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At 6:00 that evening, Stilesbuzzes me into the office space he occupies in downtown Chicago. One of my former teammates recommended JDS Security after the shit went down at the community center, and introduced me to its operating owner, J.D. Stiles. I was impressed upon meeting him. His size alone would put the fear of God in anyone with an ounce of sense, especially when you added the scowl and black emotionless eyes, the alert body language that suggested he could just as soon shake your hand as shoot you.
To say Stiles isn’t a friendly guy would be a vast understatement, but I’m not looking for friendship. He’s known for being discreet and getting the job done.
I push open the door and step inside. It’s as sparse as I remember. A grid of state-of-the-art computer monitors line the wall of his office and a long rectangular table serving as a desk sits in the center with two guest chairs across from the one he occupies. No family photos, no artwork. Practical and without fuss, much like the man himself. It doesn’t boast of the dozens of bodyguards and security experts he has out in the field, nor that a majority of his clients are business executives, government officials, and celebrities.
“Mr. Peters.” He stands in greeting.
“Cut the Mr. Peters crap. You damn well protect Dee and my family, you can call me Mick.”
His eyebrows arch into his cleanly shaven head as I take my mood out on him. “No offense, but I don’t call clients by their first name.”
“I thought the customer was always right.”
Stiles grunts a sound that’s as close to a laugh as I’ve ever heard from him. “How about some coffee?”
“Sure.” Running on fumes, I could use the caffeine hit, preferably delivered straight into my veins. I’d been a useless ball of garbage since getting Malcolm’s note. I couldn’t think. Couldn’t write. Couldn’t sit still. Every time I picked up the phone to call Dee, I copped out, knowing she’d hear the trouble in my voice. I thought about texting her, but I couldn’t fake that either. A message from Stiles saying he wanted to meet only amped up my angst. I suggested his office over the bungalow where Dee could come home.
“Try this,” Stiles says, returning with a cup of black java that’s strong as fuck.
“Damn!” I grimace at the taste. “What is it?”
“Killer brew.”
“No shit.” Prepared, the second sip goes down smoother. “You said you found something on O’Malley.” I drop into the guest chair.
“You knew he was fired a year ago from theTribunefor making up sources to get a story published.”
“Yeah. He was a pushy sports reporter, not well liked, so the news got around. One minute top of his field, now writing some small-time tabloid shit. Lost his job and credibility. That’s why he’s jonesing for an exclusive. I smell his desperation every time he comes at me.”
“Why the hard-on for you?”
“I’ve been private about my personal life. I keep the media away from my family. I don’t do many interviews…guess that caught his interest. He seems to think I have something to hide.”
“Do you?”
“What the fuck is this, Stiles?” I jerk forward. “Are you working for O’Malley or me?”
“Didn’t mean to cross a line.” His tone is conciliatory, but unapologetic. “Digging into the details when they seem relevant is part of the job.”
“How is this relevant to protecting Dee?”
“Don’t know that yet. But I pulled O’Malley’s cell phone records and traced a repeated number back to your father.”
“What?” The word leaves me in a shocked and angry breath.
“Most of the calls lasted mere seconds. I assume O’Malley was gunning for a story or comment and didn’t get one.”
I breathe a little better. Malcolm had nothing to gain by talking to O’Malley and everything to lose. Except… “You said most.”
“That’s right.” He slides a printout of O’Malley’s phone records, with one date highlighted in yellow. “This call lasted over fifteen minutes. It doesn’t take that long to blow someone off. Recognize the date?”
I look at it closely. Freeze.
“I take it you do. The same day O’Malley followed you to Mort’s Deli. Not long after, he placed that call to your father and obviously got his attention.”
My brain only takes a moment to process the significance before my throat squeezes again, the air struggling to find an outlet.
“Got any thoughts on that?” he asks.
