JACK BEST AND THE LINE IN THE SAND

by Steve Olley

When I was a grunt cop, back when the world wasn't quite so complicated, I was partners with a guy named Dave Archer. We were young men with our heads full of hope and a belief that we could make a difference.

But after 15 years with the force, fighting crime in a city of millions, I grew weary of it all; tired of the city, the grind and the politics. In the end I walked away. Left the city behind me and headed to the town of New Dresden, north a ways out of the smoke; not a cop anymore, just a private detective, looking for cases to solve that would require me to use my brain instead of my nightstick.

But it seems you can't leave it all behind you, the past never seems to know when to quit, and it always has a way of seeking you out, wherever you chose to hide.

And so it was that on a cold day in February, while I was sat in my office trying to fix the heater, the phone rang.

“Hello,” I said, the screwdriver between my teeth.

“Is this Jack Best the detective?” A woman's voice, vaguely familiar, deep, sultry. I took the screwdriver out of my mouth.

“Yeah,” I said, “How can I help you?”

“Jack, it's Thelma Archer, I don't know if you remember me. It's been a long time.”

Thelma Archer was one of those names that I found easy to remember, my first partners wife.

“Thelma, it must be at least ten years. How are you? How's Dave?”

There was a moment of hesitation.

“That's why I'm calling, Jack, It's Dave. He's gone.”

“Gone?”

“Yes.”

“What do you mean exactly, Thelma?”

“Jack, I don't want to talk about this on the phone. I was hoping we could meet.”

“Do you want me to come and see you?”

“No, I'll come to you. Do you have an office out there?”

She said it like I was on another planet.

“Yeah, 382 Main St , 2 nd Floor, downtown New Dresden, opposite Benny's Diner.”

“Does an hour from now sound okay?”

“Sure Thelma.”

She hung up, and as I fixed the heater and tidied up the office, memories of Dave and Thelma came back to me.

Although the years had toughened my approach to life, Dave had never seemed to lose his desire to make a difference in this world. We had drifted apart, taken different paths in life. But no matter how time changes us, our time in the force together, during those early days, forged a bond that I knew could never be broken.

About an hour later, Thelma arrived, a little older than I remembered her, but still as good looking, something I tired hard to ignore when she was my partners wife; auburn hair, shapely legs, and curves where a woman should have curves. And those green eyes, it was always hard to look into those eyes without falling.

“Jack it's good to see you.”

As she came closer, I could see the worry in her face. We hugged, her body felt fragile and she clung to me for a moment as if I were the only thing afloat in a wide open sea. I helped her off with her coat and she took a seat. Her eyes closed for a moment as she tried to compose herself, searching for that inner resource of strength, that determination which I had never forgotten about her.

“Thelma,” I spoke softly. “Dave's gone?”

She turned to me slowly, an elegant sadness to her face, her eyes reaching into mine, as she said:

“He disappeared…”

She paused. I waited.

“…three days ago. He never came home from work.”

I opened a notebook and began to take notes. It seemed to help her focus.

“Dave left the force didn't he?” I asked.

“Yes, a few years ago. You remember how he always liked to write?”

I nodded.

“Well he took a job with the Herald; he believed he could do more good that way. You know he was?”

“Yes.”

“Well he never changed; still trying to save the world.”

“I guess someone has to,” I said.

Thelma gave me a sad smile.

“It's not easy,” she said, “to be around someone so committed to their cause."

She stared blankly out of the window, lost somewhere in her thoughts and memories. I waited for her, and when her eyes focused once more I gave her a concerned smile.

“What happened, Thelma,' I said quietly.

“He didn't come home, that's what happened, Jack. Sometimes he has to work late, but he always calls me. I phoned Steve Blake, his editor at the Herald. He said Dave had left the office in the afternoon and hadn't returned. He said that Dave missed his deadline, and he's never done that before.”

“Did you go to the police?”

“Yes. I filed a report, but you know what will happen.”

“But Dave was a cop, maybe…”

“I got the impression that they think he left me.”

I looked at her, trying to ask her without saying it.

“No Jack! I don't think he left me, and even if he did, he would never leave work too. He loved that job.”

“Do you know what he was working on?”

“No. I asked Steve Blake that, and he said that he knew Dave was on to something, but he wasn't sure what. He said that the last thing he remembered was Dave reading the paper, and then he was gone.”

“Don't worry, Thelma, I'm sure there's some logical explanation.”

She looked at me and smiled, then reached down for her purse.

“Wait Jack there's more.”

“Last night, I was in bed having trouble sleeping, so I decided to read. It's something I usually do every night, but with every thing that's happened I couldn't. Anyway, I picked up the book, and where the bookmark should have been I found this note.”

From her purse she took out a small folded piece of paper.

“It's from Dave,” she continued. “He left it where he knew I would be the one to find it; left it where he thought no one else would think to look. It doesn't make too much sense to me. It mentions people I've never heard of, all that is except you.”

She handed me the note and I began to unfold it.

“I knew once I saw your name, Jack, that Dave had meant for me to come to you, knew that you were the one guy that Dave would trust with his life.”

I read the note. It may not have made much sense to Thelma, but one of the names on it meant something to me: Joey Daniels. He was a hood who worked for Mickey Drake. A name that Dave and I had run into in the past. Drake was supposedly a respectable businessman who owned a lot of property downtown, but we also knew that Drake held sway over a large portion of the city's illegal gambling trade; a very organized guy.

There were other names: Billy Peters, John McDonald and Declan Fitzpatrick. Apparently, according to the note, McDonald and Fitzpatrick were running with Mickey Drake, and Billy Peters had paid the price. The last line made my hair stand on end, it said:

“1101, the package will help seal the case and convict them all.”

1101, that was my old badge number. Dave was speaking to me, and I couldn't help but feel that it was from beyond the grave.

What was Dave into; names, dates, Mickey Drake, and the mention of a package that could condemn them all?

“Did Dave leave anything else for you?”

“No.”

“Did he mention a package?”

“No.”

I scratched my head. All I had was a short cryptic note, a puzzled wife and the mention of a package; and somewhere a missing man trusting in me to help him.

Thelma had sat watching me as I read the note, her intense green eyes searching my look, as if she could discern my thoughts.

“What do you think, Jack?”

“Do you have somewhere, some family away from the city you could go?”

“You think I'm in danger?”

“This guy, Joey Daniels, he's a hood, works for a guy named Mickey Drake. He's not the sort of guy you want to get mixed up with.”

She thought about it for a moment.

“If Dave has taught me anything,” she said, “it's that you don't runaway when things get difficult.”

“Sometimes it's all we can do.”

“Well not this time, Jack.”

Her last words hung in the air long after she had left the office. I stood by the window and watched her drive away, south on Main Street back towards the highway and the city. A car pulled out behind her. Was it a tail? Or was I letting my imagination runaway with me, but I knew that if Mickey Drake was involved then anything was possible.

I began with the note and the list of names. Somehow they seemed familiar to me, at least Declan Fitzpatrick did. I'd heard the name before somewhere. I thought it had to do with the City. I keyed the information into Google and found out pretty quick that Declan Fitzpatrick was Fire Marshall in the Downtown Core.

I used the same directory for John McDonald and Billy Peters. Peters got no hits, but McDonald turned out to be a Building Inspector for the City.

So somehow Dave had linked a Building Inspector and a Fire Marshall with Mickey Drake. It didn't make too much sense.

***

In the summer, the land along the highway is picturesque, but now snow covers the fields and bare trees stand bravely against a raw overcast sky. The Sunfire's heater, as always, took forever to warm up the car, as I drove down to the City to talk with Steve Blake, Dave's editor at The Herald.

For years the force had tried to find a way of putting Mickey Drake behind bars, but till now they had had no luck. His ran his operation well, always covering his tracks. Nobody would give evidence against him; nobody dared. The chief reason for that was Joey Daniels, Mickey's right hand man, his heavy, who dealt out Mickey's punishment, for anyone who welched on their bet, anyone who opposed Mickey, anyone Mickey didn't like.

I parked up behind the Herald Building , and after explaining to the receptionist that I was looking into the disappearance of Dave Archer, I was shown through to Steve Blake's office.

Blake was a short, tough looking guy. He was probably in his 50's, but it was hard to tell. His hair was grey, but thick and unruly. He wore a crumpled suit, a white shirt and a loosened black tie. I guessed he'd been wearing the same outfit to work for a good many years. His eyes were bright blue, and fixed on me immediately I entered his room.

“You must be Best?” He said coming around the desk to greet me.

“Jack Best.” I held out my hand. He shook it vigorously.

“Steve Blake, Editor of the Herald. Take a seat, Jack.”

He cleared away a mess of open newspapers off one of the chairs and I sat down.

“My receptionist told me you were looking into the disappearance of Dave Archer. Are you a cop? Jenny didn't say. You know at first I thought Dave was just caught up in a story that he had to stick with. You know. Dave has such a passion for this business, but when he didn't show, and missed his deadline, well then I wasn't so sure.

The phone rang somewhere on Blake's messy desk. He pushed aside some files and picked it up.

“Yeah.”

I could hear a voice on the other end but not the words.

“Well if it ain't here – forget it. We'll run with the Webster piece…No, I don't care. Well you get him to call me. Okay. I gotta go.”

He put down the phone and looked back at me.

“As I was saying, Dave's a good writer. He cut through the chaff. You know what I mean?”

“Yes I do,” I said. “By the way, I'm not a cop anymore, I'm a private detective. I'm working for Thelma Archer, Dave's wife.”

“Thelma, yes, good woman. How's she holding up? Is she okay?”

“She's okay Mr. Blake.”

“Good, good. Dave used to be a cop. Did you know?”

“Yes. Dave and I were partners when we first joined the force.”

“So this is personal?”

“I'm sure Dave would do the same for me.”

“Good.” He nodded his head and smiled. “I say you give your best work when a thing is personal. Know what I mean?”

“Yes,” I said. “Anyway Mr. Blake, I was hoping you could help me.”

“Anything you want, Jack.”

“Mrs. Archer said that you didn't know what Dave was working on.”

“No, sorry, but that's just the way Dave works. Found his own stories. Never needed leads. I never questioned his methods. Turned out some excellent work. Good old fashioned investigative journalism. You know what I mean?”

“I do,” I said. “Perhaps you could show me his desk.”

Steve Blake led me out of his office into a larger room filled with people working at desks spread out across the floor. It seemed really noisy to me, and I wondered how anyone could think to write, but you could feel the buzz, the adrenalin fighting for space with the oxygen in the air.

Dave's desk was tidier than most. I looked over it, and in a few drawers, but there wasn't anything that leapt out at me.

“Did Dave mention anything about Mickey Drake?” I asked.

A look of dread moved over Blake's face and for a moment he didn't say anything.

“No…no he didn't.”

“What about Declan Fitzpatrick or John McDonald?”

Blake shook his head, he said:

“Dave was mixed up with Mickey Drake?”

“I think he was working on something that involved him, yes.”

The look of dread that had suddenly appeared on his face at the mention of Drake's name did not fall away, as the realization came to him that maybe his reporter had gone too far in his pursuit of a good story.

He looked at me. We didn't need to say anything, we both knew.

“There is another name,” I said. “Does Billy Peters mean anything to you?”

The name meant something to Blake. He looked on Dave's desk and found an old copy of the newspaper.

“The last time I saw Dave, he was reading this. It's the first edition from the day he disappeared. Here look at the front page.”

I took the paper. Across the front page was a picture of a body lying in the street, surrounded by several policemen, and covered with a blanket. Underneath the photo it said: “Billy Peters was pronounced dead at the scene. There are no witnesses to the hit and run…”

“He was reading this?” I asked Blake.

“Yes, and the next thing I knew, he was gone.

***

Billy Peters, despite his name, had been an older man, 60 years old. He had a widow. Their address was listed as room 14, the Casablanca Motel, a rundown place out on Highway 86.

Mrs. Jane Peters was a small thin woman, with a gaunt face that looked ravaged by events, but I immediately sensed the strength within, an anger that frayed at the edges, dangerous but driven.

When I told her who I was and that I was looking into the disappearance of Dave Archer, and thought that there might be a connection with her husband, she let me in; her distrust pushed aside as she sensed an ally to her cause.

The room was small, tidy, but sad looking. We sat on two well worn armchairs at the foot of the bed.

“This is temporary till we…I mean I, can find somewhere to live. We used to have a shoe repair business in the Independence Building downtown. We had an apartment above it, but then there was a fire.”

“A fire?”

“Yes.” She got up and went over to a coffee machine that had been brewing.”

“Coffee?” she asked.

“Yes please, black, no sugar.”

As she poured the coffee I looked around. There were suitcases against the wall, a pile of hardback books and an old clock that had stopped at half past two . She saw me looking at her things.

“Not much to show for a lifetime is it. But we both got out alive and I thought that was all that mattered. But when they put the blame on Billy, it was hard to take.”

She handed me the coffee. I blew across the surface and took a sip, it tasted bitter.

“They blamed you for the fire?” I asked.

“They said one of his buffing machines did it. They said that the wiring in his machine was defective and that caused the fire.”

“And Billy didn't like that?”

“There was nothing wrong with them machines. It was the wiring in the building that was defective, but the Fire Marshall blamed Billy. So now the insurance company is making things difficult, saying it was Billy's responsibility to maintain his equipment. That's when Billy phoned that reporter. Dave Archer, the guy you were asking about.

I nodded and let her continue.

“It was about a week ago now; he was sat here with Billy talking about the fire. Billy told Mr. Archer that the wiring was faulty in the building and that all those lath and plaster walls went up in a second. I still can't believe we managed to get out in time. Smoke detectors went off, so we didn't hang about, we just got straight out; although it makes no difference now.”

She took a mouthful of coffee and fixed her stare on the suitcases. She was breathing heavily trying to control her emotions.

“Are you OK,” I asked.

She nodded. I waited for her to settle before continuing. Her breathing slowed.

“Do you think you could tell me about the accident?”

She looked at me, her eyes fierce.

“It was no accident, Mr. Best. My Billy was murdered. They run him down and left him to die there in the street – alone!”

It was as if she had been waiting for me, or someone, somebody to tell this all too; waiting for someone prepared to listen.

“Who, Mrs. Peters, who murdered your husband?”

“They did. You know. It's all a fix, don't you see. The building was supposed to be as good as new – all refurbished. That was a condition of the sale. You can't expect to buy a building as cheap as that without having to make changes. But if they did then how come there was all that old lath and plaster, and that old wiring.

“Don't you see, that's what he told Mr. Archer. It's all a fix. Nothing was done. My Billy knew that and so they killed him. Run him down like a dog. Then just left him; left him to die in the road like that. My poor Billy, all alone.”

A tear came to her eye, but she forced it back, chased away her sorrow with rage.

“That Mr. Archer, he wrote what Billy told him in his notebook. Then when Billy told him who owned the building, he got all excited, and told us that he would look into what Billy had told him right away. You know it felt like somebody at last was going to help us.

“Billy was excited too, he told Mr. Archer that he would go down to the Independence Building and take some photos. So late the next day, he went down there and started taking pictures. I never saw him again, not living at least.”

“And the camera?”

“Gone, not a trace.”

So this is what Dave had been working on, tailor made to suit Dave's cause; defending the little guy against the big leagues, and it seemed clear that when Dave saw Billy Peter's body on the front page of the newspaper, he knew it had been no accident. To most of us that would have been a sign that perhaps it would have been wise to lay low for a while, but everything I knew about my ex-partner told me that running away wasn't something he would do.

“Just one more question Mrs. Peters. Can you tell me who you rented the shop from?”

I can yes, but it's not just the shop they own, Mr. Best, it's the whole Independence Building , the whole city block. We rented the shop from them, the owners are Drake Developments.”

***

When I came out of the Motel room, I noticed a car parked outside one of the rooms opposite. It was an expensive car, a Mercedes, and anybody who owned a car like that wouldn't be staying at the Casablanca .

I backed out the Sunfire, getting a little closer to the Merc, and in my mirror I could see two men. They were there to watch Mrs. Peters. One of them was on the phone. I moved forward and noticed them start their car. I pulled out from the Casablanca back onto Highway 86. The other car pulled out behind me. If it was a tail, then they did not care that I knew. In fact it was almost as if they wanted me to know.

Things were beginning to make sense, or at least explain Fitzpatrick and McDonald's part in all this, and now the tail confirmed that I was getting closer to the truth, to finding out what happened to Dave Archer, and every step I took, brought me closer to Mickey Drake.

I drove the Sunfire back along 86. There were big trucks hauling salt up from the south, their gear boxes grinding hard as they climbed up the long hill into the city. Pretty soon the trucks noise was lost, swallowed up in the confusion of merging highways as we ran into the city.

I left the crowded highway and made my way through the back streets heading downtown, my expensive tail close behind.

The Land Registry Office was in the Municipal Building , a non-descript block of 60's steel and glass. I found a space in the parking lot close to the entrance. The two goons in the Merc stayed out on the street, but I could feel their eyes on me as I walked into the building. In the Land Office, a young woman named Sally helped me find the Transfer/ Deed of Land Certificate. The Transferor, Lyn Clements, transferred the land the building to the Transferee, Drake Developments for the sum of $100,000. For the Independence Building that was incredibly low – why?

With Sally's help I was directed to the appropriate departments to find out why. Lyn Clements was the elderly widow of John Clements, whose grandfather had built the Independence Building 106 years before. She had been forced top sell after a regular fire inspection had discovered that the building fell below the cities new safety regulations, and Mrs. Clements had been informed that the building needed to be upgraded if it was still to be rented out to the 16 businesses that at that time operated in the building, and then there were the offices and apartments in the five floors above street level. Estimates of work required ran into the millions. Money that Mrs. Clements didn't have. There were two alternatives, own an empty building and pay the substantial property taxes on it, or sell.

The new buyer would have to take on the responsibility of renovation; otherwise the sale would not have been approved. It seemed to me that Mrs. Clements just wanted to get rid of it and the building was sold for the nominal fee of $100,000.

The income the building generated provided Drake with a steady supply of cash. Dave and I had both known that Mickey Drake's gambling empire could never have existed without that cash flow. A legitimate place to hide the large amounts of cash that Drake's illegal business generated.

But where had Mickey Drake got the millions needed to renovate the Independence Building in the first place. Of course he hadn't needed to. All he had done was given the building a lick of paint, before the inspection. The Fire Marshall and the Building Inspector both signing off that the work had been completed to their satisfaction and was now up to code.

And there you have it, with the help of McDonald and Fitzpatrick, Mickey Drake buys a multi-million dollar building for $100,000, and a coat of paint to hide the imperfections, and Drake's gambling empire begins. But then there is a fire and a tenant trying to cause trouble, and a nosey journalist poking around. You could see how Mickey Drake wouldn't want that. And now Billy Peters was dead and Dave Archer had disappeared.

***

From the entrance to the Municipal Building I saw Drake's boys still sitting in their car across the street. I could see them just itching for Mickey to change their orders. They weren't the sort who liked to watch, but rather the sort who preferred to be cracking someone's jaw, or worse.

I decided not to return to the car quite yet; let them realize that they'd lost me. So I left my car where it was and went out by the back entrance to a Richie's Restaurant where I ate lunch.

About an hour later I slipped out and headed on foot down a few blocks to the Independence Building .

Billy Peters' shoe repair business had been a small store wedged in between two larger retail units. There was a blue tarpaulin hung over the front of the building, small clouds of dust coming out the door. I ducked under the tarp and came into the empty store. The dust came from the brooms of two laborers, who gave me a suspicious stare.

"Can I help you?" One of them came over. It wasn't a polite offer of assistance but a "What the hell do you want?" kind of question.

"What happened to the shoe repair?" I asked.

"It burnt down?"

"How?"

"The old guy's equipment was faulty."

"I see you've gutted the place."

They'd ripped out all the old walls. The wiring, all the evidence was gone.

The other Laborer came over.

"What's with all the questions? Who are you?"

"Just a guy looking for somewhere to get my shoe fixed."

"Your shoes look fine to me."

"Yeah but you should see my other pair."

"What?"

"Did the old guy go somewhere else?"

"Yeah, he sure did," he said grinning.

"What's so funny?"

"He's moved, bud, but he won't be fixing any more shoes."

"Retired?"

"Yeah, permanently." They both laughed.

"So he's dead?"

"Yeah. It had happened right outside. He decided to take a walk out in the street there. Tried to make friends with a speeding truck."

"So you saw it happen?"

"Err, not exactly."

"So, how did you know it was a truck?"

"It was on the news."

"Yeah, that's right. They said it was a hit and run with no witnesses."

"Err."

"Funny that, you know, how you knew it was a truck an all."

"Hey who are you?"

"Like I said, just a guy looking to get his shoe fixed, but I guess I can find somewhere else."

I backed out of there before Mickey's goons decided otherwise.

I crossed the road and slipped through a shopping mall and then back to the Municipal Building . I couldn't see the Drake boys' car, so I crossed over and climbed into my car. I started it up and the radio blared out at full blast. My heart missed a beat before I realized what it was and turned it off. I sat there for a moment, my heart racing, realizing that somebody had visited my car and wanted me to know about it. It didn't take too much to realize who. I looked around in the car to see if they would have found anything, but there wasn't anything, except of course my business card. So they knew who I was and where to find me, and they wanted me to know that they knew.

My phone rang.

"Hello."

"Jack, it's Thelma. Where are you?"

"Downtown, what's up?"

"My house was broken into."

"Are you OK?"

"Yes, I'm fine. I was out getting groceries and when I came back, I found the house ransacked."

"Did you call the Police?"

"Yes, they're coming over."

Good. Anything missing?"

"That's the strange thing, no. It's almost as if they were looking for something."

"The Package."

"What?"

"In the bookmark note, Dave said that there was a package containing information that would condemn them all."

"You think that's what they were looking for?"

"Yeah, I'm sure. Listen, Thelma, are you sure you don't want to take a break away from this?"

"No, Jack, I'm staying."

"Well I'm heading back to my office. Call me if you need me."

"How's it going?"

"Good, I've found out what Dave was working on. That Package, once we find it, will probably be enough to put an end to Mickey Drake and his gambling business."

"What about Dave, any ideas?"

"Nothing yet, Thelma." I didn't tell her about Billy Peters. Not over the phone. Because it wouldn't take much to realize that perhaps Dave had gone the same way.

On the way out of the city, the short winter day was ending. I watched the last of the light slip beyond the horizon, and then the darkness moved in creeping over us from the east. Ahead of me, the glow of a long line of cars moved through the twilight like an unreal snake, twisting through the black hills.

What had happened to Dave? Had Mickey's boys conveniently helped him disappear? Would he surface one day, floating face down in a lake somewhere, a bullet in the back of his head? I hoped to God that it would not be me who found him like that. Dave and I had both experienced the dark side of life, but it seemed not to have shaken his belief, or his desire to do the right thing. To me Dave was still an innocent in the world, and they were always the hardest to lose.

Car lights became bright on the road, and I found myself suspecting every glaring light that blazed in the mirror behind me. I turned off the highway and drove into New Dresden. The headlights were still in my mirror. Were they following me again? When I reached Main Street it was a little easier to see the cars behind me in the light from the streetlamps, but I still couldn't tell.

I parked up outside Benny's Diner. I bought myself a coffee and then went across the street back up to the office.

I didn't turn the light on when I got there, but walked straight over to the window and looked down onto the street, and thought I saw the shadow of a person disappearing up the alley across the road; but perhaps I was seeing things, seeing shadows when all there was, was darkness. But then there was a squeal of tires peeling, as some kid burnt up Main Street in his Chevy. It's engine roared and the beam of it's headlights moving quickly caught the pale face of a man peering out from the alley - a frozen ghost, there for a second, then gone. Who was he?

It was at that moment that I sensed someone behind me. I turned. Two men were there in the darkness. I barely had time to gasp before the first one hot me in the jaw. I felt myself falling backwards onto the floor. The other one aimed a kick, but I grabbed his foot mid-air and pushed him backwards over the desk. But it was my only success, these guys were professionals, knocking a guy unconscious was at the top of their resume, and after a few more punches I was out cold.

I don't know how long had passed before I came to, but when I did they were gone. I was lying on the floor beside my desk. The office was a mess and so was my face. I had a cut lip that was leaking into my mouth and my left eye felt badly bruised. I got up slowly. My body felt sore, but I couldn't feel anything broken. I walked out the office and down the hall to the washroom, where I dabbed at my wounds with some wet paper towels. The cold water brought some relief and I managed to stop my lip from bleeding.

I looked at myself in the mirror and realized that it could have been worse, but of course they had only wanted me out of the way while they searched my office.

I hobbled back there, and took a couple of aspirin from a bottle that was spinning around on the floor, along with the contents of my desk. I sat down in my chair and surveyed the chaos. It was clear that they had been searching for the package. How they knew about it was another matter.

"1101," Dave had written in the bookmark note, "the package will help seal the case, and convict them all." I was supposed to have the package; otherwise his note would make no sense. I was missing something here. Dave had meant for me to have it, so why didn't I? What hadn't I done?"

I sat there staring at the mess on the floor; paper clips and pencils scattered like some pick-up sticks game, a sheaf of paper spilled, unpaid bills still in their envelopes cast aside… and then I realized what I hadn't done: Bills. I hadn't checked the mail.

I went downstairs to a set of locked mailboxes for the buildings occupants. I unlocked my box and there inside was a small padded envelope with Dave's handwriting on the address.

I opened it and there inside was what looked like a locker key, but the number of the locker was broken off, so that all that was left was a jagged part of the finger turn. The key was on a key ring with a picture of a church that I did not know and the words: "Confession is good for the soul" written on it. Strung through this was a small card tag on which was written: Union Station.

I went back to the office, picked the phone up off of the floor and called Thelma. It rang for a while before she picked it up.

"Hello."

She sounded distant.

"Thelma, sorry, did I wake you?" I had no idea what the time was, or how long I had been unconscious.

"Jack?"

"Yeah, it's me, are you OK?"

"Yes."

"OK, well, I got it, or at least the key."

"Key?"

"Yeah, to a locker; it's damaged, but I think it's for a box at Union Station."

"Union Station."

"It must be the package, Thelma."

"Jack, I…"

"Thelma?"

"Nothing, Jack."

"Are you sure you're OK?"

"Yes."

"I'm going to the station now. Can you meet me there? Maybe you can help me. You see there's no num…"

"Yes."

"Oh, right, OK. I guess I'll see you there, Thelma."

When I got in the car, I saw the time was only 8:30. I hadn't woken Thelma, then why had she sounded so distant? Something was wrong. For a moment I thought perhaps that I should drive over there and check that she was OK. But if they were with her, then they would be on their way to Union Station.

I drove on back to the city, looking at the key ring and trying to figure this whole thing out. Why hadn't Dave left a note with the key? It was probably because he wasn't 100% sure that I would be the one to find it. But perhaps there were clues in what he had left. The envelope the key had come in was plain, a simple clear address - nothing there. And what about the key? It was almost as if it had been deliberately damaged, or at least to deface the number of the locker. But there was the Union Station tag, so he had wanted me to know where to go. I looked at the key chain. I didn't recognize the church at all. The words - "Confession is good for the soul", Dave was telling me something I was sure of it, but what box would I open. The only number that Dave had mentioned was in the bookmark note, 1101 my old badge number, but if he'd gone to all this trouble to disguise the number, then he'd hardly leave it on a note that Drake's goons might have found. Maybe Thelma would have an idea.

My thoughts drifted back to her. Why hadn't she taken my advice and moved out? If anything should happen to her, I knew I'd blame myself. It would have been easier for her to go away and pretend everything would be alright, but Dave's desire to do the right thing was strong with her.

And what about me, what had I got myself mixed up in? There were plenty of easier things for a detective to get involved in than coming up against guys like Mickey Drake. So what was I doing? And then I thought about Billy Peters, left to die in the street, alone, and his wife living out the rest of her life in a rundown motel. They had stood up for themselves against some dangerous people. They didn't deserve what had happened to them. Dave knew that and knew the dangers, yet he joined them. It would never have occurred to him to do otherwise.

And I knew then that maybe I wasn't that different to Dave; knew that sometimes we have to make a stand if we don't want guys like Mickey Drake running the world. Perhaps it was time to draw a line in the sand, and fight!

The station was deserted when I got there, just a few kids messing around the coffee shop and your usual collection of homeless people, wearing twice as many clothes as everyone else; unkempt, many of them drinking out of bottles hidden in paper bags, some sleeping on benches, others hobbling around like ghosts - visible but forgotten.

The lockers were off to one side, hidden from the rest of the cathedral like station. Thelma wasn't there, just a bedraggled wino, stinking of urine, sleeping on the floor.

Then all at once a couple of Mickey's boys were on me. They seemed to come out of nowhere, obviously lying in wait for me. One had my arm up behind my back. They fished in my pockets and pulled out the key ring, the words: "Confession is good for the soul" reflected back at me.

"Hey," I protested. "How did you know I would be here?"

"Let's just say that Thelma had visitors when you called."

"If anything happens to her…"

"Like I said, they're just visiting. Hey what's with this key?"

I shrugged my shoulders.

One of Mickey's boys pulled out his phone and dialed. A voice answered.

"Yeah we got it, but there's a little problem. The number of the locker has been broken off."

The voice said something.

"But there are hundreds of them. If we try every one we're bound to attract attention. Uh ha."

I watched the key ring dangling in his hand - "Confession is good for the soul" , and I began to understand. Dave had been investigating Mickey Drake's fraud, but when he saw the front page of the Herald, and Billy Peters' body lying in the road, he'd known that this wasn't about deception anymore, it was about murder. A hit and run that nobody saw. A poor old man knocked down in the street. The police had no leads, no witnesses and no time, But Dave knew, he understood why Billy Peters had been killed, and he didn't like it, not one bit. There was only one way to prove that Mickey Drake had Billy Peters killed - "Confession was good for the soul" . It was a set up, but by how, or by who I didn't know; all I knew was that the package was the lure and my part in all this was clear.

"Hey you!" Mickey's goon pushed me. "What's the number?"

"You, I aint telling you; if Mickey Drake wants it, then he's going to have to come himself."

The goon punched me. I fell to my knees.

"Hey!" the other guy said. "This aint the place."

"You can hit me all you like, but you're just wasting your time, tell your boss, if he wants the package then he's going to have to come down here himself and bring Thelma with him. I want Thelma safe before I give you the number."

"Did you hear that boss?" The guy listened to the voice on the phone and nodded his head, and then he hung up and turned to me and said, "He'll be here."

We waited for about 20 minutes, and then there they were, Mickey Drake, Joey Daniels and a frightened looking Thelma. She stared at me, concern on her face, and she mouthed the word: sorry.

Mickey was thick set, clean shaven, grey haired; his features hard, composed. He was dressed in a dark suit with an unbuttoned overcoat over the top. Joey Daniels was sleek, well dressed, about six feet of pressed steel and a face with the emotions of a brick wall. He was calm, in control, but one look into his eyes and you sensed the danger. I felt as if I were in the presence of a snake, poised, ready to strike without hesitation.

If Joey was the snake, then Mickey was the charmer, always knowing what tune to play, commanding, confident, always seeking the upper hand. He was the master at discovering people's weaknesses. He showed you the dark side of yourself. He found that which tempted you most, the addiction you spent your life trying to avoid, and he gave it to you, and then of course he was in control. His whole empire was built on corruption. But then there were some people who he could not corrupt, dangerous people to me like Mickey Drake, people who incurred his most venomous attention.

I smiled at Thelma and then broadened it as I greeted Mickey.

"Mickey, it's been to long. I thought it was about time we caught up."

Drake didn't say anything to me. He looked at Joey.

"Check him," he said.

Daniels came over and searched me.

"Does this mean we're going steady?" I said to him, but nothing pushed his buttons.

"No gun, no wire," Joey said.

Mickey moved forwards, pushing Thelma ahead of him.

"So Jack," he said, "I hear that you're not one of our city's finest anymore; moved out to New Dresden. Now why would you go and do a thing like that?"

"Too many rules here Mickey."

"Aint that the truth, but that's not how I heard it, Jack. I hear tell that you couldn't hack it anymore.'

"Not so much, couldn't, Mickey, but more didn't want to."

"Couldn't - didn't, it's much the same. Well, I commend you, Jack. There aren't too many who are man enough to admit they failed."

I smiled at him; he wasn't got to get me to rise to his bait. Instead I hit back with my own lure.

"So Mickey what's this all about?"

"You know what it's about, Best."

"Has it got something to do with you defrauding Mrs. Clements out of her building?"

"Don't kid yourself, she did alright."

"$100,000 was a little shy of what it was worth wouldn't you say. How many tens of millions is it worth now, Mickey?"

"Who knows, Jack, a few million extra here or there, it doesn't make much difference to me. How do you up there in New Dresden, Jack? Shouldn't think there's too much business. Lean times, but I guess losers have to take what they can get, eh Jack?"

"As I say, Mickey, 100,000 is a really good deal for a place like the Independence Building ."

"The building needed to be renovated."

"Well for once we agree on something. And did you, Drake Developments, carry out those renovations?"

"We passed fire and building inspection."

"Oh yeah, McDonald and Fitzpatrick signed off on it, even though the work wasn't carried out."

Drake smiled.

"You know people could have been killed in that fire, Drake."

"Then the old man would have been to blame. All that faulty equipment he had in his store."

"Maybe you're right, but we'll never know now will we. Since your guys so conveniently cleared away all the evidence."

"What can I say; I run an efficient company, Best, nothing wrong in cleaning up the mess."

"Tidying up all those loose ends, but you didn't count on Dave Archer or Billy Peters, did you? I guess this package of Dave's found something you hadn't managed to take care of."

"Well we will know what it was soon enough."

"And of course you've already taken care of Billy Peters."

"The guy got knocked down in a traffic accident, that's got nothing to do with me."

"Like hell it has. He'd still be alive today if it wasn't for you."

"You better watch that mouth of yours, Best."

"Why? Don't you like guys who stand up to you? Did Billy Peters come to see you? You thought he was just a little nobody, a shoemaker, who you could push around, but you see the old guy wasn't afraid of you, was he? He should have been of course. But he didn't know who he was up against. But you see, Mickey, even if he had known he still would have faced up to you. He may have been just a nobody to you, just another poor hard-working sap who should have known his place, but he had guts. Mrs. Peters was proud of him and I am to; brave little guy who didn't deserve to end up the way he did."

"Old and stupid, Best. If you come down to somebody's place of business and start shouting your mouth off, then you've got to expect trouble."

"Yeah with the cops maybe, but that wasn't the sort of trouble you were thinking of was it Mickey?"

"That's enough; now give me the number to the locker."

"You took him out, didn't you, Mickey, because he was stirring up all that stuff from the past; couldn't let that out now could you."

"People like that should learn respect for their betters. Now give me the number, Best, you're beginning to annoy me."

"Betters? Man you really are deluded."

"Yeah, betters . You see, Best, there are winners and losers in this world. It's clear which side you've fallen into. Winners don't cut and run, Best. You think my business would be what it is today if I was like you or that stupid old guy."

"Yeah, Drake, you'd worked too hard to let some little guy like Billy Peters ruin it all for you."

"Give me the number, Best, so I can open this damned locker."

"You couldn't afford to give the law a way of bringing you down, could you?"

"Well, I guess once I have this package that won't happen now will it? Wasn't a smart move on Archer's part to entrust all this with a fool like you. Now for the last time give me the number."

Drake pulled aside his overcoat and put his hand into his jacket pocket and I could see the shape of a gun hidden there.

"It would be an awful shame if this gun was to go off and accidentally shoot Mrs. Archer, now wouldn't it?"

"Get rid of her, eh Drake, just like you did Billy Peters?"

"That's right, Best. He was a damned nuisance, but in the end he made it easy for us, stood right out there in the middle of the street with that camera of his waiting for us to run him down. Now give me the number. Joey convince Mr. Best."

Joey Daniels came forwards and punched me in the stomach. It was what I had always imagined being hit with a sledge hammer would be like, and once was enough to convince me.

"Alright, alright," I said. "The number of the locker is 1079. It was Dave's old badge number."

Mickey let go of Thelma and moved over to locker 1079 and began to unlock it.

"And Dave Archer," I said to him, "what happened to him?"

"How should I know," said Drake.

He opened the locker, but there was no package, just a folded piece of paper. Mickey took it out and read out loud what it said: "Got you!"

Suddenly, the drunk lying on the ground leapt to his feet, pulled a gun out from his coat and pointed it at Joey and Mickey.

"Yeah, Drake, you got that right," he said.

From every direction undercover cops dressed as homeless people closed in on Drake and his guys, crashing them up against lockers and putting hand-cuffs on them.

"Good work, Jack," said the wino who had been lying beside us as he pulled out a small microphone from his coat, and Thelma and I gasped when we realized who it was: Dave.

Later on back at Thelma and Dave's house, after Dave had changed into something less pungent, a smiling Thelma at his side.

"The fraud was one thing, but when they killed Billy, then the whole thing changed. I couldn't let them get away with that. If I'd stayed put, I'd never have got near him, but once I went into hiding and told him so, threatening him with a mysterious package of evidence if he came looking for me, I knew then that I had him on the defensive. I couldn't tell you guys because Mickey's an expert at smelling a rat, so instead you and Thelma only confirmed it all."

"So the whole thing was a set up from the start. The broken key, "Confession is good for the soul" ; you didn't make things easy for me."

"If you were to get his confession then he couldn't suspect a thing."

"And what if he had found the key before me?"

"They'd come to you to get the locker number."

"Makes sense. What made you think I would work it out in time?"

"You were always a good detective, Jack. I knew you'd understand. Mind you I had to keep a close eye on your mailbox, so that I'd know when you found it; so that I could get this thing set up and ready before you arrived. It was already to go; we just needed to know when. I worked with Captain Dickens, remember him, Jack?"

I nodded, "So you were the ghost across the street?" I asked.

"In the flesh." Dave smiled.

"What made you think I'd be able to get him to talk?"

"You knew him, Jack; you knew which buttons to press."

"So where is the package?" asked Thelma.

"There wasn't one," I said.

"Oh," she said with a confused look on her face, "I see."

Dave looked at me and smiled.

In the end Joey Daniels and Mickey Drake were convicted of the killing of Billy Peters. Fitzpatrick and McDonald were charged with fraud, and renovation work began on the Independence Building .

Dave' story was front page of the Herald. The lead photo was of Mrs. Peters receiving her check from the insurance company. But nothing could bring her husband back to her. Doing the right thing isn't easy, if it was then more of us would do it.