clung to his body and kissed him on the shoulder or the neck or just below one ear. The touch of hands along his sides that stroked his desires. The cock boring into his hole brought them to the surface. Uncontrollable, primitive desires. He undulated beneath Brandon, pushed up as cock bore into him causing him to moan and cry out and beg Brandon to keep going.
“Roll over,” Brandon uttered between gasps for breath.
Gabriel rolled to his back and raised his legs. A tight grip on each ankle and Brandon was pushing his legs over until knees pushed into the mattress. His ass was angled upward, and cock raked over his ass, wet, leaking, leaving a trail of its slick. Then it settled at his opening and sank back into his depths.
Brandon worked his hips, feeling the tightness grip his cock as he piston it inside of Gabriel. The push inward, then the tug outward, a slow rhythm at first, letting him feel every inch of his cock being stroked by the tight opening. Leaning down, bodies rubbing together, they kissed, passionately, Brandon feeling a desperation that fueled his desires. Gabriel’s hands moved over his body, and he heard the soft pleadings. It spurned him to move faster, to increase his arousal, push him to the point he couldn’t hold back. He rose on his hands and fucked harder.
The bed squeaked in rhythm with the sound of bodies coming together. It filled the room and floated down the hall into the rest of the house. Their sex consumed the place, echoed in every corner. Then a cry overpowered the other sounds. It was the final release. The point of no return in their copulation. Brandon heard Gabriel’s exclamation and sunk into his depths. He hammered hips against the upturned ass, trying to go deeper. To increase his penetration. Then he came, crying out louder.
Brandon rang the doorbell as Gabriel held the bottle of wine. Clayton swung the door open, and sheepishly smiled at them.
“Hey guys, come on in.”
Clayton had on pants that looked military, dark earthy green in color, and a white shirt, starched and neatly creased. It was a look he had often since moving in with Alex, but it was one Brandon still tried to resolve with the country boy he had first met in Butler, in ratty jeans and t-shirt.
“Are Paul and Ian here?” asked Brandon as they followed Clayton through the small formal living, the dining room with the table already set for six, and into the large kitchen with the entertainment area open to it. Paul and Ian were seated at the island while Alex stood at the range. The smell of something spicy filled the air, along with bread baking.
“Hey guys,” said Brandon as he came to the island. “Smells great,” he added as Gabriel sat the bottle of wine on the island next to two other bottles, one already open.
“Brandon, Gabriel, this is Ian. Ian this is Brandon and Gabriel,” said Paul, making introductions as he slid two empty glasses close and poured red wine in each.
“Ian,” Brandon and Gabriel said almost in unison, making everyone smile.
“Brandon, you have really stirred the shit down at the department,” said Paul, growing serious.
“You mean that stuff about him tapering with evidence? What makes you think I did it?” asked Brandon, struggling not to laugh.
“It’s not funny,” Paul replied, struggling too not to smile.
“I guess he can’t sweep this one under the rug.”
“No shit. Do you know how much hell is being rained down on the department?”
“I’ve not heard.”
“The media has the stuff, the FBI for fuck’s sake. There is a lot of pressure to prosecute your father, not just shit can him.”
“How’s the investigation going?” Brandon asked, showing his lack of concern for his father.
“The investigation is stagnant, but they’re trying to get it back on track.”
“Don’t let them take the easy way out and continue to try to pin it on Evan.”
“There are a few of your father’s cronies who want to hang Evan, but there is a lot of pressure to do the investigation right.”
“Good.”
“What about your investigation?”
“So far, I’m crossing off suspects, but nothing that points to anyone.”
“Some are beginning to think it was a robbery and Evan got back in time to interrupt them.”
“I don’t know,” Brandon replied, unable to accept the hypothesis.
“Hey, you guys about ready to eat?” Alex interrupts, turning from the range.
“Oh, yes, I’m starving, and let’s move on from this police work,” said Gabriel, picking up the two unopened bottles of wine and following Alex to the dining room.
“I agree,” Ian added, climbing off the stool, and waiting on Paul to do the same.
As everyone moved around the table to take a seat, Brandon came up to Alex, lowering his voice. “Are you prepared?”
“Yes,” Alex replied in a whisper. “Let’s not discuss it during dinner,” he added, nodding toward Clayton.
Seated, dishes were passed around until everyone had their plate filled and began to eat, letting their conversation meander through various topics. What Ian did for a living (seventh and eighth grade math teacher), how Clayton was adjusting to living in Charlotte (still struggled with street names but he knew his way around Elizabeth and Plaza-Midwood), and about Gabriel’s reduction in hours (allow more time at home to be with Brandon). Even when finished with dinner, they continued to sit at the table talking late into the night.
Once everyone was gone, Clayton helped Alex clean off the table, load the dishwasher and put everything away. The normalness of it and the ability to live openly with Alex had been hard to adjust to at first, but over the months he had been living with Alex, he found himself thinking of it as his normal life. The routine of each day comforting. The heading out early to the auto repair shop, then Alex to the florist shop, then getting home first, preparing everything for Alex to cook, he not good at the actual cooking.
For Alex, having Clayton in his life overwhelmed any doubts he had after what happened. Clayton was so unlike any of his previous boyfriends, so different from what he expected as a partner, that it made him grin foolishly to think of it. Clayton was so shy around his friends, afraid to talk in front of some of them with his strong southern accent. It took some time for Alex to convince him to relax, to see how he was not that different from his friends.
But it was in the bedroom where Clayton truly found himself gaining the confidence to tell Alex what gave him pleasure. The admittance of things he had believed were so wrong, some kind of sin, he had been reluctant to express his desires.
Midnight arrived with them lying across their bed, naked, hands touching the other. The rub over round ass cheeks, along arms, and down legs. The rake of a finger over a nipple, then the manipulation of it. A pinch, or a twist. There was the fondling of cocks, the slight tug on nut sacs, Clayton asking Alex to tug harder, pushing nuts tight into the bottom of it making his cock flex with his arousal. There were fingers working down between ass cheeks, raking along the crevice, then rubbing over tight openings. Clayton wanted the penetration, to feel Alex stretch his hole open, and he kissed him passionately, then beg him to do it.
Clayton felt two fingers stretch him open, sink into his hole, then pump slowly through the tightness until he loosened to it.
“Clay…I want you,” Alex whispered.
Alex rose on knees, took Clayton behind the knees, and folded him over. Pushing down until the legs were pressed against Clayton chest, Alex moved over him, put his cock to the stretched open hole and sank into it. He piston inside Clayton, who threw his head back and clutched at the bed.
The pace of their fuck increased, the bed rocking back and forth and the sound of bodies coming together, over and over, echoed in the room. Clayton looked up at Alex, eyes pleading.
“Keep going…fuck me harder…please.”
Clayton watched Alex move over him. Sweat trickled down Alex’s face and his torso glistened in the dim light. Clayton reached around his legs and ran his hands up the sweating torso. The skin felt hot and slick against his fingers. He felt the undulation of the torso, the flex of muscle beneath the slick skin. The movement was in rhythm to the cock that bore into his depths, giving him a sense of fullness he didn’t want to stop. But he knew Alex was close.
There was a shove inward, all the way, then Alex hammered his abdomen against Clayton’s upturned ass as he cried out. He shuddered with each ejaculation until spent, then collapsed on the bed next to Clayton.
Clayton stretched out as Alex touched his stomach, then chest. The hand moved over him, its touch now so familiar, so arousing, he desired it. The hand moved down and took his erection, stroking the shaft and rubbing over the leaking head. He cried out and shivered with the manipulation, then watched Alex move over him. More often, than not, he was on bottom, but there were times, mostly late at night when their sex was unhurried and at its most intimate, Alex wanted the roles reversed.
Clayton watched Alex ease over him, hold his slick cock up as he moved down to it. He felt the squeeze on the head of his cock, how it was so tight he shuddered. Then the tightness slid down his shaft until Alex had every inch. They kissed, touched each other, then Alex sat back up and began to move.
Sunday, 30 August
Edward Swinson stirred awake with sunlight hitting him in the face. The fog of too much drink and far too many lines left him feeling like he was in a well, trying to climb out. He moved an arm off his chest, as he struggled to open his eyes. He was naked on floor in the living room,with a young girl he could not remember her name or even when she had shown up last night, for he didn’t recognize her. He looked over his large belly, past his bare feet to the pool through the glass and saw Solomon on a float drifting across the pool, he too naked.
“Fuck,” Edward uttered as he rolled to his hands and knees, and climbed to his feet, the weight of belly making him struggle. He glanced at his watch wondering not only the time but the day. He smiled when he saw it was just Sunday. He had time to collect his wits about him and call Kylie about the next case. Their little stunt that would target the florist shop. He wanted it to happen on Tuesday, when the store wouldn’t have too many witnesses, but hopefully just one or two without a good sightline to Kylie. She wasn’t the best, Solomon was, but the florist shop should be easy for her. After their talk the previous morning, he wanted to reassure her one more time everything would be fine.
He slid the glass door open and looked at Solomon drifting across the pool, envious of the muscular body and the thick cock lying flaccid. It wounded his ego to look down at his belly, so large he hadn’t seen his cock in a few years except in the mirror. But he was the brains in the outfit, and the one who took the largest slice of the pie therefore he would stroke his ego with that knowledge.
“Solomon! Solomon!” Edward yelled across the rear deck area.
“Yeah, what is it?” Solomon replied, slurring his words.
“Get your naked ass inside before someone sees you. Time for you to get dressed and go home.”
Edward watched Solomon roll off the float, slipping below the surface, then come up wiping the water from his face. He closed the glass door, strolled across the living room, kicking the girl on the floor as he passed.
“Get up, time for you to go home.”
A couple of hours later, Edward went into the study to check emails and plan the week ahead. He sat a plate down with warmed up food from the delivery the night before, taking bite after bite without consideration to what he was eating. It was just the habit of eating, shoveling mouthful after mouthful until the plate was finally empty and he wondered if he should go back for more or wait a couple of hours and have a snack.
Plate pushed to the side, he brought up his computer, hit the tab for his email and scanned the inbox, looking at the new emails. There were four from Kylie, and he went from grinning at her seriousness of the task to frowning at the way she seemed to be freaking out again. He wondered if it were too late to make Solomon do it, then remembered the restaurant Solomon had hit was just up the street.
He moved backward in time until he came to an email from someone calling themselves The Ghost. He smirked when he saw it had hit his inbox at two in the morning. He wondered if it were spam or some junk email sent to spread a virus through his system. But the heading caught his eye.
You will stop.
Edward laughed, out loud, at the audacity of the heading. Unable to stop himself he opened it.
Brandon helped Gabriel clean up after a light lunch, then found himself on the back deck pacing back and forth, wondering what he was missing. Jonathan’s murder was beginning to seem like it could be a random crime, maybe someone broke in to rob them and Jonathan surprised them. But it didn’t sit well with him. It was all wrong. The repeated stabbing with a knife. It seemed personal.
The sound of a door opening brought Brandon around to see Gabriel sticking his head out.
“Hey, there is a meeting at the hospital on a difficult case and I’ve been asked to attend,” said Gabriel.
“Okay. How long will you be?”
“Not sure. A couple of hours…maybe three.”
“I may go to the office for a bit.”
Gabriel smiled, knowing how Brandon was troubled by the murder case.
“Okay. Call me if you’re going to be late.”
Brandon went back inside, grabbed up his keys and followed Gabriel back out, each going to their own vehicles as garage doors rolled upward.
Brandon eased through town, mind circling the facts of the case, those he thought were accurate and those he had pause. At a traffic light, his phone beeped with a message. It was the Ghost letting him know Swinson had read their message. There had been no reply, and Brandon wondered if they would have to deal with Swinson openly, bringing Anton and Carlos into the conversation. He was hoping to get Swinson to drop the suit against them first. Then, despite their promise not to do it, they would release everything to the authorities. There was something about it, this revenge, that gave him a certain satisfaction. He knew the old saying of no honor among thieves was true, and therefore Swinson was not to be trusted. It was a simple matter of hitting back hard to stop their shenanigans from happening again.
Just thinking about Swinson made his blood pressure rise. He pictured the fat cat, cigar smoking until the air was foul, pontificating ad nauseam about topics he knew little about. After watching the videos of his pool party, that image was only reinforced. He quickly typed a reply to the Ghost and hit send just as the light changed to green.
Give him until tomorrow. Talk later.
Brandon wondered if there was something else, he could do to force Swinson to back off. Maybe a little face to face time, but he knew that would not be ideal. He would be prone to smarting off to the asshole and make everything worse.
The parking lot of the old center was busy in a couple of areas where a couple of new tenants had moved in. One was a microbrewer, a business that was popping up all over the city. The other was a small hardware store, and he wondered if it could compete with the home improvement stores. There were two less than two miles away. But by the cars and trucks in the parking lot, maybe they would make it. He eased across the parking lot, noticing a Mercedes convertible parked in front of his office. He slowed, giving him more time to look at the car, thinking it might be one of Swinson’s.
The driver’s door swung open, and Brandon watched the overweight Swinson climb out of the car in a most ungraceful manner. He chuckled at the absurdity of it then put on a stern face as he eased into a parking space two over on the passenger side of Swinson’s car, making him walk around to him.
Taking his time, Brandon finally climbed out and locked his door as Swinson came up to him.
“Are you Brandon Nichols; the private I?”
“Yes, and you are?” feigning ignorance.
Swinson grinned, shaking his head, knowing Brandon was toying with him.
“I got your message and I want to talk.”
“I’m not sure what you’re referring to, but what is it you want to talk about.”
“Can we go inside?”
“Sure.”
Brandon unlocked the office door and led Swinson to his office, switching on the overhead lights and the switch that turned on the recording device for video and sound. It was something the Ghost had suggested about four months ago.
“Take a seat,” gesturing to one of two chairs at the front of his desk. They were cheap straight back chairs, uncomfortable to sit in for very long, and he watched Swinson ease down in the nearest chair as he sat back in his own.
“I think your stunt was a bit much and I’m here to negotiate a…”
“Negotiate?” Brandon exclaimed, sitting up and leaning forward enough to show Swinson who was in charge of the conversation.
“I think my client is due…”
“Client? You mean partner. I think it is clear what is going on and…well, there needs to be an end to the suit. Anything less than that is unacceptable.”
“And that video will be deleted?” After a long pause.
“I think I can find out who did it and get them to erase that particular video.”
Swinson nodded his head as he wiped his face, then squirmed in the chair.
“And Swinson, the florist shop is not to be hit. You tell Kylie Mitchell to abandon any notion of taking a fall in that shop.”
“What? How did you…you bugged my place!”
“I assure you there are no devices at your place.”
“That is a lie. You’ve illegally…”
“Swinson, you dumb fuck, a neighbor’s surveillance system for their property picked up part of your backyard including sound. It seems it is a very sophisticated system.”
“It picked up my backyard?”
“Yep, and it is quite disgusting some of the things it picked up.”
“I see…” Swinson replied, climbing to his feet. “I’ll be going now.”
“The suit needs to be pulled before 10 o’clock tomorrow morning, and The Petal florist shop is to be left alone. Are we clear on that?”
Swinson nodded his head and headed to the door. “I’ll see myself out.”
Brandon waited until he heard the front door close, then he looked around the door jamb to make sure Swinson was leaving, watching the Mercedes back up, then pull away. He pulled out his cell phone, bringing up Klosowski’s number.
“What now?” Klosowski answered in a gruff tone.
“Swinson was here.”
“At your office?”
“Yep. Wanted to make deal.”
“Seriously, he thought he could make a deal? With you?” Klosowski replied, laughing. After a few seconds, finally stopping, he lowered his voice. “So, are we going to release the video now?”
“He has until ten in the morning to pull the lawsuit.”
“What about the florist shop?”
“I warned the bastard to leave it alone.”
“He’ll just switch to some other shop.”
“Not if we release the video tomorrow.”
Klosowski laughed. “What time do you want me to do it?”
“If he pulls the suit, do it after midnight, so he has time to think he is clear of it. But if he doesn’t pull the suit, I want it released at one minute after ten.”
“Just let me know,” Klosowski replied, then hanging up.
Brandon moved around his desk and pushed the two dry-erase boards on the Swinson scam together and back up against a wall. He hoped it would soon be over. There was no mystery to the case. Nothing to discern or investigate. It was simply a case that needed a unique approach. Swinson was a narcissist, and one that would slip through the system, playing every avenue at his disposal to distance himself from Solomon and Kylie. He would find other people desperate enough to do some scam and start all over.
Regardless of how the information was gathered, releasing it publicly would insure Swinson was brought to heel.
Crossing the room, Brandon stopped in front of the other two boards, his notes scrawled across them. He felt that nagging feeling. That something was missing, some aspect he was overlooking. Allen Norris’ name stood out, circled in red several times. His one remaining lead, the one that held the best promise. But it seemed too easy; too neat and tidy. Maybe he was just getting jaded, but would Norris really move to Chester to live with his mother just to take revenge against one of the arresting officers?
Monday, 31 August
Brandon followed the directions coming from his cellphone as he drove out of the small town of Chester. He was heading west, away from the interstate, feeling as if he was going further and further away from civilization. It was only a short distance out of town that the road was cutting through woodland, small house sites, far too many with mobile homes. He passed a church, always amazed at how few residents it took to support each one, wondering how much better each person would be if they didn’t waste their money on these religions.
After a mile of rural countryside, his cellphone called for a left turn. It was a road like most others in the countryside. Two lanes of marked asphalt winding through the countryside. He drove only a short distance when his cellphone stated he was at his destination on the left. The drive angled off the road, cut through woods that lined the road, then came out into a large open yard with an older ranch style house sitting at the back of it. The drive cut to the garage at the end of the house, offering no parking at the front door. There wasn’t even a walk to it, the grass coming all the way up to the front porch and its steps.
Brandon knew he would not be welcomed when the reason for his visit was apparent, but the house seemed to reinforce the notion his presence was trespassing, a place that he was not wanted. Pushing the doorbell did nothing. No bell or chime rang out within the house. He knocked, rapping his knuckles against the solid wood door three times, then stepped back and waited. It seemed a long time before a curtain was pulled to one side in an adjacent window, then after what seemed entirely too long, the lock on the front door being released and the door finally opened.
An older woman peered around the door, pulled open only a few inches. She looked between fifty and seventy, her hair gray and in need of combing. She looked frazzled, worn down, someone just going through the motion of living.
“What do you want?” she asked in a voice that was husky, one that spoke to a lifetime of cigarette smoking.
“I’m looking for Allen Norris. Would you be his mother?”
“What do you want with Allen?”
“I’m a private investigator looking into the murder of…”
The door closed in Brandon’s face, and he stood staring at it not surprised by her reaction. He raised his voice and spoke through the door.
“Mrs. Norris, you can talk with me, or the police. I assure I will be easier to talk to about this. And right now, you’re making Allen look guilty.”
The door opened and this time she swung it open all the way and stood within a small foyer, her upper body in shadow.
“Do you not know what you are asking? Do you know anything about Allen’s current state? Or are you just desperate to pin a murder on him?”
“I don’t follow? Mrs. Norris, I just want to speak to him a minute, and…if it is obvious, he had nothing to do with the murder of Jonathan Porter, then I’ll leave Allen and you, alone. You’ll never see me again.”
She seemed to stand taller, more determined.
“Very well, Mr….”
“Brandon Nichols.”
“Mr. Nichols, follow me.”
Brandon followed Mrs. Norris through the small foyer into a dark hall. Near the end two doors stood open letting the only the light into it. At the end of hall, Brandon noticed the door to the right was Mrs. Norris’ bedroom, the bed unmade, nightstands crowded with prescription bottles, empty glasses or bottles, a book, and a stack of envelops. Mrs. Norris led him into the bedroom on the left. The bed was made up and sitting in a chair facing the window sat Allen Norris. His hair looked thinner, lacking some of its color, but it was neatly combed. He wore a short sleeve shirt and khaki pants. Brandon’s first impression was Allen was ignoring him, but as he approached, he realized something was wrong. Allen was staring straight ahead, not moving. There was no acknowledgment of his presence, even when he moved in front of him. Then he saw the wrist, both scared up the underside of each forearm from a suicide attempt.
“What happened?”
“What does it look like? He got out and seemed fine for a few weeks. I got him to come home, thinking it would be good from him. I’d cook and take care of him while he got back on his feet. But he wasn’t my boy when he came out of that place. Something happened in there that just broke him.
“One morning I got back from a trip to the grocery store and found him in the tub. There was so much blood…
“The doctors told me to let him go, there was too much blood loss, his brain was deprived of oxygen too long. But I couldn’t do it, and now…”
“I’m sorry,” Brandon replied after a long silence, and he stepped back away from Allen, seeing the eyes continue to stare straight ahead.
“Have you seen enough?”
“Yes, mam.”
“Then I would appreciate it if you would leave.”
“Okay.”
The sun was hitting the old storefront of Brandon’s office, heating up the reception area. In his office, only a desk lamp on, the rest of the room dark, just enough light to read the two boards, with a big ‘X’ on Allen Norris’ name. He leaned against the front of the desk and stared at the notes, names crossed out until none remained.
He wondered if the murder was random, someone having broke in and killed Jonathan wanting to rob the house, only to have Evan come back too soon. But there had been three stab wounds, then the cutting of the throat, and it felt too personal. Someone who reacted, stabbed Jonathan, then wanted to make sure he had killed him with one final throat cut.
Premediated. It just felt premediated. Which would need a reason. Revenge or…
Brandon pulled out his cellphone and called his contact at the police station.
“Hey, can you talk?”
“Yes, but just for a minute.”
“I need to confirm a couple of details.”
“Okay, shoot.”
Brandon sensed it, some thread that he needed to follow. He dialed Klosowski, listening to the phone ring several times.
“What?”
“I need you to check something. Something I should have done up front.”
“Okay, what do you need?”
“I want a full background check on someone. Credit report, financial status, any legal proceedings against them, and anything else you can find.”
“And who is the lucky person?”
Brandon looked at the board, wondering if he was on a wild goose chase, but if he was right, then he would have his reason.
“Look into…”
Tuesday, 1 September
9:55 A.M.
“The son of a bitch did it. He pulled the suit,” said Paul, his tone humorous. “How did you do it?”
“Trade secret, but thanks for letting me know.”
“Probably shouldn’t know the answer to that anyway. Does this mean you’re going to leave him alone?”
“No. I’m going to wait a bit, then throw the bastard under the bus.”
“I assume we’ll get notice of this.”
“You and everyone else in city.”
Paul laughed, then grew quiet as someone was talking to him in the background. “Hey, I’ve got to go. Internal Affairs is here, and it is insane.”
“My father and his gang?”
“Yes,” Paul replied, then hung up.
Brandon smiled at their success. He pulled up Anton’s number to tell him the good news, if his attorney hadn’t already told him.
Brandon paced his office, going from his desk to the two boards with the Jonathan Porter case. He glanced at his watch every few minutes, impatient for someone to call him.
Finally weary of pacing, he sat down and stared at the boards lost in thought. A few minutes later his cellphone rang, and he hit accept and grabbed it up.
“What did you find out?”
Brandon stepped out of John Porter’s house, satisfied with confirmation of what he suspected. He left John sitting at his dining table mumbling ‘no’ over and over. Brandon wished he were wrong, but he was sure he was right. It was one of the oldest reasons for murder. He stood at the edge of the porch at the top of steps as Samuel pulled in. Brandon looked more closely, the older car, and when Samuel approached the porch, the wrinkled, worn nature of his clothes.
“What did you need to talk about?” asked Samuel.
“Twelve months ago, you were fired from the company you had been working at for six years. Officially, it was a downsizing, but I think embezzlement was the real reason…”
“How…that was confidential…”
“Three months later, your wife filed for divorce after finding out you were gambling again and visiting a certain prostitute if you managed to win a few dollars,” Brandon continued.
“No…you can’t…”
“Your life was spiraling out of control with your gambling addiction. You’re living in a studio apartment in the old Chesterville neighborhood where you are behind on the rent and being threatened with eviction.”
“Please…stop…”
“Your father had the three of you in his will, and you knew your share wasn’t enough to get you out of debt. But if it were split in half, instead of three ways, then…”
“Please stop.”
Brandon fell silent and looked at Samuel who was staring down at the ground.
“I just have to get on my feet again, then I can repair my marriage and…”
“She’s seeing someone else and has a restraining order against you. You really think you could have repaired your marriage?”
“I have to try.”
“But it’s too late for that. How could you kill Jonathan?”
“I didn’t go there to…I went to see if he would loan me the money. He was doing good and with their two incomes, I thought he could help. But he refused, telling me…telling me…to get help first.”
“He knew you were gambling again?”
Samuel nodded his head.
“And you didn’t like the accusation and acted out, stabbing your brother to death.”
Samuel looked up and his eyes grew wide. Brandon turned to see John at the door. John stared at Samuel who collapsed on the ground crying, then he eased the door closed.
“You have to confess so the police will stop considering Evan as a suspect,” said Brandon.
Samuel nodded his head as he sat on the ground, crying. A patrol car pulled up to the curb, then an unmarked car pulled up from the opposite direction, parking across the street. Brandon watched Paul climb out of the unmarked car, speak with the two officers, then the three of them come up the walk to arrest Samuel.
Brandon was sitting on the bed, towel around his waist after showering. Gabriel came in, pulling off his tie, and stopped just inside the room when he saw him sitting there.
“Everything okay?”
Brandon nodded his head.
“You solved Jonathan’s murder?”
“Yep.”
“And?”
“His brother did it for a bigger cut of their father’s will.”
“Oh shit. He did it for money?”
“Yep.”
“Damn.”
Brandon looked across the room at Gabriel, then stood letting the towel fall to the floor.
“Get undressed,” Brandon uttered as he approached.
Impatient, Brandon helped Gabriel undress, then playfully pushed him onto the bed. He moved quickly, pinning him down. There was the first kiss. Long and passionate. Then many more, lips moving over skin, along the jaw, the neck, down the chest where tongue toyed with erect nipples, then down the stomach until Gabriel’s growing erection rubbed along his cheek. He moved to it, took it in his mouth. He pushed down, wanting every inch.
With the taste of Gabriel in his mouth, he moved over him again, this time dragging his leaking cock up the right leg until it was rubbing over round ass cheeks. Gabriel reached back and spread them. Brandon let his cock drag wetly along the crevice, then pushed against the tight puckered opening until it stretched open, letting him penetrate it. He pushed slowly, feeling the tight opening milk his cock as it sank into Gabriel. When more than half was buried in the tight opening, he began to fuck. Slowly at first, so both could feel his cock push inward, then tug out. But his desire was overwhelming, and he soon began to fuck harder, faster, causing Gabriel to moan and undulate beneath him.
Wednesday, 2 September
Brandon looked up in time to see Gabriel come into the restaurant. When Gabriel got to their table, he greeted Paul, and Rachel Harrison, Brandon’s friend from the FBI, then took the empty seat next to Brandon.
“This is a bit unusual isn’t it. The three of you meeting at lunch time?” asked Gabriel, looking from Brandon, to Rachel, then to Paul.
“Yes, but we’re celebrating a bittersweet victory,” Rachel replied, reaching over, and squeezing Brandon’s hand.
“One long overdue,” Brandon added, then looked around at the waiter approaching their table, “we’re ready to order drinks.”
“So…what has happened this morning?” asked Gabriel.
“Jonathan’s brother confessed to killing him, and Evan is being returned to duty next week. If he accepts it,” said Paul.
“Is Evan thinking of leaving the force?” asked Brandon.
“Yes. He feels betrayed and not sure he wants to do it anymore.”
“I can understand that.”
“Referring to your father,” said Rachel, “he is being charged with evidence tapering and a few other things that have come to light, along with five others.”
“Five? I thought there would be six,” said Paul.
“I know who you are referring to and he was helping the good guys,” Rachel replied with a quick glance at Brandon giving him a knowing smile.
“He was your contact,” said Paul, looking at Brandon.
“Can you keep that quiet?” asked Brandon.
“Yeah, sure.”
“So, that wraps up everything,” said Paul.
“Almost,” said Brandon, turning to the television over the bar. The others looked up in time to see a news report of the arrest of James Edward Swinson, attorney at law. A red banner at the bottom of the screen scrolled the list of charges as the scene unfolded above was Swinson being put in a patrol car. “Now, everything is wrapped up.”
Saturday, 28 November
The restaurant was busy, nearly all the tables seated. The staff rushed from the kitchen to the tables in an efficient manner and the bartenders stayed busy mixing cocktails or pouring wine or beer. In the back of the dining room, the small, raised area two steps up from the main floor, three tables had been pushed together for the large party gathered around it. Plates had been removed and a few were having a dessert, while all had refills. Their conversation was light, almost jovial at times, but there hung a solemness over them.
Brandon sat next to Gabriel and across from them was Rachel and Robert. To their side sat Paul, Ian, Evan, Alex, Clayton, and Ricky Carter. Ricky was a detective, the one who had been an informant for Internal Affairs and Brandon. There was no longer a need to keep the arrangement secret, and he came to join those that were able to gather. Many were out of town visiting family for the Thanksgiving weekend. The rest were working, such as Anton and Carlos, it being one of the busiest nights for a restaurant.
They had talked about Brandon’s father and his team facing prosecution, and all forced to step down. There was an avoidance to talk specifically about Samuel, so they circled around more mundane topics, such as the ridiculousness of Black Friday and what plans each had for the holidays in December, until they had finally fallen into quiet conversations among two or three around the table.
“Evan, Juan said you may look to move to another city,” asked Paul, causing the others to fall silent, looking at Evan, waiting for his response.
“I considered it, but I think I’ll stay here. Jonathan’s father could use some help and the guys at the department have been really good.”
“But there’s a for sale sign up at your house.”
“I’m selling it. I can’t stay in it. I may buy this townhouse in Fourth Ward.”
“That’ll be convenient.”
“Yes,” Evan replied.
“Hey Brandon, you got some crazy case at the moment?” asked Alex.
“No,” Brandon replied, smiling at him.
“He closed the office last week. His P.I. days are over,” said Gabriel.
“What? What are you going to do?” asked Clayton.
“I’m…” Brandon hesitated, then looked down at Ricky who was grinning.
“No, you’re not,” interjected Alex.
“Yep, he’s coming back to lead the group and be my partner,” said Ricky.
“No shit,” said Alex.
“Really?” asked Evan.
“Really,” Brandon replied. “And Paul, you not leaving, right?”
“And stay to work with you? I don’t know,” Paul replied grinning.
“I put in a request to have you remain in the group. They told me I can have some say in who we end up with in the group.”
“Some say? Hell, you got full control after a push from some politicians and rumor says even from the FBI,” said Ricky, looking over at Rachel with a mischievous smile.
“We might have pointed out some benefit of having someone with an established relationship with us,” Rachel replied.
The bedroom was dark, except for the light coming from the open bathroom door. On the bed, Gabriel lay on his stomach with Brandon hovering over him, only hard cock connecting them. Brandon was moving slowly, sinking all the way into Gabriel’s depths, then tugging outward until nearly free. Over and over, Brandon piston his cock inside Gabriel.
Unhurried, a sense they had all the time in the world, Brandon lay on Gabriel and pushed into his depths. Undulating slowly, feeling every move, the full contact of body on body, he moved with his desire. An arm around Gabriel’s neck, hugging him tightly. He increased his pace, pushed with greater need, until the bed rocked beneath them.
Brandon got on his knees.
“Roll over.”
Gabriel rolled to his back held up his legs, feeling the tight grip behind each knee.
Brandon pushed forward as he moved over Gabriel. His cock hit its target and he pushed into him as he continued moving down until he was holding each leg down on the bed either side of Gabriel. Folded in half, ass angled up, Brandon began to fuck it. He moved powerfully, his torso revealing its muscular form, with hips swinging rhythmically. He buried his cock in Gabriel’s depths, then tugged outward until only the head remained inside him. Over and over. Thrusting with a physicality that made Gabriel beg him to fuck faster. To fuck harder. And Brandon did, pumping cock inside Gabriel harder and harder, his pace increasing until the sound of flesh smacking against flesh echoed in the room and the bed rocked noisily in its frame.
Brandon and Gabriel lay intertwined, bodies still hot against each other.
“You ready to go back?” Gabriel whispered.
Brandon was silent for a long time, but finally, with a low calm voice.
“Yes.”