Fear gave way to white-hot anger when Maitland realized she'd used him for a cat's paw. Daddy had called his wife right. Why should she share a fortune with a schlemiel who chilled red wine?

  "You'll sift worms in hell, you slut,” Maitland assured her as he sprang to his feet. “The cops aren't getting that gun. I snuffed Daddy's wick, you think I'm afraid to snuff yours?"

  It meant killing the dumbfounded doctors, too, but Maitland would rather live on the dodge than be caged in prison. And Murder One was not a bailable offense, so he had to run now. His hand curled toward the chamois armpit holster under his jacket. He lunged toward Arlette as he drew the weapon.

  "Freeze, Maitland, or you'll be the sorriest son of a bitch in sixteen states!"

  Two cops in summer-weight suits had materialized in the open French windows. The unblinking eyes of two 9mm gun barrels were pointed center of mass on Maitland. A third cop was recording every incriminating word and action with a camcorder. Maitland wisely dropped his weapon on the sofa.

  "You were right, Mrs. Mention,” one of the cops told Arlette as another cuffed and patted down Maitland. “Wanting us to see his behavior when you requested an autopsy was a stroke of genius. His remark just now about killing Daddy was an admission, not a legal confession. But it's damning, and even if he's got a bulletproof alibi for the night Skinner was murdered, a match between his gun and the slug that killed Skinner will send him over."

  Maitland opened his mouth to accuse her, but swallowed the sentence without speaking. Arlette had played him like a piano, never meeting him in public, and no one was going to believe him. Especially not the overworked public defender he'd be forced to use. Daddy's booming voice from yesterday mocked Maitland as he was led to captivity: Cop a plea and you're free in fifteen years. My wife's an attorney, you know. I'm sure that's what she'd advise.

  (c)2008 by John Edward Ames

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  "Too late. The CEO got here first!"

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  Fiction: RUN FOR JUSTICE by Brendan DuBois

  As well known for his stand-alone thriller novels as for his series mysteries, Brendan DuBois uses a broad brush, referencing big events, historical and political, in most of his work. In January ‘08, Five Star released Final Winter, a DuBois novel set just after the September 11th attacks. This month: a tale starring a female Iraq war vet who's back in the U.S. and working as a P.I.

  The meeting was brief and to the point, and took place in the offices of one Tyler Buchanan along pricey Newbury Street in Boston. I shook his hand as I was ushered in, and took a chair in front of his wide wooden desk. He was in that midpoint between forty and sixty, with black hair cut short and a lean expression to his tanned face that announced that he could look into the hearts of fools, so don't waste your time trying to pull anything over on him.

  He sat down and said, “Miss Blair, I'd like to hire you for the foreseeable future, to serve as a bodyguard for my daughter Kimberly. A month to start, with an option to renew after that."

  The windows in his office had a nice view of the Public Gardens, and the bookshelves looked like they were filled with real leather-bound books and not an impressive collection of Massachusetts state statutes or some nonsense to make uneducated visitors think the host was a well-educated reader.

  I said, “Bodyguard work is not really my expertise, Mr. Buchanan."

  From a drawer in his desk, he pulled out a file folder, opened it up, and put on a pair of reading glasses. He said, “Miss Carrie Blair. Former U.S. Army sergeant in the Army Reserves, and New Hampshire state trooper, now sole owner and employee of Blair Investigative Services. Honorably discharged from the service after being wounded in action. Have now been on your own for three years. A small client list—insurance companies, finance companies, and homeowners associations—but nothing too big.” He looked up from his reading. “So why do you find bodyguard work unappealing?"

  I crossed my legs. I had on a sensible black pantsuit, sensible white blouse, and sensible shoes, to go along with what I hoped would seem to be a sensible attitude. So the guy had a file on me. Big deal. A few minutes on the Internet and a ten-cent Manila folder later, I could have a file on almost anyone in the United States.

  "Because it's brainless work,” I said. “And based on distrust. Brainless because except for a handful of celebrities or politicians, nobody really needs a bodyguard. And based on distrust, because usually, especially in the case of a parent, being asked to be a bodyguard for a daughter means being a glorified babysitter. It means watching her and her pals, making sure she doesn't get drunk, or get high, or have photos taken of her while she isn't wearing any panties. Not a very good use of my time, and an expensive bill for what's really nanny work."

  "Trust me, it's not nanny work,” he said. “And the pay will be of a magnitude better than your normal rate."

  I was too polite to say that I wouldn't trust Tyler Buchanan to tell me it wasn't raining, even though the view from his office was sunny. He was one of those shadowy movers and shakers of Boston, a place where the three great pastimes are sports, politics, and revenge. He was a real-estate developer who also specialized in raising funds for his pet projects, and in helping spread nasty gossip about those pet projects of his competitors that he despised.

  "All right,” I said. “You've got my interest. Go on."

  And then, something magical happened. Not magical in the way of rainbows and unicorns and chocolate sundaes; magical in the way of seeing someone's carefully polished image slip away, and discovering what was underneath. And what I saw was a troubled dad.

  Buchanan swallowed audibly and folded his hands together, and said in a low voice, “Kimberly is nineteen years old. A sophomore at B.C. Several months ago, she was out with some friends at a bar. Something was slipped into her drink that made her woozy and unstable. She was removed from the bar, and raped."

  I instantly regretted my earlier smart-ass attitude. “Mr. Buchanan, I'm terribly sorry to hear that."

  He raised a hand, shook his head briefly. “It ... it went as well as could be expected, I suppose. She was able to identify her attacker, but due to some cunning work on his attorney's part, he was only convicted of assault. He's now serving an eighteen-month sentence at a minimum-security prison out in the Berkshires. And Kimberly ... physically, she's fine. It ... it wasn't as brutal as these things can be. But emotionally..."

  Then he stopped, paused, and it was like being in London, standing before Big Ben, waiting for the clock tower to chime ... and hearing nothing. I folded my hands, waited with him. He coughed and wiped at his eyes and said, “Before the attack, Kimberly was strong, smart, athletic. She could go anywhere and do anything. In fact, she was planning a month-long hike this summer along the Appalachian Trail ... but now. Miss Blair, she's dropped out of school. She's living at a condo that we own in the Back Bay. And for her to step out and get a cup of coffee and that morning's Boston Globe ... that's a victory. Frankly, she's terrified of being outside."

  "I can understand. But you said her attacker is serving time ... and that you wanted a bodyguard..."

  He cleared his throat. “Then I probably misspoke. What I want is someone to be with her to give her peace of mind, that nothing will happen to her again. To help ease her out of the condo so she can slowly recover some sort of useful life. She can't hide in that condo forever."

  I said, “Please excuse me for saying this ... but I think this is more a job for a therapist than someone like me."

  "She is seeing a therapist,” he said. “Evenings, twice a week. But I believe ... and so does her therapist ... that getting her out of the condo will help her recovery. Do you see what we mean?"

  "True,” I said. “But I can't do a 24/7 job alone. It'd be exhausting after three days."

  Buchanan made a dismissive motion with his right hand. “You're absolutely right. On the weekends, she's with me and her mother. During the evening and off hours, the security at her condo is the best in Boston. But for eight hours a day, I would ask you to be with her ... to take her out, to do things, to show her that she doesn't have to live in fear for the rest of her life. Miss Blair, will you do it?"

  It didn't take me long to think it through, though I suppose, in hindsight, it should have. My client list was pretty thin and although I was doing all right, I wasn't making enough money to sock some away for an IRA, and my current medical plan would only kick in to pay for amputations and leech applications. But there was more than money driving this. I've got a kid sister, Donna, living up in Maine, and the thought of anyone doing something bad to her, like what happened to Kimberly Buchanan, made my fingers itch to be around somebody's throat.

  "Deal, Mr. Buchanan,” I said. “You have a deal."

  And the smile I received in return was about the only genuine item in the office.

  * * * *

  And so the next day, I met Kimberly Buchanan, age nineteen, and currently a student on leave from Boston College. The condo she was living in was in Back Bay, one of the pricier neighborhoods in Boston, and her father had told the truth: Security was pretty good. From the outside you went into a small, glassed-in lobby, where a guy sat behind a waist-high desk with a surveillance camera mounted on the far wall. The guy had a good attitude, too. There are security guards and then there are security guards. The bad ones make just a bit over minimum wage and tend to skate over their responsibilities. The good ones let the jokes about rent-a-cops roll off their backs, and stare right at you as you come into their range of view.

  This uniformed guard—a Hispanic guy with the shoulders and upper arms of a football player—looked at me and said, “You've got an appointment?"

  "Yes,” I said. “The name is Carrie Blair. I'm here to see Kimberly Buchanan, in unit fourteen."

  His expression didn't change. “Identification, please?"

  I pulled my driver's license from my purse, passed it over onto the counter. He looked at the photo and back at me, and then held out a clipboard. “Sign here, please."

  I signed and he pressed a switch under the counter. An elevator door slid open and he said, “One floor up. Unit fourteen. I'll announce you."

  "Thanks,” I said, and in a manner of seconds, I was at the door. The hallway outside was nicely carpeted, with tables on each end that had vases holding what looked to be fresh flowers.

  I pushed the buzzer, waited. A voice from the other side: “Carrie? Carrie Blair?"

  "That's right,” I said.

  The voice came back, “Could you step back a bit ... and put your ID up to the peephole?"

  "Sure,” I said, doing just that, and in a few seconds there were some clicks and clacks as the door was unlocked and opened up. A woman about my height but thirty pounds lighter looked at me, smiling. She had on dark blue sweatpants and a sweatshirt. She was barefoot. Her brown hair was pulled back in a simple ponytail and her face, though cheerful, was quite puffy, as if she had been weeping by herself for months.

  "So you're my bodyguard,” she said, her voice firm but quiet.

  I walked into the condo unit and said, “That's what your father hired me for. What do you think?"

  She shrugged, closed the door behind me, and efficiently relocked the three locks. I took a moment to look around. We were in a small entryway that led into a well-lit kitchen and large living room. I walked into the living room and checked the windows. Locked, of course, though being up this high, it would take someone with ropes descending from the roof to have the ability to break in. Small bathroom and tidy bedroom, and that was the tour of the place. It looked well built, secure; if the security guards on the other shifts were as sharp as the one on duty now, she was in a good place. I went back out to see her and she said, “Coffee? Tea? Orange juice?"

  "Juice would be nice,” I said, as I sat down on the wide leather couch, putting my purse on the floor by my feet. A plasma television set hanging on the wall was showing a black-and-white film from the 1930s, it looked like, starring Spencer Tracy. Kimberly came in, carrying a small glass with orange juice, and I took it and said, “Thanks,” and took a sip. She took a nearby chair, looked over, and said, “Well, what do we do now?"

  "Excuse me?"

  She shook her head, though she kept her smile. “You're my bodyguard. What do we do?"

  I shrugged. “Whatever you want to do is fine by me."

  That made her pause for a moment. “I don't understand."

  "Don't understand what?"

  "I mean ... Father said when he hired you, that you were going to take me places. Get me outside. That sort of thing."

  I took another sip of the orange juice. Nice and cold and tart. I said, “Yeah, he said that to me, too. And you know what? I don't care what he wants. What do you want to do today?"

  She rubbed her hands, as if they were cold. “Really?"

  "Yeah, really."

  "I ... I just want to hang, that's all. There's a Spencer Tracy marathon on one of the cable stations.” She pointed to the TV. “I ... I'd like to see that, if that's okay."

  I smiled at her. “Your dad's paying the freight, Kimberly, but this is your place. If that's what you want to do, that's what we'll do."

  She nodded, smiled a bit wider, and then joined me on the couch.

  * * * *

  I left at five P.M. that day, after having a nice pasta lunch, sent up from an Italian place around the corner. I made sure to answer the door myself. Later, the pasta made her sleepy, for she yawned a couple of times as we were watching Captains Courageous. I got off the couch and let her stretch out, and placed a red wool blanket over her. She dozed for about an hour, and once, she started dreaming. I don't know what it was, but she trembled and breathed in hard, long pants, as if she was running a road race in her sleep, and when I went over to wake her up, she moaned and rolled over, and the panting and trembling stopped.

  At the door, as I left, she said, “So ... you'll be here tomorrow?"

  "Yep. Unless your dad stops paying me."

  She smiled. “He won't."

  * * * *

  The next day, there was an Elizabeth Taylor marathon, and this time, I dozed on the couch. On the third day, after we ate lunch—takeout seafood, a bit better than pasta—she looked at me and said, “Can I ask you a question?"

  "Sure. Ask away."

  "Do you ... I mean, you're a private investigator. Right?"

  "That's what it says on my tax return."

  "So you're licensed."

  "Here and in New Hampshire."

  "Do you ... I mean, do you carry a gun?"

  "I'm licensed to,” I said.

  "So you have it with you, right now."

  I said, “Yes, I do."

  "Where is it?"

  "In my purse."

  She thought for a second. “Suppose ... suppose someone breaks down the door, tries to get in?"

  "Then I'll get it."

  "Can you get there in time?"

  I looked to my leather purse, on the coffee table, and then to the door. “Kimberly ... trust me. First of all, you've got pretty damned good security downstairs. And if there's a disturbance at the door, I can get to my purse and pistol within seconds."

  She nodded at that and said, almost shyly, “Can I see it?"

  "My pistol?"

  Kimberly nodded.

  I felt like sighing, but what the hell. It would probably make her feel a bit better, and after what she had been put through, why not? I went over to the coffee table, picked up my purse, and in a second, had my pistol in my hand, a nice 9mm Smith & Wesson. She gasped at how quickly it all happened.

  "What the ... where did that come from?"

  I held up the purse, showed it to her. “Special design. Made like one of those old-fashioned fur mufflers fashionable young ladies used to use to warm their hands.” I pointed out the gap in the middle of the purse. “Pistol's hidden in there. Don't have to fumble with a purse clasp or cover."

  "Sweet,” she said, and she came over and, biting her lower lip, said, “Could I ... would you mind ... if I held it?"

  Another second or two pause on my end, and I said, “Sure. Hold on."

  I put my purse back on the coffee table, held the pistol, and pressed the side switch to release the twelve-shot magazine. Out it popped in my hand, and then I worked the action, to make sure the chamber was clear. And it was. Safe and unloaded, I passed it over to her.

  She held it gingerly, as if it were a live hand grenade, and turned it over in her hand. “It's so heavy ... I've never held a gun before in my life."

  I just watched her.

  Around and around, she turned it. “How does it work?"

  "Excuse me?"

  "The gun, how does it work? Do you just pull the trigger? Is that it?"

  So I went into a ten-minute description of the clip, the slide, the safety, and all that, and she just nodded at the right places, being polite, I guess, but the pistol never left her hands.

  "How long have you known how to fire a gun?” she asked.

  "Since I was younger than you,” I said. “Grew up on a dairy farm, up near the Vermont border. Started off with a twenty-two rifle as a kid ... you get used to it."

  She held it still for a moment, then pointed it out the window, her hands shaking a bit. “I don't think I could ever get used to it. All that power locked away in here ... the power to kill, the power to injure, the power to destroy.... Brrr. Here, take it back."

  Kimberly held it out to me. “I'm glad you know how to use it. It scares the crap out of me."

  I took my Smith & Wesson back, replaced the magazine, and put it back into my purse. “It's just a tool, that's all. If you know how to use it."

  She looked at me, went back to the kitchen, stopped, and then turned. “Carrie?"

  "Yes?"

  "You ... you want to go outside? For a quick walk?"

  I grabbed my purse. “Absolutely."

  * * * *

  So outside we went, and Kimberly kept close to me as we stepped out onto the brick sidewalk. I let her set the pace and we walked a couple of blocks in the late spring sunshine, passing students and tourists and other rambling types out in the Back Bay of Boston. At a Starbucks we got the usual overpriced and over-syllabled drink and sat on a park bench to watch the world go by.