Avenging Fire

By Jonathan Moeller

An ex-private investigator. A deadly murder plot.

Former private investigator Mac Rogan’s got problems. He’s twenty thousand dollars in debt, his mother’s in prison for murder, his brother’s recovering from war injuries, and his roommates can’t make a decent cup of coffee. But Mac’s got a job interview coming up, one that might turn things around for him.

Except someone shot the interviewer to death.

And the police think Mac did it.

And a powerful Senator wants to pin the murder on Mac.

And some pyromaniacal terrorists have taken a sudden warm interest in him.

Mac swore that his days as a private investigator were over. But he’s going to need all his wits and savvy to come out of this with his freedom, his finances – and even his life – still intact.

Because it turns out there are a lot of people who want to share their pain with him....

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jonathan Moeller
• Release date: Jan 31, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005185541

Jonathan Moeller

Standing over six feet tall, Jonathan Moeller has the piercing blue eyes of a Conan of Cimmeria, the bronze-colored hair of a Visigothic warrior-king, and the stern visage of a captain of men, none of which are useful in his career as a computer repairman, alas.He has written the "Demonsouled" trilogy of sword-and-sorcery novels, and continues to write the "Ghosts" sequence about assassin and spy Caina Amalas, the "$0.99 Beginner's Guide" series of computer books, and numerous other works.Visit his website at:http://www.jonathanmoeller.comVisit his technology blog at:http://www.jonathanmoeller.com/screed

Book preview

AVENGING FIRE

Jonathan Moeller

***

Description

Former private investigator Mac Rogan’s got problems. He’s twenty thousand dollars in debt, his mother’s in prison for murder, his brother’s recovering from war injuries, and his roommates can’t make a decent cup of coffee. But Mac’s got a job interview coming up, one that might turn things around for him.

Except someone shot the interviewer to death.

And the police think Mac did it.

And a powerful Senator wants to pin the murder on Mac.

And some pyromaniacal terrorists have taken a sudden warm interest in him.

Mac swore that his days as a private investigator were over. But he’s going to need all his wits and savvy to come out of this with his freedom, his finances – and even his life – still intact.

Because it turns out there are a lot of people who want to share their pain with him….

***

Avenging Fire

Copyright 2021 by Jonathan Moeller.

Smashwords Edition.

Ebook edition published February 2021.

Previously published as Share The Pain in May 2011.

All Rights Reserved.

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author or publisher, except where permitted by law.

***

Acknowledgements

The author would like to thank two people:

-Mr. William Duckett, who suggested that perhaps it might be worthwhile to give this novel another try.

-The author's sister, who has been after him for over twenty years to write a book without wizards in it.

***

Chapter 1: A Job Interview

Later, after everything, Mac wondered if he shouldn’t have just stayed in bed.

But he needed the job, and more to the point, he needed the money. So when his alarm went off at 11 AM on June 4th, 2007, he cursed and staggered into the living room. His roommates had left for work hours ago, but the coffeemaker still held an inch of cold, vile coffee.

Mac drank it straight from the pot.

His head somewhat clearer, he shuffled back into his bedroom. Six computers in various states of repair crouched beneath his desk, joined by tangled braids of cabling. Mac pushed his big toe into the nearest power button, and as the computer whirred to life, he checked his cell phone.

Two messages.

Hi, this is Erin from Jeff Harkin’s office, calling for Mr. Cormac Rogan. Mr. Harkin just wanted to verify your appointment at one o’ clock this afternoon. If you have any questions, you can contact me at…

Mac deleted it. The second message came from his older brother.

Mac. Tom. Beer. Tomorrow night. The usual.

Mac grinned. Tom remained laconic as ever. Though you couldn’t really blame Tom, not after what had happened to him.

The morning’s messages dispatched, Mac set to work copying computer files. He’d stayed up until six in the morning finishing the mockups of Senator Kelsey’s website. The site’s banner showed Jack Kelsey, florid face set in an expression stern yet kindly, superimposed against a rippling American flag. Bold text proclaimed Kelsey’s vision for America. More pictures showed the Senator shaking hands with senior citizens and veterans, while columns of aesthetically formatted hyperlinks directed visitors to Kelsey’s pet causes.

The whole thing looked tasteless. But Jeffrey Harkin seemed like the sort of man who’d enjoy tasteless. More to the point, so did Senator Jack Kelsey. If Harkin liked what he saw, he’d show the mockup to Kelsey, and if Kelsey liked what he saw, Mac had himself a new client.

He copied to the mockup to his flash drive. Just to be on the safe side, he also burned a pair of data CDs. Thoroughness never hurt, his father had always said.

While the files copied, Mac took the opportunity to shower, shave, and get dressed. His interview suit fit looser than he remembered. Most people would have been glad to lose the weight, but Mac only weighed one-fifty while wet. He had to eat better. Man could not survive on cereal and Ramen alone, at least not forever.

He stepped into the living room, fighting with his tie, and saw that Scott had come home.

Well, damn, said Scott, smirking. Don’t you look professional. Mac wore ties only for interviews; Scott was an insurance agent, and wore a coat and tie every day. He and his wife were only rooming with the likes of Mac while they saved for a house. Course, that’s the tie you wore the last time you had an interview.

I only have one tie, said Mac, wishing ill-fortune on whatever evildoer had invented the Windsor knot.

Good, agreed Scott. You could use a real job.

Mac wrenched his tie into place. Don’t you have to be at work?

I took an early lunch, said Scott. Anne wanted me to pick up some things and drop them off at the dry cleaner.

Mac pantomimed a cracking whip.

Scott frowned. Just because I love my wife…

Mac rolled his eyes and tugged on his suit coat.

Marriage is a two-way street, a partnership of…

All right, said Mac, all right. I retract my comment.

What’s this interview for, anyway?

Mac walked into the kitchen and began rummaging through the fridge. Second interview for Senator Kelsey’s website.

Kelsey? said Scott. I’m not voting for him.

Mac found a cold piece of pizza. You’re an insurance agent. I thought it was a rule that you had to be Republican.

Anne doesn’t like him, said Scott. That explained it. And Claire says he’s a fascist.

Claire’s a communist, said Mac, chewing the cold pizza. He sincerely hoped it wasn’t spoiled. She thinks everyone’s a fascist.

She says she’s a Marxist feminist…

Same difference, said Mac. He’s probably a crook. But so’s his opponent. I don’t care. It’s a lot of money if I build that website. Even if it is fascist money.

Can’t argue with that, said Scott. He disappeared into his room and returned with a number of dresses slung over his arm. Well, good luck.

Thanks. Mac looked at the dresses. Don’t forget your purse.

Scott gave him a murderous look.

Mac grinned and retreated to his bedroom.

###

An hour later, he had his flash drive, his data CDs, his laptop, and a handsome leather folder containing his resume.

He was ready.

Mac stepped into the blazing June heat and winced. His car, a battered blue Chevy Corsica, sat in the lot behind the apartment building. The car had seen both 127,000 miles and better days, but it still ran. Most of the time. Usually Mac got by with the buses, but they’d been unreliable since the budget cuts.

So he dropped his bag into the passenger seat, started the engine, and pulled into the Milwaukee traffic. It wasn’t as bad as rush hour, but there were still a lot of cars on the road. Where did all these people come from? Didn’t they have to be at work? Of course, to be fair, Mac didn’t have a real job either, but still.

Halfway to Kelsey’s campaign headquarters, he stopped to fill up on gas. He paid with a credit card, and bought a bottle of Dr. Pepper for the caffeine and a lukewarm cheeseburger. It might have contained actual beef, but he doubted it.

Senator Jack Kelsey’s headquarters occupied the entire top floor of a thirty-story building in downtown Milwaukee. Mac pulled into the underground parking garage, paid the exorbitant fee, and got into the elevator. He’d visited this building with his father, years ago.

Need to do some digging, Mac, John Rogan had muttered then, scratching his chin. You up to it?

The elevator dinged, the doors opening. Mac shook off the memory and entered Kelsey’s headquarters.

A massive banner hung from the far wall, displaying the same image from Mac’s website mockup. Various framed pictures showed the Senator shaking hands with former Presidents, foreign heads of state, and movie stars. A pretty young receptionist sat behind the front desk, chatting with a tall red-haired woman in a stark black pantsuit. Both women looked in his direction.

Hi, said Mac. Um. I’m here for an appointment with Jeff Harkin.

The receptionist tapped at her keyboard. Your name, sir? Her name was Monica, or so her ID badge claimed.

Cormac Rogan.

Oh, that’s an interesting name, said Monica, typing a bit more. Is it German?

Irish. His mother had been fond of Irish history. Still was, for all he knew.

That’s nice, said Monica. She clicked her mouse a few times and handed him a laminated card hanging from a metal clip. Here’s your guest pass. Make sure you keep that clipped to your jacket security doesn’t stop you. Mr. Harkin’s office is the big room at the end of the hall. His secretary’s out to lunch, but Mr. Harkin’s in his office, so just knock. Any questions?

Mac shook his head.

I’ll take you back, said the red-haired woman. She extended a hand. Rowena Holden, Director of Community Outreach. Her face was thin and severe, her grip strong, and her voice had a just-noticeable Texas twang. You’re the web designer, right?

Mac nodded.

I saw your samples from the first interview, said Rowena. Very impressive. Just between you and me, I hope you get the job. Our last webmaster didn’t know what the hell he was doing, and with the election next year off, we need someone at least mildly competent running the website.

I like to think I’m at least mildly competent, said Mac.

This way, said Rowena.

She led Mac down the hall, past a dozen offices and stopped in another waiting room. An empty secretary’s cubicle sat besides a window with a formidable view of downtown Milwaukee. A bronze plaque on the door behind the cubicle proclaimed that the office belonged to Jeffrey Harkin, General Campaign Manager.

Here you are, said Rowena. Jeff’s probably inside. Just knock and let yourself in. Mac nodded. Good luck. She turned on her heel and left.

Mac crossed to the door and knocked. Mr. Harkin?

No answer.

He knocked again. Mr. Harkin? Still no answer. Mac tried the doorknob. It was locked. Maybe Harkin had stepped out to use the bathroom, or maybe he was taking a private call. Mac shrugged and settled into one of the guest chairs. It was leather, and quite comfortable.

Good to know Kelsey spent his campaign contributions wisely.

Mac waited. He heard phones ringing and people talking. People came and went through the hallway, some stopping to drop papers on the secretary’s desk. Mac waited for the better part of a half hour, drumming his fingers on the chair’s arm.

Finally a middle-aged woman strode past and sat in the cubicle.

Ma’am? said Mac, standing. Are you Erin Jones? Mr. Harkin’s secretary?

The secretary blinked. I am. Can I help you?

I hope so, said Mac, in his politest voice. He had learned long ago to never offend secretaries. I was supposed to have an interview with Mr. Harkin at one, but he doesn’t seem to be in.

He should be in his office, said Erin. Didn’t you knock? You should have knocked.

Mac swallowed his retort. Yes. I knocked. Twice.

Well, that’s strange. She stood. Mr. Harkin said he’d be in his office all afternoon, meeting with important donors. Mr. Harkin meets with some important people, and his time is very valuable. I hope you aren’t wasting Mr. Harkin’s time.

Mac rubbed his nose. Could you at least see if he’s in?

Mr. Harkin’s going to be very upset, said Erin. She unlocked the office door and stepped inside.

Then she screamed.

Mac ran into the office. Everything about the room shouted wealth and power. Harkin’s desk must have been assembled from a half-ton of mahogany and his chair looked like it belonged to a villain from a thriller movie.

The splattered blood rather ruined the effect.

Harkin sat slumped the chair, the front of his suit a mass of bloodstains. His eyes bulged in horror, his dead face frozen with terror. His secretary screamed again and shoved past Mac, running into the hallway.

Shit, Mac said finally.

***

Chapter 2: Precautions

Two hours later, they finally got around to questioning Mac.

The police swarmed through Kelsey’s campaign headquarters, taking pictures and speaking to each other in low voices. Forensic technicians sealed bits and pieces of Harkin’s office into plastic bags. Four men in blue jumpsuits packed Harkin into a body bag and rolled him away. Mac waited in one of the leather chairs, watching the cops go back and forth.

Just his luck. He’d been that close to getting the job, and his potential employer had been shot.

You Cormac Rogan?

Mac glanced up. A uniformed police officer stood over him, face impassive.

Yeah.

Detective’s ready for you. The uniform jerked his head. This way.

Mac stood, collected his bag, and followed the officer. More policemen walked by, carrying bags of evidence. Two of them stood talking to Rowena Holden and Monica Sattler; both women looked distraught. Mac saw no reporters, thankfully. No doubt they lurked on the sidewalk and in the parking garage, waiting to pounce on witnesses.

The officer led him a small conference room. In here.

Mac walked inside. One uniformed cop sat at the table, taking notes. A middle-aged man in a rumpled brown suit sat besides him. He had a graying crew cut, narrow blue eyes, and a grim, humorless face.

Sit, said the man in the brown suit. Mac sat. I’m Detective Carey, and this is Sergeant Lawson. We’d like to ask some questions.

Okay, said Mac.

Carey glanced at some papers. So your name’s Cormac Rogan? Twenty-eight years old?

That’s right, said Mac.

Think I’ve heard that name before.

Mac shrugged. An unpleasant suspicion formed in his mind. I don’t think we’ve met, Detective.

I did know a guy named John Rogan, said Carey. Used to be with the Department. Became a private investigator. His lip curled. Murdered four, five years ago. You know him?

I’m his son, Mac said, trying not to groan. John Rogan had been well-known inside Milwaukee Police Department. He’d had a low opinion of some of the department’s higher-ranking officers, an opinion that had been reciprocated in full.

John Rogan’s kid, said Carey. And turning up at murder scene, no less. Funny old world, ain’t it?

Mac said nothing. He knew better. A full two minutes passed. Sergeant Lawson’s pen scratched across his pad.

At last Carey cleared his throat and picked up another paper. Why did you come to Senator Kelsey’s campaign headquarters?

I was here for a job interview.

Carey grunted. Interviewing for what?

Webmaster. Mac could not resist adding, That’s the person who manages the website.

Sergeant Lawson snickered. Carey gave him an angry glance, and looked back. I know what that means. What time was your appointment?

One.

What time did you arrive?

About twelve-thirty.

Can anyone corroborate that?

Mac thought a moment. I talked to the receptionist. She gave me this. He tapped his visitor badge. The, um…Director of Community Outreach. Rowena Holden, I think her name was. She was there, too.

Carey nodded. He read another paper for a bit. When was the last time you saw Jeff Harkin alive?

I’d never met him in person.

You ever talk to him before, then?

Once, about a week ago, said Mac. A conference call with him and…um, another woman. I don’t remember who. Probably Rowena Holden, now that I think about. It was the first interview for the job.

Did you and Jeff Harkin ever exchange angry words? said Carey.

Mac realized where this conversation was going. We did not.

What did you talk about?

My employment background, said Mac. My qualifications for the job. What I’d do if I got the job. Typical first-interview stuff.

You and Harkin talk about politics at all?

No, said Mac. Lawson’s pen scratched away.

You own a gun?

Yes.

What kind?

Smith and Wesson .38 revolver, said Mac.

Do you have it with you?

No, said Mac. It’s in a strongbox at my apartment.

You know, Mr. Rogan, said Carey. You’re not being very communicative. That could look uncooperative.

Mac shrugged. You’re asking questions, and I’m answering them.

Your dad teach you to talk to cops this way?

As a matter of fact, Mac said, he did. John Rogan had had strong opinions on the justice system. Most of them negative.

Carey sneered. That bag you’ve got with you. What’s in there?

My laptop, said Mac.

Let’s see it, said Carey.

Mac thought about protesting, decided it would be unwise. He drew out his laptop and set it on the table. Carey flipped it over, glanced at the serial number, and checked one of his papers.

Turn it on, said Carey.

Mac hit the power button. Text scrolled across the screen, and after a moment the logon prompt appeared.

What the hell is that? said Carey. Where’s the Windows screen, the one with the clouds?

That’s Ubuntu Linux, said Mac.

Ubuntu what?

A free operating system. You can download it off the Internet.

Carey’s narrow eyes narrowed further. Like pirated music? You one of those hacker-types?

It’s perfectly legal. I can show you the license agreement, if you like.

Don’t bother. Carey closed the laptop’s lid without bothering to shut it down. When you and Erin Jones entered the office, did you see a laptop?

I don’t think so, said Mac.

You don’t think so, said Carey, voice thick with sarcasm.

There was a dead guy in the room, said Mac. I wasn’t exactly curious about his computer equipment just then.

How about a smartphone?

Mac shook his head.

Mrs. Jones says that Harkin used a smartphone and a laptop on a regular basis, kept them with him almost all the time, said Carey. He glanced at his notes. A Dell Latitude D830, and a Treo 650. Any idea what happened to them?

I don’t know, said Mac. I didn’t even know Harkin had a laptop or a smartphone.

Any idea who might have killed him? Any thoughts?

Mac shrugged again. I don’t know. He hesitated. How was he killed?

Carey’s lip twisted. You don’t know?

Mac shook his head.

He was shot in the chest several times at close range. Carey glanced at Lawson, then back at Mac. Did you hear any gunshots while you were waiting? Or any sounds of struggle?

Nothing, said Mac. I knocked on the door, but didn’t hear anything.

And you didn’t go inside.

No.

Why not?

The door was locked.

Carey sneered again, looked at Lawson. Wait here, please, Mr. Rogan. We’ll be right back. He scooped up his papers and strode into the hall, followed by Lawson. Mac waited.

This was bad. He knew enough about police interrogations to see what was happening. The interrogator lulled the subject with a series of simple questions. Once the subject got into the pattern of answering, the interrogator sprang with a tough question. Like, oh, had he ever argued with Jeff Harkin, or did he own a gun, or was he sleeping with Harkin’s wife? Carey had already tried a few times with his questions about the gun and the laptop.

Innocence meant nothing if the police and the county prosecutor really needed a suspect. And a high-ranking aide of a Senator had been murdered. They needed a suspect.

The door opened, and Carey and Lawson returned. Mac braced himself for the worst.

We’re done, said Carey. Thanks for your cooperation, Mr. Rogan. He smiled one of the coldest smiles Mac had ever seen. Bear in mind that someone from the Milwaukee Police Department might be in touch to ask some follow-up questions.

Okay, said Mac. He packed up his laptop, started towards the door, and stopped. Am I a suspect, Detective?

Carey’s mirthless smile widened. All avenues of investigation are being pursued.

So I’m not a suspect, then.

All avenues of investigation are being pursued.

Well, damn.

###

As Mac had guessed, the media lurked on the sidewalk. He saw cameramen and microphone-brandishing anchormen from three local networks and at least two national ones. Cameras bulbs flashed and popped like a low-budget Fourth of July celebration.

They’d also gotten into the parking garage.

Mac made haste to his car. He saw a half-dozen reporters questioning Monica the receptionist. She was sticking out her chest for the camera. A pair of reporters saw Mac and turned towards him, thrusting their microphones like swords, a cameraman jogging behind them.

Mac swung into his car and locked the door. The reporters rapped on his window. Mac started the car, put into reverse, and gave the gas pedal a gentle tap.

The reporters got the message and went in search of easier prey.

It was the middle of rush hour, and Mac managed to get through the first intersection before he hit gridlock. The line for the freeway onramp stretched for the better part of two blocks. Mac didn’t mind.

He needed to think.

The entire conversation with Detective Carey troubled him. Mac had been questioned by the police before, had seen his father take statements. Detective Carey hadn’t been interviewing a witness.

Detective Carey had been interrogating a suspect.

Traffic inched forward a few feet, and Mac drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. On the one hand, it seemed only reasonable. Most likely the police had no idea who had murdered Jeff Harkin. It made sense to lean hard on the witnesses, to see if any of them would crack.

But Carey had come on too hard. He’d been trying to draw blood, that was plain. Mac suspected that if he’d answered any of the questions differently, he’d be sitting in a holding cell by now. And Carey had known Mac’s father. Even for an ex-cop and a private investigator, Mac reflected bitterly, John Rogan had made quite a lot of enemies.

Just because he’d kept digging.

Mac sighed and edged out onto the freeway, sliding between a pickup truck and a green SUV. The woman behind the SUV’s wheel gave him a dirty look. He pretended not to notice.

He wondered who had in fact killed Jeff Harkin. A disgruntled lover? A vengeful ex-employee? A wronged business associate? A drug deal gone bad? Hell, for all Mac knew, it could have been Colonel Mustard with a goddamned candlestick.

And the police didn’t know, either. The murder of a Senator’s campaign manager was too high-profile a case to remain unsolved. The police would arrest someone for it. The right man, if they got lucky. And if they got desperate, the first chump with an insufficient alibi.

Mac didn’t want to be that chump.

Sooner or later, the police would want to talk to him again. They would dig into his past, his bank accounts, his phone and Internet records. And if they