Friendly Fire

By Claudia Hall Christian

Friendly Fire begins with a phone call in the middle of the night. Seth’s father figure and personal Lucifer is acting crazy. A day later, Seth learns that his mother wants him to find something that his biological father left at Fitzsimmons Army Hospital.

Standing in the lobby of the place that had restored him after two tours through the blood and muck of tunnels of Vietnam, Seth is drawn into a mystery that will take him through the meltdown of Reactor Four at Chernobyl to meet Russian Olympic marksmen and discover that a familiar demon is covering its tracks.

In the end, Seth learns the most important kind of friendly fire from a man who had suffered horrific trauma and a woman who’d lived through the worst life can dish out.

If you like Seth O’Malley, Friendly Fire is the book for you.

Friendly Fire is filled with memorable characters, romance, and intrigue readers have come to expect from Claudia Hall Christian. Friendly Fire is the third in the Seth and Ava Mystery series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cook Street Publishing cookstreetpublishinggmail.com
• Release date: Apr 14, 2016
• ISBN: 9781938057366

Claudia Hall Christian

Claudia Hall Christian writes stories about good people caught in difficult situations. Her stories are addictive, heart pounding, and intense. She is the author of the Alex the Fey thriller series, the Queen of Cool, the Seth and Ava Mysteries, Suffer a Witch, Abee Normal Paranormal Investigations, and the longest consecutive serial fiction ever written, Denver Cereal. She lives in Denver where she keeps bees, gardens, hangs out with her Plott Hounds, and husband

Book preview

O’Malley, Seth O’Malley said, automatically, into his cell phone. He winced. His voice sounded like an echoing megaphone in the dark hotel room. He glanced at the clock. It was 3:12 A.M.

Seth? Seth’s agent and son-in-law, James Schmidty Schmidt V said. Oh, my God, it’s actually happened.

What’s actually happened? Seth asked in a softer voice.

Wait, you sound like you’re wide awake, Schmidty said. In an instant, his voice shifted from upset young man to controlling agent. What are you doing? Did you relapse? Are you high? Drunk? Where’s Ava? Should I call Sandy?

Seth looked at the digital handcuff masquerading as a communication device. His thumb hovered over the large red hang-up button.

Don’t hang up! Schmidty’s tinny voice came from the phone. Please! Don’t hang up!

Shaking his head, Seth put the phone back to his ear.

What are you doing? Schmidty asked.

Why did you call? Seth asked.

My father’s finally done it, Schmidty said. The rage and sorrow returned to his voice.

Done what? Seth asked, scowling at the mere mention of Schmidty’s father.

I have a brother. I-V just called.

This Schmidty called his father Schmidty ivy or more simply I-V rather than his father’s preferred moniker, Schmidty Four.

"He says he’s taking his business out of my incompetent hands and . . .," Schmidty said.

While the young man gasped for breath, Seth contemplated Schmidty IV. Seth was an eight-year-old piano prodigy when he’d met Schmidty IV. Seth had just written an interesting symphony which had garnered a lot of attention. For the next forty odd years, James Schmidt IV had served as Seth’s part-time father, mentor, personal Lucifer, and shameless nag in return for fifteen percent of the profit from every piece of music Seth wrote, performed, or sold. Schmidty IV was an asshole.

Seth had been instrumental in encouraging Schmidty IV to turn his artist-management business over to his only son. The son of Schmidty IV’s fourth or, possibly fifth, wife, depending on how you count, this Schmidty was nice, competent, smart, and an incredible agent. A Harvard-trained lawyer, the younger Schmidty was a brilliant negotiator who very quickly became the must have agent for the rich and talented. Schmidty was now a force to be reckoned with in the film and music industry as well as the independent creative market worldwide.

The son was so good at the family business that his father despised him.

What are we talking about? Seth asked after he realized Schmidty had been talking for some time. Sorry. I got lost in my head.

I-V’s ninth wife, Schmidty said.

I thought he was on wife number eleven, Seth said.

The one he’s married to now, Schmidty said.

Sarai? Seth asked.

Is that her name? Schmidty asked.

I think so, Seth said.

No, that was the last one, Schmidty said.

Uh… Seth fell silent for a moment as he tried to remember the name of Schmidty IV’s last girlfriend, assuming she would now be his current wife. Ayala.

No, that’s the girlfriend, Schmidty said.

You’re sure? Seth asked.

Yeah, he brought her to our house a month or so ago, Schmidty said.

Seth shook his head at the stench of Schmidty IV’s women. His twelve girlfriends had become eleven wives. Ten of his wives had become ex-wives. All of these women and all of their daughters lived extravagantly off the money Schmidty IV collected from the creative efforts of hardworking artists.

Which one did you call about? Seth asked.

Current wife, Schmidty said.

Sorry, it’s early, Seth said. What exactly did she do?

"She just gave birth to a boy, a son, a true son who will…" Schmidty said.

In the way of young men, Schmidty’s ragged breath reflected his sorrow.

I’ll take care of it, Seth said.

I-V specifically said: ‘You will return, O’Malley,’ Schmidty said.

Why? Seth said, without bothering to keep the disgust from his voice.

He says I undersold the last three pieces and… Schmidty said.

How would he know that? Seth asked.

I thought you’d told him, Schmidty said.

In my deep, intimate conversations with your father? Seth said. Right. I haven’t spoken to the man in a year, maybe two. He sent me a box of pineapple when Ava and I got married.

Despite himself, Schmidty laughed at Seth’s irreverent tone. The young man fell silent again.

I’m sorry, Jammy. Seth called the boy by his childhood nickname. But, your father’s an unrepentant asshole. There’s no antidote for that.

Why does he hate me? Schmidty asked.

The young man began to cry.

He an idiot, that’s why, Seth said. Let me talk to him.

You don’t mind? Schmidty asked.

It’s long overdue, Seth said.

Schmidty was unintelligible through a bubble of snot. Seth grinned. He pulled the phone away from his ear while Schmidty blew his nose.

What are you doing? Schmidty’s voice came from the phone.

Seth put the digital handcuff back to his ear.

I was watching my granddaughter sleep, Seth said.

You played sing-a-long tonight? Schmidty asked.

Filled in at the piano bar. Too high class of an establishment for lowly sing-a-long, Seth said.

But not too low class to promote the prodigy living upstairs? Schmidty asked.

Exactly, Seth said.

He and his wife, Ava, were staying in an expensive hotel downtown while their home was being remodeled. He instinctively glanced at the bed where Ava lay.

Did they sell tickets? Schmidty was asking if he should call to negotiate Seth’s cut.

No tickets, Seth said. Just a big sign and a full bar.

Schmidty snorted his dislike of people making money off of his talent without paying them both for their work.

I finished around the time for Rachel’s bottle, Seth said, pressing on. No drugs here.

You sure? Schmidty asked. There was nothing like Seth’s addictions to refocus the young man.

No drugs, Seth said. No booze. No loose women.

Schmidty blew his nose again.

I’m sorry I got so upset, Schmidty said. Mom says that I should be ‘over it.’

I’m not. Seth snorted a laugh.

I knew you’d understand, Schmidty said. You don’t mind? Talking to I-V, I mean.

I don’t mind, Seth said. I think I need to.

Thanks, Schmidty said.

Get some rest, Seth said. If your father’s up to his old bullshit, we’re going to need to be at the top of our game.

Oh, yeah! That’s it! He’s already called a bunch of clients, Schmidty said. Told them that he was taking over. That’s how I first found out that I have a brother.

I figured, Seth said.

You haven’t heard from him? Schmidty asked.

I’ve been out, Seth said. I’ve been taking care of the baby since I got back.

I bet he called, Schmidty said.

I’m sure he did, Seth said. You trust me to take care of this?

Schmidty didn’t say anything for at least a minute. Seth looked at the phone to make sure he was still on the call. Finally, the boy sighed.

Better you than me, Schmidty said.

Exactly, Seth said. Get some rest. Put this out of your mind.

Okay, the young man yawned into the phone. Thanks, Seth. Enjoy watching the baby sleep.

No problem, Seth said. And I will.

Schmidty clicked off the phone. Seth looked at the phone for a moment before deciding he should at least leave a message for Schmidty IV. Seth pressed the Contacts button only to realize he needed his reading glasses. He stumbled around the room, looking for reading glasses, until Ava clicked on the bedside lamp.

She was beautiful, smiling that private smile she made just for him, and sitting up in their bed. Her soft cotton T-shirt clung to the peaks of her breasts. Her shoulder-length dark hair was sleep tossled. Her large dark eyes were clear and laughing. He was struck by the sight of her. It took him a few moments before he realized she was holding his reading glasses. He took the glasses with a sheepish grin.

Who was that? Ava asked.

Schmidty, Seth said. "His father finally managed to have another son. Schmidty IV says he’s taking his business back."

God, he’s worse than my dad, Ava said.

He’s worse than mine, Seth said, with a chuckle.

Poor Schmidty, Ava said.

Rachel gurgled in her sleep, and Seth went to her crib. The glow from his phone shone on the baby’s delicate white skin and rosy cheeks. Born early, she had looked more like a monkey than a human child. Now a little more than a year old, the child was truly beautiful, with a head of angelic curls, blue eyes, and a button nose. He smiled at Rachel before looking at his phone. His smile quickly became a scowl.

Schmidty IV had called three times.

Staring off into space, he wondered how he should deal with this situation. Should he give the old man an indignant call right now? Should he wait until the bastard tracked him down? His silent rumination was broken by Ava’s hand. She grabbed the phone and threw it into the corner of the room.

Still scowling, he looked at her.

I have to work in a couple of hours, Ava said.

Need some rest? Seth asked. He raised his eyebrows in suggestion.

Rest, Ava said. Yes, that’s what I was thinking about.

She grabbed his hand and pulled him into bed.

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Two

Why exactly am I here? Seth asked.

He looked out over the destruction of the ground floor of the only place he’d ever called, home. The kitchen and den were gone. The space where downstairs bedrooms had been was now a blank slate. The dining room was a hole. The only thing left standing was a single toilet in the bathroom.

"You are el patrôn, Maresol Tafoya said in the thick Hispanic accent of a fifth generation Coloradan from the San Luis Valley. I need you to make decisions."

I am? Seth asked. "Are you sure I’m el patrôn?"

Maresol groaned. Seth had hired Maresol to help his mother take care of this house. He was fourteen and she was twenty-two years old. Since then, they’d endured a lot of bad days and, more recently, countless good days. She had never been his lover, but she wasn’t really his housekeeper, either. She took care of him and the house. They were family.

Recently, her youngest son and his pregnant girlfriend had moved into the tiny home Maresol and her husband had worked so hard to buy. The girlfriend proceeded to throw all of Maresol’s belongings onto the front lawn. At Seth’s invitation, Maresol moved into this home. Of course, Maresol would move in only if everything was exactly as she wanted. She had the contractors on the phone within minutes of Seth’s invitation. The construction crew had just finished tearing out most of the downstairs. She and their handyman, Dale, were living in small apartments above the carriage house.

I thought these were going to be your rooms, Seth said. He looked around and shrugged. What do you want to put here?

Seth wandered into the space where the rooms had been. When he turned, Maresol gave him a hard look.

Am I supposed to care what your rooms will look like? I don’t, Seth said.

She didn’t say anything for a moment.

Should I care? Seth asked.

Maresol grinned at his attitude.

I distinctly remember greasing the palm of some buffoon building inspector so that he would approve a detailed remodel plan, Seth said.

You did not grease anyone’s hand, Maresol said.

I didn’t, Seth said, with a nod. But I do remember . . . He waved his hands in the direction of the empty space. Bedrooms. He turned around and waved his hands to where the kitchen had been. Bigger, fancier kitchen, same-sized coffee pot. Where’s the ‘remodel’ in that?

Maresol laughed.

Smaller den where it was before, Seth said, with a nod. He waved his hands toward the front door. The entryway and dining room over there someplace. Glass patio to serve as a greenroom and way cool heat sink.

He shrugged.

I wrote the check! Seth said, with certainty.

We are paying by electronic transfer, Maresol said. When was the last time you wrote a check?

Me? Seth shrugged and shook his head. No idea.

Exactly, Maresol laughed.

What decisions do I need to make? Seth asked with a grin.

None, Maresol said. I was joking.

See! Seth said. I’m not that senile.

Yet, Maresol said, sort of under her breath.

Seth laughed.

I actually asked you to come for another reason, Maresol said.

When Seth turned to look at her, he was dead serious. He’d spent most of his adult life on the Denver Police Department as a homicide detective. He had a way of getting very still and really listening to what people had to say. Seeing that she had his attention, Maresol gave him a soft smile.

What can I do? Seth asked.

The demolition crew found some of your mother’s papers, Maresol said. They were tucked into a wall in what was her bedroom.

Seth didn’t respond. His active blue eyes watched Maresol. She could have told him this over the telephone.

What is it? he asked after she fell silent.

They are about your father, Maresol said.

O’Malley? Seth asked.

No, the other one, Maresol said. Your biological father.

Seth? he asked.

Bernbaum, Maresol said. Your mother identifies him as ‘Seth Bernbaum.’

Seth nodded. He’d spread some of her ashes on his grave at Arlington National Cemetery.

He was your and Saul’s father, Maresol said. Your mother was pregnant with you when she married O’Malley.

And Silas? Seth asked about his younger brother.

O’Malley’s, Maresol said, with a sneer. Even though O’Malley Senior had been dead a decade or more, she still hated the man. Your mother says . . . well, you need to read it.

What’s the catch? Seth asked.

It’s in Hebrew, Maresol said. I had them translated for you.

And? Seth asked.

They are honest, Maresol said, with a slight shrug. Hard to read, but honest. There is a note saying that if they were found, they would be given to you. I’m not sure that she ever wanted them to be found.

Surprised, Seth blinked at her. Maresol gave him a kind look.

You need to read them for yourself, Maresol said. There’s stuff there that . . .

She touched his shoulder and held out a manila folder filled with twenty or more pages.

Why don’t you take it downstairs to your piano room? Maresol asked. I’ve ordered lunch. I’ll bring it down to you.

Seth took the folder from her. Dazed by intense emotions he could not define, he looked up at her.

I set a fire in the fireplace, Maresol said. Just light it and read. I’ll bring lunch down to you.

Nodding, Seth made his way down the stairs to the basement room and the piano he loved. He opened the door to the room with a key that lived in his pocket. The swinging door blew the warm, safe air from inside the room. As if the room had sucked him in, he slid over the threshold. Out of habit, he wandered to the upright piano. He’d opened the keyboard cover before remembering that he was there to read his mother’s papers.

Closing the keyboard cover, he recalled all the time he’d spent with his mother in this room. He’d known how to play this piano when he found it at four years old. For the next few years, he and