Chicago's DuSable Harborcide

By Jeff Lyon

Chicago's boating community is a tight-knit group. When a foreign boat suddenly appears in DuSable Harbor, rumors linking it to the Russian Mafia abound.

A wealthy woman turns up dead in the Russian's slip. Her brother's body is discovered on the Windy City's seedy south side shortly after he arrives to look into the suspicious tragedy of his sibling's death.

A well-seasoned special detective is assigned to connect the dots. His dogged efforts uncovers a multinational underworld plot to turn DuSable Harbor into a gambling Mecca in spite of Mayor Daley's rigid opposition.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jeff Lyon
• Release date: May 30, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301813070

Jeff Lyon

Jeff Lyon is the son of a truck driver and preacher’s daughter. He grew up in Irving, Texas, earned a Communications BA from the University of North Texas and then went ski bumming in Colorado. Jeff returned to Texas to work for the City of Lewisville before heading to Florida to become a licensed yacht captain. Jeff's next move was Chicago where he spent twelve years teaching sailing and captaining charters on Lake Michigan. During Chicago’s harsh winters he wrote travelogues, books, short stories and screenplays. Jeff returned to Florida to write and captain boats. The next move landed Jeff with his wife Karen in Charlotte, NC. Currently, Jeff and Karen live on Chickamauga Lake in Chattanooga, TN. Jeff's adventurous tales are based on personal escapades and filled with extraordinary characters.

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Chicago's DuSable Harborcide

By Jeff Lyon

Copyright 2013 Jeff Lyon

Smashwords Edition

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

This book would not be possible without the loving support of Karen Lyon and the rigorous editing of Helen Reneau.

CHICAGO’S DUSABLE HARBORCIDE

CHAPTER 1

Molley McBride’s shimmering eyes stare into the clear, blue sky on a crisp May morning. Her fiery, red ringlets frame the surprised look on a cherubic face. As always, she is dressed to kill in tight jeans and a silk blouse with a deeply plunging neckline, revealing the cleavage of an eye-popping bosom. When Molley sashays past, every head turns to watch, both men and women.

Molley is undulating slowly in rhythm with the barely detectable swell in the marina caused by a zephyr from the south that signals the beginning of another Chicago boating season. I’ve come across her on my morning audit of DuSable Harbor’s docks. There she is, floating face up, next to the Russians’ yacht on C-dock. Why is she here? I don’t know, but I am sure that Molley McBride is stone cold dead.

After a weekend my early morning walks are normally filled with sea gulls and the sun rising over Lake Michigan. I’ve seen more than my share of young ladies that boaters introduce as nieces when they get caught together. They hurriedly make the walk of shame toward the parking lot with disheveled hair and clothing askew. I thought to myself, Molley McBride would never be caught dead with that bunch.

I want to pull Molley from the cold water and cover her from prying eyes. She’s always been a good friend, and I lusted with the best of them after her. I’m staring at a crime scene and know better than to tamper with evidence. I’m still alone, save for the laughing gulls that mock the situation. I give Molley a few more moments of peace as the business types pour into The Loop from Lakeshore Drive and the daily din to the west builds.

I’m jolted back to reality when the metal screens that cover the marina’s office windows begin to slide open on their perilous, overhead tracks. My Dock Master, Billy Buoy, is opening for what will be a heck of a day.

I pull my company issued smartphone from well worn cargo shorts and call my boss. He picks up on the third ring and in his less than jovial manner grumbles, What?

Skipper, I know it’s early. I’ve got a monster problem.

Spill it.

There’s a floater in the Russians’ slip on C-Dock.

Human?

Molley McBride.

Dead?

As mud.

What the hell?

Yeah, right?

Anyone else know?

I’m it.

Call the Marine Police. I’m on my way.

Want me to call Steve?

I’ll do it. Don’t offer anything to the cops. Just basic answers.

Roger that.

I mean it, Ross! Don’t shoot your damn mouth off!

Got it, Skipper.

I’ve known Dirk Steel for over ten years. I worked for him when DuSable first opened in 2000. We both learned on the job about how to coddle boaters in Chicago’s most expensive harbor. Dirk is tough but fair. A real shoot-from-the-hip boss with a flare for firing f-bombs in every direction when people screw up. Dirk ran the show and was my go-to back in the day. I’ve called him Skipper ever since.

I dial the Marine Police Unit, which is headquartered in the northeast corner of my harbor. The desk officer mumbles, Marine Police, Officer Blake.

This is Ross Ryan, DuSable Harbor Manager. I’ve got a dead woman floating in slip 27 on C-Dock.

Are you kidding me?

No.

Who are you again?

I’m the Harbor Manager. If you look outside you can see me standing on C-Dock.

Don’t move.

Great advice.

My cashier, Kaylee Rene, and Billy have finished cleaning the restrooms and opened the store for business. Billy is shuffling down the dock toward me in his easiest going manner. Billy could not hurry to put himself out, if he was on fire. It just wasn’t in his nature and my suspicion that he often smoked a little nature didn’t help. Billy is honest and always completes a task, just never in a rush.

Hey, Boss. You been out here a long time.

Go get some yellow warning tape. Put it on the gate and bring some back down here.

What gives?

I point at Molley. She is patiently bobbing in the same spot, waiting for someone to help her out of the water.

Holy shit!

Try not to alarm anybody. PD is supposedly on the way.

Is that Molley?

Yup.

Billy’s mouth moves. There’s no words. His bloodshot eyes are bugged out."

Go!

Billy turns and slinks down the dock. I see a squad car leave the Marine Police compound with lights glaring and fly down the bulkhead separating the Chicago River from DuSable Harbor. Several more men in blue are scrambling into one of their many boats to make the fifty-yard cruise to where I’m watching over Molley. Dirk’s giant, white van comes out from under Lake Shore Drive, and the careening squad car barely misses clipping his front fender at the sandy intersection in the corner of the marina. They speed toward C-Dock’s gate in front of the office.

I kneel down and assure Molley, The cavalry is coming, sweetheart.