Dangling the Carat

By Don Bissett

For Nathan Hale Parker, his day begins as another insurance fraud investigation. Just drive north to Michigan, settle the case, and return to Ohio. It’s routine.

But there’s nothing routine about this one.

He abandons the investigation when ghosts from his past lure him to a different purpose: ending a string of interstate jewelry thefts. And Nathan knows the accused thief! Unwilling to accept that accusation, he pursues the truth on his own. That is not a wise move. Before the day ends, Nathan is arrested, flees from the Feds, is shot at, and survives an explosion.

Yet that is the easy part of his week. It gets worse. Much worse.

Digging deeper, Nathan is quickly engulfed in an interwoven web of theft, deceit, conspiracy, and murder. But he can’t simply leave and re-enter his life in Ohio. Because his meddling has spawned new enemies. And awakened an old one. Not only do they hate the system and want to destroy it. They also hate Nathan Parker, and want him dead.

Left with no other options to end the threat, Nathan reluctantly partners with people he does not trust. The feeling is mutual. Still, they expect him to lead the hunt to find this band of criminals. Following leaps of logic on where they will strike next, he crisscrosses the region to stop them before they unleash another disaster in an escalating campaign of destruction.

After a long explosive chase, Nathan finally comes face to face with his old enemy. He has to make a stand to rid himself of this evil man. Because it is the only way Nathan Hale Parker can survive to re-enter his life, and make peace with his ghosts.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Don Bissett
• Release date: Jul 29, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005229375

Don Bissett

About the author: Don Bissett is originally from New England, growing up in Massachusetts and Connecticut. He attended the University of Connecticut and Michigan State University, obtaining degrees in chemistry. During his career as a scientist in industry, he published extensively in technical journals and textbooks. That experience nurtured a passion for writing. In addition to writing novels, he uses his science experience in consulting with industry. His hobbies include travel, hiking, and fossil collecting. The author currently resides in Michigan.Death Comes in the Morning is the author’s first novel. His second and third novels in the Nathan Hale Parker series (Dying at a Premium; Scheduled to Die) have since been published. And now his fourth, fifth, and sixth books (which form a trilogy with the same main character) are completed and available: Running Nameless, Running with Intent, and Running to Cover. Each of the three books in the Running trilogy has its own independent plot, along with a compelling story line that progresses across the entire trilogy.Contact the author: [e-mail]

Book preview

Chapter 1

The crimped foil grinds against my skin. It envelops my forearm, like the wrapping on a stuffed burrito. At least the long sleeve of my shirt covers it to avoid questioning stares, if someone happens to look my way.

But there’s little risk of that. I scan the expanse of grass and scattering of trees. There’s no one in sight. Including him. He’s not here.

The few leaves still clinging to the branches are orange and red and golden yellow. If this were a few weeks later, I’d be seeing bald trees surrounded by a field of white snow. But today, the air is warm, with only a few wispy clouds high in the sunlit sky.

My forearm tingles and itches, as though a bad case of poison ivy is starting. I want to pick up a twig from the ground, poke it deep underneath the foil, scratch until the itch goes away, and sigh in relief. But I resist the urge.

Instead, I unbutton the cuff of the shirt to relieve the chafing on my wrist. Then I let the arm hang limply by my side. That’s better, at least a little bit.

I’ve been standing on this square foot of ground for more than two hours, waiting for him to show his face. Not that we have an appointment. Or that I’m completely convinced he’ll even come here. It’s just another leap of logic, like so many others I tossed out in the past week. Those were….mostly accurate. So I simply have to be right about this leap too.

He will appear. That’s what I keep telling myself. Not yesterday, and not the day before. But maybe today, or tomorrow. Or the next day. Or the one after that.

I shift my weight from one foot to the other. Then I lean against the lumpy bark of the old tree behind me. Its thick gnarled branches form a wide umbrella over my head. The branches arch down to within a few feet of the ground. Under this dark canopy, I’m well hidden. He’ll never see me until it’s too late.

For the umpteenth time, I scan the surrounding acres looking for him. All I see are grass and trees. And a curving line of road winding like a snake. But I don’t see him.

Except this time, I do see a car in the distance. It follows the winding road and parks in the shade of a tree far to my left. A man emerges from it and walks slowly across the grass.

It’s him. Surprisingly, my leap of logic worked. But then, I knew it would. That’s how convinced I was about being right.

Now I have to confront him.

Doing this alone is foolish. Yet I have no choice. It has to be me, and this needs to end now.

While walking slowly toward him, I think about the chaos that consumed my life just last week. It ranks right up there as one of the worst weeks of my life.

My week started simply enough. I remember the details as though it’s all happening right now.

Chapter 2

Long before the first hint of daylight, the chime of my cell phone wakes me. An incoming email message.

Without even looking, I know who it is.

I grumble, Come on, Barry. It’s too damned early for this.

I would never actually say those words to my boss. It’s not that I worry about the consequences of challenging him. I wouldn’t say those words because it’s simply a waste of time. The words would bounce off him like rain drops on a sheet metal roof. The man is impervious to criticism. And he is so driven that his workday seems to last all day. And he expects the same from his people.

I let the phone ring. It stops. Within seconds, it emits a single Ding. A voicemail message.

Barry Haliday. My boss. Even this early in the day, his dark wavy hair will be perfectly groomed. He has probably already dressed his portly frame in black shoes, dark pants, white long-sleeved shirt, and a black bowtie. Always ready to impress the people above him, the ones who decide his future in the company.

When I first started working for Nation’s Best Insurance, new cases came into the office during normal working hours. Claims were filed on paper. They came over the phone. Some were even filed face to face.

But ever since the company went to electronic filing of claims, they roll in 24/7. And no matter what time of day, Barry’s computer or tablet or cell phone is on, ready to receive them. So there’s no delay between when he receives a claim, decides it needs to be investigated for possible fraud, and delegates it to me or one of the company’s handful of other sleuths.

My phone chirps. A new email message.

Seconds later, my phone clangs, announcing the arrival of a text message. I don’t need to look. It will be Barry. An ambitious impatient Type A manager who drives his people in a desperate climb up the corporate ladder. He sent the text because I didn’t instantly respond to the voicemail or email message.

I pick up my phone and try to read the screen. It’s a blur. I claw at the graininess in my eyes with my knuckles, wait for the speckles of light to clear, and try again. The battery icon shows a thin slice of red. Time to recharge. The screen reads 3:07. AM. Underneath is his text message. Call me.

Barry Haliday never starts off with something like, Sorry if I woke you up in the middle of the night. He doesn’t ever send the message, Please give me a call. The man just gets right down to business. Call me. Barry has an assignment for me, some far-flung insurance fraud investigation that he wants closed sooner than ASAP.

He won’t wait for me to call. Barry isn’t that patient. I flip the phone to vibrate, to deaden the noise. There’s no sense in waking Ed and Samantha Garvey upstairs.

I’ve lived in their basement ever since my house blew up. One of those unintended consequences of the way I live my life.

I don’t go looking for the trouble that brings chaos into my life. And certainly it’s not part of my job description. My business card reads, Nathan Hale Parker, insurance fraud investigator. There’s no mention of specializing in mayhem. Yet that’s what seems to happen, at least to me.

Now, as a guest of my ex-partner from my days as a cop, I keep a low profile. I try hard to leave no footprint on the world, so that I don’t dump the bedlam from my wake onto their lives.

Through the rectangular basement window, I see dark sky and the skeletal branches of a tree that has dropped many of its leaves. October in Ohio. I like this time of year. The heat and humidity of summer are gone, and the cold damp winter hasn’t yet arrived. It’s the best….

Bzzzt!

That’s Barry calling me. Already. Barely a minute has passed since his email message. Less than that since the text message. The man is as impatient as Donald Trump. As greedy about success as Scrooge is about money. And as aggressive as a psycho pit bull.

Bzzzt!

I can’t ignore the phone because he’ll just keep calling until I answer. And now that I’m fully awake, sleep won’t return anyway.

Besides, though I hate to admit it, I’m a Type A too. I have to know what he has for me. Hopefully something more exciting than the mundane insurance cases I’ve handled in recent years.

Bzzzt!

The normal grind is kind of boring. So sorry, Mr. Bennett, but you’re car insurance claim is denied. Your policy doesn’t cover damage you caused because of road rage.

And, by the way, Mr. Bennett, your policy with us has been cancelled.

Bzzzt!

Hopefully this new assignment will be more stimulating. Still I have to make Barry wait for at least four rings before answering. It’s my tiny speck of control, making him burn a few more of his precious seconds.

I clear my throat and punch accept. Not bothering with any pleasantries, I just answer with, What’s up?

Get to Midland, Michigan. Today.

I don’t know anything about Midland. It’s just a dot on the map that sits in the middle of the Lower Peninsula. From Cincinnati, I figure it’s a good 350 miles. With concerns of the lingering coronavirus, being herded onto a commercial flight has no appeal at all. And the earliest one doesn’t depart until 6 AM. Besides, there’s the drive to the airport in Northern Kentucky, the long wait at security, the likely delay in actually departing, and then getting a rental car at the other end. It’s more convenient to just take my own car.

That’s a six-hour drive, Barry.

More like five. If you leave now, you can be there well before noon. Plenty of time to wrap up the case today.

I suppose the….

Yes, the case file is in your email. A guy up there claims all kinds of injuries from a collision. He’s done it before. Looks like a scam. You can read all the details as you drive.

And people wonder why there are distracted drivers.

Have you….?

Yes. I’ve already sent an email to the guy. You meet with him today at noon at his house.

Tiredly I moan, Okay. I’m on it.

That’s the spirit!

That is Barry’s go-to phrase, his version of a pep talk.

Don’t be late. And with that, he rings off.

I should call him back to argue all of it, or send him a fiery email message, or bang out a text with an angry-face emoji. Or one giving him the finger.

But I gave up on thoughts of that long ago. I’ll read the file now, clear my calendar, mentally formulate a plan of how to approach the guy during the drive north, and then meet with him. Maybe his claim is legit. But unlikely. There’s one thing that Barry excels at: identifying insurance fraud. Over ninety percent of the ones he flags turn out to be bogus claims. And it’s up to me to prove it and confront the perp with the evidence so he, or she, will withdraw the claim.

And repeat offenders are visited by the police, because Barry is not afraid to litigate.

But my inner voice tells me that my day won’t be so routine. Something just doesn’t feel right with the Universe today. Call it ESP or a sixth sense. I’ve heard that inner voice before.

Today I choose to ignore it.

A big mistake. I should always listen to my inner voice.

Chapter 3

Most of my drive north up I-75 through Ohio is done in the pre-dawn darkness. With no scenery to see outside the car, I mentally focus on the case.

A warehouse security guard named Otis Dott was rear-ended while stopped at a red light. A glance at a picture in the file shows the crumpled back end of his car. My employer Nation’s Best insures the other driver, Phillip Zorn. Phillip admitted fault to the police, so we are on the hook for the damage to Otis’s car. No argument. That’s why people buy liability insurance. So Barry already approved that payment.

But Mr. Dott wants more.

He also claims debilitating neck and back injuries. He’s demanding a quarter million dollars in lost wages, pain, suffering, and medical bills. That high dollar figure is what puts me on the road to Michigan. If he asked for ten grand, Barry probably would have approved it without another thought, just to make it go away. But a quarter million? That won Mr. Dott some up-close-and-personal time under a magnifying glass.

I take the turn off Interstate 75 to US 23. The speedometer indicates 80 miles per hour. As I approach the Michigan border, the sun begins to peak over the eastern horizon, revealing brown fields of corn and soybeans ready for harvest.

Soon the sun will be in full bloom. I’ll shoot across the border into Michigan and arrive at Otis Dott’s place in plenty of time to observe him. And ask his neighbors some penetrating questions. Did you see him mowing the lawn? Up on a ladder cleaning the rain gutters? Power washing the driveway?

And talk to his boss. Did Otis come to work after the accident? Any limitations on what he can do?

But none of that matters.

Because I never get to Midland. Not even close.

As soon as I cross from Ohio into the Mitten State, a flash of light appears in my rearview mirror. A deep blue car with its red gumball light is pulling me over. A Michigan State Police cruiser.

Actually, two of them. A second one is right behind the first. Does it really take two patrol cars to give me a ticket for speeding?

Crap, I mutter to myself. Sure, I was speeding. But so were the other cars around me. I wasn’t texting while driving. So what else? Un-signaled lane change? Broken taillight? Expired tags? Or did my pitted and scarred car shed some parts on the highway?

While braking to a stop on the berm and shutting down the engine, I imagine a buffet of possible citations. And a long delay before starting my investigation of Otis Dott.

As the gumballs continue to flash red behind me, two uniformed Troopers approach, one on either side of my car, like the jaws of vise grips squeezing me in. They look like twins. Tall, young, and trim in their blue shirts and pants, gray ties, and Smoky the Bear hats.

Cars whiz past, their drivers confident that the cops are far too busy with me to pull them over. And the blasts of wind from passing eighteen wheelers rock my vehicle like I’m in a bumper car at the carnival.

The cop on the driver side twirls an index finger, gesturing for me to roll down my window. It grinds down most of the way before the electric motor seizes up.

He presses a palm flat on the roof, and tilts forward a few degrees. Are you Nathan Hale Parker?

I turn toward him and flash my driver’s license. Yes.

In the next instant, his handgun is pointed at my face!

What the….?

The cop barks, Put your hands out the window! Now!

Chapter 4

Without another word, I slowly twist to the left to comply. I’ve seen too many news reports of police shootings to know better than to do anything but comply. Resisting never works out well.

And my sixth sense tells me that the other trooper on the passenger side has a gun pointed at my back. I’m surrounded.

My brain is churning, trying to figure out what they think I’ve done that requires a gun in my face. It’s certainly not about speeding or expired tags or even shedding rusty car parts.

It could, though, be about four bodies in an abandoned well. In Michigan. I put them there a few years ago. I figure it was self-defense, but others might not see it that way.

Maybe someone finally found those bodies, and pointed the finger at me.

Leave your hands on the glass and step out of the car!

He grasps the handle and clicks the door open. It slowly swings wide, with me following it, my fingers still gripping the top of the window.

Turn around and put your hands on the hood of the car!

I obey, placing both palms on the scarred and pitted metal that looks as though it’s been ravaged by smallpox.

Feet back and spread ‘em!

I know the drill. After all, I used to be a cop, though that was a long time ago. Still, I obey robotically, not saying a word.

Practiced hands frisk me. They roughly run over my arms, along the torso and waist, and down the legs. In the process, the guy removes my wallet. That’s all I have on me. The car keys are still in the ignition, and my cell phone sits in the center console.

Nathan Parker! You are under arrest!

I don’t ask why. I don’t plan to say a word until the Company lawyer advises me. Jacob Martell. He’s gotten me out of other scrapes with the law.

As one trooper recites my Miranda rights, the other fastens cuffs on my wrists behind my back. While grasping the cuffs, he pushes me toward one of their cars. The other trooper opens the back door. Together they shove me inside. In the process, my forehead slams into the door frame.

One of them snickers, Sorry about that.

The other one says with admiration, Nice work, Falco.

The guy shrugs. Not so tough as we heard. Then the two fist bump each other.

They search my car. The passenger compartment, the glove box, under the seats, in the trunk, and even under the hood. In the process, they remove my keys, cell phone, laptop, and overnight bag. That’s all I have. Then they leave my heap with its rust-pimpled paint job on the side of the Interstate.

Earlier this morning, I should have listened to my inner voice. I should have called in sick.

Because the arrest is the easy part of my day.

Chapter 5

With one trooper following, the other hauls me away. Soon we exit from US 23 at Dundee, Michigan.

To the west, I see a huge Cabela’s outfitter store, its green metal roof peaked high in the middle. With the stone and timber entryway, it looks like a grossly oversized log cabin. But this is no cabin. It is so massive that the building itself must cover acres. In front is a statue of two enormous bears standing on their hind legs, battling with teeth and claws.

Filling an entire section of the parking lot is a giant red-and-white-striped circus tent. It’s filled with boats and ATVs. On the tent is a single word in tall capital letters: SALE.

We don’t stop to shop. The trooper turns east toward town and pulls into the lot in front of a one-story brick and glass police station. After extracting me from the back seat of the car, the guy named Falco grabs the handcuffs and pushes me forward. He thumps my forehead against the glass of the front door.

Sorry about that.

Inside the building, I’m dumped into a metal chair in an interrogation room. They unlock the cuffs and then relock them so that my hands are in front of me, chained to a thick metal loop on the top of a metal table. Then they leave and slam the door shut. I hear the metallic thunk as a lock is engaged. The finality of the sound sends a shiver up my spine.

I expect to be alone in here for a long time. It’s part of the softening process. Leave the perp alone to stew in his own juices. Let him concoct all kinds of stories in his head. Then….

BAM!

Barrage him with questions meant to confuse and disorient him. Hit him with the same questions over and over again, figuring the story will change with each telling. That’s how he’ll be caught in a lie. And then bore in on his weak spots until he cracks.

Or do the good cop-bad cop routine. One guy pretends to be your buddy, while the other is in your face. You’ll confess to the good cop just to get the bad cop off your case.

Or they’ll say that your accomplice has already confessed and given you up. But if you tell them everything right now, there’s still a chance to save yourself.

Or some other variation on the theme.

But right now, it’s the softening process. The metal table is bolted to the floor. So is my metal chair. Across the room is a dark window, a one-way mirror. No doubt, there are cops behind it watching me, deciding when I’ve stewed enough.

Other than the glass and exit door, there’s nothing in the room to focus on. Just blank beige walls and recessed fluorescent lights in the ceiling. There’s a small camera in the upper left corner of the room, pointed directly at me. Undoubtedly, it’s recording every moment of my time in this box. Otherwise, there’s nothing to break the monotony of being chained to a table. No pictures, no clock, no outside light. Nothing.

To this point, I’ve forced myself to keep my face stoic. I don’t want them to see how worried I am about being arrested. Because it could be about those four dead bodies in a well. Those men deserved what they got. But vigilante justice doesn’t sit well with the authorities.

Only two other people know about that. Neither of them will ever talk to the cops. They’re on the run. My best guess is that they’re in the Pacific Northwest somewhere, though I haven’t spoken to either of them since we parted ways in Muskegon, Michigan a few years ago.

Is it possible that someone found the bodies and reported it? Maybe.

Or did someone else see what happened and finally, years later, call it in? That doesn’t seem likely.

I clear my head of those thoughts and everything else, leaving it as blank as the walls. I close my eyes and think about sleep. I didn’t get enough last night, thanks to Barry Haliday. And the long drive up here from Cincinnati has left me feeling like there’s an ocean of fluid sloshing back and forth inside my skull. My head feels like it’s in motion, whirling as though I’m on the spinning teacup ride at Six Flags. I need that to stop. I need to be alert when the cops return and start firing questions at me.

So I close my eyes and relax. The only sound in the room is the gentle flow of air coming from a vent that must be behind me. It’s so soothing that I find myself drifting into sleep. Just a few minutes. That’s all I need.

Thunk!

My eyes pop open and swivel toward the door. The lock has been disengaged.

BAM!

The door flings open with such force that the knob punches a dent in the drywall. The door rebounds off the wall and vibrates on its hinges like a tuning fork.

Twang, twang, twang, twang, twang.

And just like that, my dream of a nap ends. There’s no doubt that their timing is intentional. As soon as I started to look relaxed, they had to interrupt, to keep me off balance.

Two tall beefy guys enter the room and slam the door shut. Like the troopers who arrested me, these two look like twins in their matching outfits. Navy blue long sleeve shirts, gray ties, and dark blue jackets, with shiny metallic badges on their belts. They stand side by side in front of me.

The one on the right says, I’m Detective Ambrose. He tilts his lead slightly to his right. This is Detective Goodrich.

I say nothing.

You are under arrest for theft.

Inside, I breathe a sigh of relief. So, it’s not about the four bodies in the well. That’s encouraging.

But theft? What is he talking about?

I should lawyer up right now. That’s the wise thing to do.

But I’m curious, since theft is not a crime that I’ve committed in Michigan. At least, not that I recall. Still, I choose my words carefully.

What was allegedly stolen?

Ambrose turns to his partner. Hey, Goodrich. This guy is funny. Allegedly. He’s trying to talk like a lawyer. He turns on me, puts his palms flat on the table, and leans down to within inches of my face. Are you trying to be funny?

I want to suggest that he should be trying a breath mint, but just slowly shake my head no.

He stands erect again. That’s good, because this is serious. He sits on the edge of the table and takes a deep breath, as though filling his lungs with oxygen before a deep dive. Believe me, this is very serious. You stole a half mil in jewelry and gem stones in our state.

I have no clue what he’s talking about. Jewelry theft? Why in the world would someone think….?

And this is not your first rodeo. You’re a regular Pink Panther.

I suppress the urge to correct him. The Pink Panther wasn’t a thief. It was a pink diamond.

You and your gang have been busy.

In spite of the metal cuffs digging into my wrists, this guy is amusing. I snort a laugh. Ha-ha. Good joke. My gang? Who put you up to this?

Oh, so you do think it’s funny. Ambrose turns to his partner. See, Goodrich? I told you he’d think this is funny. He’s facing a decade in prison and a fine big enough to pay off our mortgages. And he’s laughing at us.

Goodrich offers, Maybe we should put him in a cell right now, so he knows what to expect for the next ten years.

Ambrose rubs his chin in thought. That’s a good idea. Then he turns on me. What do you say, Mr. Parker? Ready for a jail cell right now?

When I don’t answer, he continues his game.

Or, you could tell us the names and whereabouts of the rest of your guys, and you will get consideration for helping us. You know, lighter sentence, maybe one of those country club prisons.

Goodrich adds, Maybe even early probation and community service.

Yeah! Ambrose nods his head. That’s a distinct possibility. He pauses for a moment. What do you say, Mr. Parker?

I huff and grin at him. All those gem stones. So much money. Wouldn’t I at least drive a better car?

Hey, how you spend your money is up to you. He leans toward me again. Are you proud of what you’ve done, Mr. Parker?

I lean back in the metal chair. Where and when did this alleged theft occur?

Just recently, west of Detroit.

I suppress the temptation to tell the guy that almost everywhere in Michigan is west of Detroit. I was in Michigan on an investigation that took me straight west of Detroit. But that was years ago.

Ah, I see from your expression that you were up here. He breathes in and lets it out slowly. It’s good that you’re coming clean, because we have you on video stealing the goods. You know, those damned security cameras. They’re everywhere these days. Can’t even steal some tiny gem stones without being seen.

His partner jumps in. And there’s video of you in another theft. That one was in Tucson, this past winter. You took nearly a million in that one.

I know for a fact that I haven’t been to Arizona in years. So they clearly have me confused with someone else. Or, I have to wonder if they are just toying with me before dropping some even bigger bomb on me.

Let’s see, Mr. Parker. You live in Ohio. Thefts in Michigan and Arizona. And who knows where else? That’s interstate transport of stolen property. The feds are gonna want a piece of you. And! He thrusts an index finger toward the ceiling for emphasis. I bet there’s a whole bunch of other stuff you’ve done, considering all the messes you’ve created in your career as an insurance agent.

I correct him. Insurance fraud investigator.

Ambrose waves a hand in the air to erase my words. Whatever. Regardless, we’ll just have to dig into all of those.

I feel the walls closing in around me. In my investigations, I’ve stepped over the line many times. If they do dig deep enough, they will find something, maybe a lot of things. So now is the time to fall back on something that has saved my butt before.

I want a lawyer.

Both of them feed me tight-lipped grins, as though they expected that from me. Of course. Because you’re gonna need one.

BAM!

The door flings open and hammers so hard against the wall that the knob digs out chunks of dry wall that crumble to the floor. Two men enter. Both are wearing suits, ties, and white shirts. But they don’t look at all like twins, not even close.

One guy is tall and wide, his muscular arms and shoulders stretching the fabric of his suit jacket. And his face is rough and set in a permanent frown. He looks like Drax the Destroyer from Guardians of the Galaxy. The other guy is shorter and thin with curly hair and lined gray skin. His dark suit hangs loosely off his Barney Fife frame, as though he just lost fifty pounds.

They both wave their FBI badges at the state cops. Drax points at me. He’s coming with us.

Chapter 6

Drax and Barney leave the handcuffs on. We walk to the car, one on each side of me, like unmatched bookends. They dump me in the back seat of their black SUV.

The two of them are silent as Barney speeds through a green light, two yellows, and a pair of reds, ignoring the blasts of horns from the cross traffic.

I start the conversation. If you call….

Shut up! Drax orders. We have strict orders to bring you in ASAP. That’s it. So not another word from you.

With that advice, I fall back into silence and watch telephone poles zip past as quickly as railroad ties under a speeding train. Since I’m certain they’ll run one too many red lights and get us T-boned by a semi, it would have been nice if they at least buckled my seat belt.

Soon we’re on the entrance ramp to US 23 north. With a surge that pins me deep into the seat, Barney floors the accelerator. He passes everything, weaving from the passing lane to the inside lane to tear past any vehicle that isn’t doing at least ninety.

He slows only long enough to make the turn onto I-94 east, then punches the gas pedal again. Even on the streets of Detroit, he ignores all lights and other traffic. He slows only once more, as we near a tall cubic structure of glass and concrete. It looks as uninspired as a gray blocky Soviet-era apartment building. Oddly, I recall the name of the architectural style: Khrushchyovka, named after their bulldog leader Nikita Krushchev.

Scaffolding covers one side of the multi-story building, all the way to the roof. Repairs in progress. As we pull into a garage underneath, I see three letters over the entrance: FBI.

Inside the building, we take an elevator to the fourth floor, where I’m dumped into a conference room. Drax and Barney depart without a word, and I’m left alone to imagine my new fate.

My wrists are stilled cuffed, yet it doesn’t feel like I’m under arrest. The cuffs aren’t bolted to the wood-grain table in front of me. The cushioned rolling chair underneath me is not bolted to the floor. And this room has stuff on the walls: pictures, plaques, a window to the outside world, and a clock. It reads 10:00.

Sorry, Barry. I’m gonna miss that appointment with Otis Dott.

Drax and Barney didn’t lock the door when they left. So I could just wander away, though that would be awkward with the cuffs. And no wallet, or car, or cell phone. Certainly the FBI must have its own interrogation rooms where they could have dumped me. They’re probably down in the basement, far from any escape route. But since Drax and Barney didn’t dump me there, I figure this whole thing will be cleared up, and I’ll be set free.

That’s the optimist in me.

The pessimist in me can conger many other scenarios, none of them good. Time will tell.

In the corner of the room sits a coffee machine. Drop in a pod, press a button, and seconds later a cup of steaming hot coffee is ready. The thought of that life-renewing brew and its hearty aroma force me to imagine how to brew a cup, bring it to the table, and drink, all with my hands cuffed.

Just as I begin to face that challenge, the door opens. And she enters.

She is exactly as I remember. Tall and slender, springy coils of red hair, and shimmering green eyes. A splash of tiny freckles decorate her cheeks, as though flicked there with damp fingertips. She’s wearing a white blouse and black slacks that hug her gentle curves like a second skin.

As graceful as a ballerina, she glides into the room and around the table toward me.

April Westcott.

That’s not her real name, but it’s the only one I know. She has never shared the real one with me. And it’s likely she never will. The mysterious April Westcott.

I don’t offer any greeting because in many ways she’s just like my boss. All business. But she looks far better than he does, so I tend to overlook her detachment. Yet I suspect that her red hair and green eyes will lure me into something unpleasant, like a Venus fly trap enticing a hapless insect.

Standing and thrusting my hands out in front of me, I say, I hope you’re here to take off these cuffs.

A thin smile creases her smooth skin. Maybe. April hesitates for a few moments, her eyes scanning over me like a bar-code reader. Then she unshackles me.

I hear the clunk and rattle of my cell phone, wallet, and keys hitting the table. The keys have an attached tag with a number scrawled on it. Presumably it’s the stall number where my heap is parked in the basement garage.

April adds, We’ll begin in a minute.

Begin what?

She just beams a pleasant smile at me.

I rub my wrists