Millstone & Roche 2 - (The Case of Pure Blue Murder) - Chapter 1
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All Rights Reserved © 2021, Rick Haydn Horst Formerly known as Rick Heathen
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, 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.
Thank you for delving into this work; I hope you enjoy it.
The Case of Pure Blue Murder: a Millstone & Roche Investigation, By Rick Haydn Horst
PREFACE:
Dear Reader,
At the time of Tucker's name change, Max gifted him a blank book, thinking that a new name and new life working for us at Millstone & Roche might elicit a desire to create a journal of his experiences. That gift resulted in Tucker's eventual inspiration for this first of our collaborative endeavors, which I embraced from the moment he mentioned it. I have crafted this narrative from five sources, three usual ones: the case files of Millstone & Roche Investigations, as well as the memories of Max and myself. However, this also includes as a source, the personal journals of Tucker, our close friend and business partner, and from the long conversations that I have had with Tucker for this text. As his complex personal life had grown closely intertwined with ours, we came to believe that he needed a voice, and importantly, he often played an instrumental part in helping solve cases, so I think that readers will agree that his input and perspective will add value. I have labeled each of the pertinent sections written from Tucker's point of view as [JOURNAL ENTRY], after which the perspective reverts to mine with [MAIN SOURCE].
Sincerely, Howard Ellis Millstone
PROLOGUE:
[MAIN SOURCE]
"How would you fellas like to get involved with a case of blue murder?"
"A case of blue murder," that's exactly what he said. One might think that's how the big cases usually start, but it's not always so obvious. Given my occupation as a private investigator who sometimes consulted for the Franklin Metropolitan Police Department, however, one would be forgiven for assuming that it would and what Detective Sergeant Wade Edgerton meant when he used that phrase during his call.
We had worked late the previous evening on the Gerhardt Last case, and we would speak to our client that day during his lunch break about it at one o'clock. After Tucker, our friend and employee, left to take possession of his new Jeep the next morning, my partner Max and I were chatting about the case when the call came at 10:30 a.m. When Edgerton used that odd phrase, we glanced at one another our brows drawn together in confusion as a typical statement would concern someone "screaming" blue murder.
"Has someone come down with a case of blue murder?" asked Max. As a former registered nurse, he gravitated toward medical thinking.
The detective laughed. "Yeah, and given the condition of the patient, it was terminal. I have an unusual situation here; I'd like you two to have a look."
"Alright," I said. "Where are you?"
He texted me an address on Tranquility Lane where we would find the entrance to a cemetery in an area of Franklin called Gothwick. He said we couldn't miss it.
Police detectives seeking my involvement in their cases hadn't always been my life. I worked as an ordinary private investigator back east, but after a series of life changes, both me and my world had a drastic alteration.
My mother and I always had a good relationship, but my father's death struck me with several profound losses. In one blow, my father, my mentor, and my best friend, the one person in this world who understood me, had vanished from my life. No one could replace him. I knew he couldn't stick around forever, and on occasion, he would remind me of that fact, just in case his mortality somehow slipped my mind. No matter what, however, so long as he lived, I refused to take a few of those eggs out of that singular, all-important basket.
My parents died within twelve weeks of one another, and apart from a few friends that I had lost touch with years prior and a handful of acquaintances, I had no one of significance in my life. I felt like I was walking around in a daze for months. When I left Nashville and returned to New York, I began going through the motions of life, throwing myself into my work; it just seemed like the thing to do.
During that time, I had accepted a case from a woman who suspected her husband was cheating, and she wanted to know the truth of it. In the aftermath of that case, it became apparent that neither of us knew her husband, Lev Stepanov, was a member of the Bratva, the Russian mob. I saw him kill a guy in an alley and the dumpster into which he shoved his body. I captured one clear, incriminating photo of it. Afterward, there came the safe house, the trial, the witness protection, the rearranged face, the age reassignment (38 instead of 40), my new name (Howard Ellis Millstone), and a new apartment on the west coast in Franklin, a city renowned for its non-conformity and maligned by bigots the world over, most of whom were religious and political hypocrites.
When I became a private investigator, I hadn't sought to get mixed up in the heavy stuff. I wanted to find a few missing people, catch a few cheating spouses, and work a lot of insurance cases; I expected to see nothing else. Many investigators work their entire career with no involvement in a single murder. Up to that point, professionally, I'd had cases that involved a total of six murders, three of which came from the Tommy Haines case.
Much had happened following the closure of that case, important things like our first client Winter and the Franklin Metropolitan Police Department (with whom I signed a consultation contract) had paid us for our work on that case. We had set up the necessary electronics to run the agency from our home at the Minotaur; we acquired equipment for work; Max crafted our business logo with the help of a graphic artist, so we could do some advertising; and we purchased our vehicle.
When you're a private investigator, you learn that cases sometimes begin in subtle and strange ways. I couldn't convey the full picture of this case of blue murder from the point of Wade's phone call that morning, so let's back up a bit to the previous evening, and the reason for that will reveal itself.
CHAPTER ONE:
[MAIN SOURCE]
That Friday evening of July 12th--just before sunset--Max and I had had dinner for the second time that week at The Daily Catch near the bay. As we walked along the waterfront enjoying the salty air, I held my arm around my beautiful Golden Bear, and he held my hand at his shoulder to keep it there.
In retrospect, I began recognizing my level of unhappiness while living in Nashville and New York. I could easily find sexual partners, that wasn't the issue, but no one would stick around. I suppose one gets resigned to the loneliness and fills any spare time with other things like even more work or hobbies.
Of course, as fulfilling as my relationship with Max was, our location played an enormous part. Franklin was special, and it hadn't taken long to discover how lucky living there made me. In Franklin, Max and I could go `anywhere' with my arm around him--just as I had that evening--and no one would think anything of it. But more than that, we could live, not just hoping, but knowing that would be the case, and knowing that kind of inclusivity existed there in the collective understanding of what constituted "normal" made all the difference in the world. Most straight people in the outside world take that automatic acceptance for granted; they couldn't imagine living without it because most of them wouldn't recognize it as a privilege. Walking there that night, my arm around Max, however, I sensed a deeper reason that Franklin was created, to give people like us the luxury of taking for granted that we wouldn't experience anything from microaggressions to a baseball bat to the back of the head simply for openly existing as the gay couple we were. And upon realizing that, I hugged my beautiful man, silently thanking Ivy Ridgewood, the main founder of Franklin as it stood, for making that possible.
That evening, we had made an early night of it, lying in bed about nine. I thought we would just sleep but Max, using gentle strokes of his fingers on the underside of my cock, gave me an erection. Afterward, he broke out the silicone lube, propped me against the headboard, and my horny Honey Bear, with muscles like steel cables covered in pale skin and thick golden fur, proceeded to impale himself upon me. I hadn't minded, of course; he would forever have my permission to ride me whenever and wherever he liked.
Our new, supposedly unbreakable bed had a metal canopy intended for bondage or anything else one's imagination could think to use the loops and eyelets and beams it had. Earlier in the day, Max installed some thick cotton rope from the canopy to pull himself up, to assist in our amorous activities. With his strength and endurance, he could use it to help fuck himself on my dong for quite a while. With the fun he was having, I knew I could count on him employing that rope for some time to come. For an hour, he had treated himself to two long fucks--starting on a third--using my lap like a bouncy ball with a handle on it. At the end of that hour, I sat relatively upright in the shadows of the indirect light from the outside streetlamp with Max on my lap and his cum dripping down my face, adding to the rest that he had plastered across my beard and the hair of my torso.
I touched Max's shadowy form as he rode my cock trapped deep inside his buttery hole, and it hadn't mattered that I needed to pee, I wouldn't stop him. I recalled his face on other occasions reflecting the pleasure he felt, so I welcomed his every attempt to candy-coat me with cum for as long as he liked. I expected that once he had his fill, I could then clean it off, wash my cock in our newly installed Gentleman's Lave, pee, and we would return to our nightly scheduled slumber.
Max continued fucking himself on me, and I was on the verge of breeding him a second time when a knock came upon our door just as Max added several volleys of cum to my face and chest. However, hearing the knock distracted us, Max stopped, and my ability to cum disappeared. It wouldn't matter if the world were crumbling around one's feet, when that close to cumming, an interruption would give any man a surly disposition. We sat still in the darkness catching our breath as the knock sounded again.
I whispered in contempt, "Some interloping fucker has just ruined my orgasm."
"I'm sorry," said Max. "It could be important; what do you want to do?"
"It could also be nothing. I'm like stone; I don't want to get up."
When we heard the door being unlatched, we both said, "It's Tucker."
The instant it opened, I said aloud, "Tucker, what the hell do you want?"
Since he heard my voice, he flipped on the overhead main lighting and came around the partition, expecting to find us merely awakened from sleep. I barely had the chance to say, "No, don't turn on the-" before he stood there in t-shirt and jeans, travel mug in hand, gawping at us.
"Oh my god, I am so sorry."
Max, fully lanced on my lap, tried not to laugh, as the light revealed what he had done to my face that evening. I could feel Max's cum running down my cheeks, dripping from my forehead and clinging to my beard. I licked it from my lips, so I could speak properly. "We gave you that key in case you needed to get any equipment when we're away from home. I'll have you know that you have robbed me of my orgasm! So, you better have a good explanation for tonight's coitus interruptus or you're fucking fired! What do you want?"
"I apologize, but I texted and called each of you. I see now why you ignored it."
"My phone's on Do Not Disturb," I said.
"Uh-oh," said Max, "so is mine. We probably should set a few exceptions for that."
"We have a client," said Tucker.
Max's brows lowered and drew together. "What time is it?" He searched for our bedside clock.
Tucker checked his phone. "It's 10:15."
I tapped Max on the chest. "I now spot the flaw in working from home. There's no glass door on which to hang our `Sorry, we're closed and fucking' sign."
"Do you want this client or not?" asked Tucker.
"Well, why would they contact you?" I asked.
"Who is it?" asked Max.
"It's our barber, Johann. He didn't have the business number (not that you would have answered it); he only had mine. Look, this is time sensitive. If you want the job, I'll fill you in while you get ready. If not, I'll hit the light on the way out, and you can continue your coitus."
Of course, we wanted the client, so Tucker began drinking the coffee he brought with him to stave off his usual bedtime tiredness, and he gave us the entire story as we cleaned up. Afterward, I apologized to Tucker for my attitude (he admitted he would have felt the same under similar circumstances), and I told him that he had done the right thing.
Johann Last, one of the barbers at The Strop Tonsorium, contacted Tucker, seeking to hire us. His 18-year-old brother Gerhardt had come to Franklin from their hometown of Germantown, Pennsylvania a day prior and would stay with him temporarily. According to Johann, his brother hadn't seemed like himself at all, and that concerned him. He said that he left the house the night he arrived to meet someone, and he knew he would leave again that evening because he mentioned something about a nightclub, and Johann noticed him setting out some club clothes. Johann hired us to find out specifically what he was doing, and who he was meeting because it worried him.
To me, it sounded like he was overreacting, but I texted Johann and told him we would take his case. I informed him of our daily rates, and he agreed.
After cleaning up, in preparation for the case, Max and I stood staring into our open wardrobe. "So, what does one wear to a stakeout?" he asked. "Shall we go in all black with a stocking cap and our faces covered in grease paint?"
"We're not cat burglars, Max." I began digging into the clothing, laughing to myself. "We're not going behind enemy lines."
He smiled. "Well, I was a nurse; what would I know of these things?"
I pulled out a couple of the suits that we had ordered from the tailor. "These look good."
"What's with the suits?" asked Tucker.
"Just knowing where Gerhardt's going isn't enough, if he goes into a club, we'll have to follow him."
"Well, he's eighteen; most likely, he wouldn't wear a suit. He'll wear what other people his age wears."
"And these days, that would be..."
"Something sleazy, perhaps?" asked Max.
"Maybe. It would depend on where he went. Most clubs don't want to deal with the extra precautions necessary to allow 18-year-olds...not without a fake ID. And if he has one of those, he could go anywhere." He downed the remainder of his coffee.
"Let's assume for the moment he has no fake ID," I said.
"Someone could get away with wearing something hot, up to the point of sleaze, in any of those clubs. Overtly sleazy would be too much for some, something less hot or a suit would be too stuffy for others. But in most of those places, it wouldn't matter what the two of you wear, you'll stick out like hawks in a chicken house anyway."
"Well, that's where you come in, so let's do this... We'll wear the suits, and you change into something you deem more appropriate rather than regular street clothes. This way, we've covered all contingencies."
[JOURNAL ENTRY]
I had stayed with Wade Edgerton for over a week, and we had yet to have any form of sex. I know I said that I would give him all the time he needed but seeing him walk around his quarters wearing his well-fitting Franklin Coppers t-shirts and a tight pair of light gray cotton shorts frustrated the hell out of me. The distraction of every eye-catching shift in the contours left by his unencumbered fun-gear was almost more than I could bear. However, I fashioned myself into Mister Good-Guy with the chameleonic ease that I have with every part that I have ever played and kept my hands to myself.
Being thought a sadist for so long had many disadvantages. For example, no one expects a sadist to want to cuddle, so I hadn't cuddled in years. When Wade re-introduced me to cuddling the first night that I stayed with him, I became an avid cuddler. After such an extended intimacy drought, it convinced me that people should cuddle more...and hug. After all, what's a hug but a standing cuddle of shorter duration. After an evening session with Wade, I would always feel more energized and happier the next day. I could only imagine how much better off the world would be if everyone felt that way.
That Friday evening of July 12th, as Wade and I cuddled on the couch to the sound of Ella Fitzgerald streaming from his phone to the wireless speaker he kept on the bookshelf near the door, I received the phone call from Johann wanting to hire Millstone & Roche, so despite the hour, I had to go.
After having lived alone for so long, readying for work in Wade's quarters from my clothes in his closet seemed strange to me. I stood before the open wardrobe, and there were all my clothes, well pressed and hung in a neat row, each hanger two finger-widths apart from one another (just as Wade liked it), right alongside his. After Wade had set the machine to brew some coffee for me, he joined me as I stood staring at it all.
"It feels like I've moved in," I said to him.
"Everything you own is here, so maybe you have. I'm okay with that. I think the only part of you that hasn't moved in is right up here," and he put his finger on my forehead.
His comment had me smiling. "Probably."
At the time, I had just changed into street clothes as usual, but I would have to wear something more provocative if the new case would take us to a club, so I could blend in. When I re-entered Wade's quarters, I caught- ...Well...no, not "caught" exactly. That would imply that he was doing something he shouldn't. Nevertheless, when I found him jacking-off while sitting on the couch, he reacted as though he were guilty. He knew he needed the sex too and had withheld it from me because he wasn't ready. I never wanted him to feel any guilt, so without missing a beat, I said the first words that came to my mind.
"I need your help; will you help me?" And I moved to the wardrobe in the bedroom. Although the split second at the door had made the situation awkward, I tried to pretend it hadn't happened, and he joined me there. I told him the situation and what I needed.
He looked me in the eye, and with a little turn of his head he thumbed over his shoulder to the living area, and said, "I'm sorry about that."
"Don't be. You've done nothing wrong. You have concerns about the size of my ass wrecker, I get that." I kissed him and took him in my arms. "We both need sex, but we have more options than Polyphemus reaming your ass." I ran my hands down his body, got to my knees, pulled his shorts down, and took him into my mouth for the first time.
He gasped and said, "Tucker," and caressed my head as I sucked his cock.
Blowing a guy was an even rarer opportunity than my fucking them, but once someone knows how and enjoys the taste of dick, it's sort of like riding a bicycle; with a cock in their mouth, the enjoyment and know-how are already there. I wanted to go slow and savor our first time, but Millstone and Max would await me in the lobby. So, I squeezed Wade's firm ass and gave him my specialty, a hands-free suck-job. My tongue felt his extra skin and I liked working it with my lips. I sucked him for about five minutes, and when his breathing became erratic, he came with little warning. I could tell he hadn't cum in a while, a sign he tried to wait, and that was thoughtful. From that point, I intended for him to never wait again. I cleaned him up, stood, and kissed him.
He said, "Apparently, we should discuss sex. I assumed that fucking me was all you wanted."
"Has that been the problem? Well, I hope now you realize how mistaken you were. For now, though, I need to change and go. They'll be waiting on me."--I opened the wardrobe--"So, what should I wear? It needs to be something hot-looking." I removed my shirt and started on the pants.
"What would you wear to Kinks?"
"I only had street clothes at the time. So, that."
"Well, no wonder you had so few takers," he said. "You work hard on your body, so show it off. Here, wear this." He pulled out the unworn olive-colored jeans that Max insisted I get, and a pair of tan socks. "Wear the rustic Red Wing boots with that."
"You want me in those pants? I may as well go naked." I pulled on the socks and slid my foot into a pant leg.
"No. No. Remove the underwear," he said. "You won't need those."
"No underwear?"
"It will ruin the effect."
With a grumble, I slipped out of the underwear and my cock hung off me like I were an escaped test subject from The Island of Doctor Moreau. "What about a shirt?"
"I know you never go without," he said, "but don't wear one."
I started to slip on the pants, but Wade reached out and took hold of my flaccid penis for the first time, feeling its heft. Even soft, it overfilled his hand whose fingers could only reach three-quarters the way around it. "Why do you call it Polyphemus?" he asked and dropped it against my thighs.
"In Greek mythology, Polyphemus was a giant, man-eating Cyclops."
"Oh. Well, I think you have a beautiful one-eyed monster."
I felt my face reddening a little. "I'm glad you think so."
Fortunately, I had my body waxed a few days prior; otherwise, some of my pubic hair would have shown. Wade watched me buttoning myself up, laying my cock along my right hip. With no belt, the cotton/spandex jeans clinging to the muscles of my thighs and fat bulge rode so low that they felt weird. I adjusted the pants, straightened up, and stood there for inspection. "What do you think?"
Wade stared at me for a moment with a funny look in his eyes. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and said, "Oh god. You need to go; you have a job to do."
He pushed my boots into my arms, and before I could put them on, he rushed me to the door. Having dropped my wallet into a boot, he wished me good luck with a kiss and shoved me out.
With boots in hand, and wondering what the hell just happened, I spoke to him through the closed door, "So, does this mean you like it then?"
[MAIN SOURCE]
In my previous life before witness protection, I would never have called a nighttime stakeout my favorite activity. I well remember my stakeouts in New York and Nashville. On nearly every one of those overnight occasions, I swore I would never do it again; often, it disrupted my sleep with nothing to show for it. In my car at the location the entire night, waiting for them to make a move, I could guzzle coffee to keep alert until I became so jittery, I couldn't make a bullet hit the broadside of a Tennessee barn, and they might rudely refuse to get on with it, spending their night in bed. As an investigator who worked alone, a nightlong stakeout, while remaining awake the next day, would make a zombie of you if you had to repeat it a night or two. However, the nights of the lone wolf had ended, and I no longer had to do it all myself. I should have obtained a partner and hired an employee much sooner.
Max and I waited a few minutes for Tucker by the elevator in the lobby. I had dressed in my graphite-colored two-piece, and Max sported an attractive one the color of slate with an odd gold vest.
The moment the lift door opened, Tucker said, "Sorry for the wait; I had a little problem. The pants were Wade's idea. Now that I've run them through the washed, do they ride too low?"--he turned to show us--"They're not sliding off me, but I feel the need to pull them up."
He looked like a muscular and pale, auburn-haired sex god whose pants made both a spectacle of his crotch and a sensuous display in the upper curvature of his ass.
"No," I said, "you look perfect. You should go like that all the time."
"Should I?"
Max handed him our leather rucksack full of equipment. "I'm sure that's what Wade would want. You had to pry him off you, didn't you?"
Our new vehicle was a black Mercedes-Benz G63 AMG. Essentially, it looked like a regular G-wagon, but they built the G63 like an armored vehicle including ballistic glass and an undercarriage capable of tolerating a few exploding grenades. It was overkill for our intended use, but while living in Nashville, one disgruntled, cheating husband shot out my rear window, so I figured it would keep us safe.
On that Friday evening, we found the streets trafficked with a few people heading one place or another and Johann's house located in a neighborhood called Ripley at 505 Pecan Lane, a fashionable, revitalized neighborhood. Handsome Usonian-inspired homes with lots of straight lines, built of a blend of natural materials like metal, clay brick, wood, stone, and concrete lined the streets. Their exterior lighting at that time of night showed many of them to great effect, even with their modest-sized front lawns and short driveways.
When we rolled to a stop at the house, a primary-yellow Audi R8 Spyder sports car with a Pennsylvania license plate sat before the garage.
"That's a hot car," said Tucker from the back seat.
"It's a bit much for an 18-year-old," said Max, "don't you think?"
"An indulgent, wealthy family, maybe," I said. "Let me park. I should put a tracking tag on it before he leaves."
I backed up enough to maneuver the SUV between two others parked in a dim area between streetlights. Tucker handed me a tag from our equipment bag, and we glanced around a bit before I exited the vehicle. I crossed the street, keeping to the shadows. The Audi looked brand new, and as I approached the passenger window, I could see the residue of the glue that held the dealership's Monroney sticker. When I noticed the small decal on the lower left, however, I stopped, quickly backed away, and returned to our vehicle.
"That's out." I hopped in, and Tucker caught the tag with agility.
"Why?" he asked.
"What happened?" asked Max.
"It's a new car with a touch-sensitive alarm; setting it off is the last thing we want. We'll have to do this the old-fashioned way."
We sat there about thirty minutes before someone switched on a light inside the front room of the house.
"Finally, some action," said Max.
I held my right hand over my shoulder to Tucker. "Camera..."
He handed me our new night camera, I rolled down the window just enough and held it at the ready. We saw him exit the house at 11:28, according to the clock on Max's phone, and I began taking photos of him to get his attire on record. We had purchased a good camera; it showed him quite well. I could see he wore a pair of black jeans and a black, paisley-patterned lace shirt, and like his brother Johann, the Last family's genes had made Gerhardt an extraordinarily handsome and well-built young man, although perhaps not as tall as his brother. He descended the few porch steps and walked down the drive, but he passed his vehicle. He took the sidewalk, moving up the street away from us.
"So much for the idea of tagging his car," said Max.
As we sat there, the occasional vehicle would pass us from either direction, but about the time Gerhardt walked up the street, a vehicle drove up from behind us, and as it came closer, its lights flashed. I took photos of Gerhardt crossing to our side of the road. Max and Tucker ducked the moment the car passed us, but when it drove under the streetlight in front of us, I could see it was a deep blue Cadillac with windows so dark they appeared opaque. I took a photo of their license plate, the car stopping ahead of us, and of Gerhardt climbing into the back. Just before it left, I returned the camera to Tucker and started our engine.
"If we're lucky, we won't have trouble following them, but let's see how far we can go."
"Why would we have trouble?" Max asked.
I waited several seconds before I pulled into the lane to follow them.
"If we were tailing some inexperienced 18-year-old that would be one thing, but we don't know these people."
I told them that typically while following someone if the driver makes a turn, you might get away with continuing, and maybe even two turns in the same direction, but that's questionable. However, if they make three sequential right or left turns, they're onto you, and you should let them go; otherwise, you might risk getting shot at. Fortunately, the residential area had sufficient traffic passing through to the main road, so it hadn't caused too much difficulty.
At 11:50, we found ourselves at a nightclub on Brie Street, on the other side of the Bay--as the locals say--and when they took the first entrance to the parking lot, we took the second. The building stood five stories tall, and the exterior had illuminated cobalt oxide glass accents, notable for its distinctive electric-blue tint, and it made the building's appearance memorable and iconic. Cars packed the enormous roped-off parking lot by the building, and the only parking was valet. The lane I entered led only to the drop-off or back out to the street.
"Well, this place is hopping," I said.
Tucker slid forward between the front seats, "We're in luck, it's the Belcaro. You can wear pretty much anything here."
"Mmm...Belcaro," said Max in a sardonic tone, "that sounds nice and expensive."
"Yes, it does," I said.
Max diverted his eyes toward me. "If you didn't know, bel and caro are Italian for nice' and expensive.'"
That made me laugh. "Okay, now it just sounds pretentious."
Tucker was right, people wore a variety of clothing. Some were dressed more like him, but we could also see men wearing tailored suits and women in designer party dresses handing their keys to the valet before going inside. I hadn't recognized the club's hulking bouncer or the handsome, blue-suited doorman, so I couldn't know if either had a membership at the Minotaur, which might have come in handy.
When the Cadillac had its turn at the door beneath the covered drop-off, we could see Gerhardt exit the rear of the vehicle, and he assisted a woman when she stepped from the car. They had a thick-necked bruiser for a driver, and he followed, handing over the key like everyone else.
The woman's dark wavy hair hung down her back, and she wore an eye-catching, black, micro-mini tube dress that clung to her slender body. She seemed, perhaps, 30 years old, and she held fast to Gerhardt's arm. The doorman in the blue suit smiled at them, bowing his head a little as he greeted them, and the bouncer allowed them beyond the blue velvet rope without question.
I asked Tucker, "Who was that woman? Do you know?"
"Not specifically, but she's one of Franklin's elite with lots of money."
"How do you know that?" asked Max.
"Because this is the Belcaro; they all are. You can't get past that rope unless you, or someone you're with, are `Somebody.'"
A vehicle pulled in behind us, and that forced us to either try to gain entry or leave.
"Well," I said, "we have a job to do, so let's give it a shot."
Please send questions, comments, or complaints to RickHaydnHorst@gmail.com. I would enjoy reading what you have to say. I ask for patience, I'm writing this as I go, like I did the first novel, and it's going to take time. Keep checking back!