A Reasonable Doubt Susan Sloan (chrysanthemum read aloud TXT) 📖

ensued, but as soon as it became clear that there was enough business to go around, the brothers declared a truce, and boundaries were set.  By being careful, they always managed to keep the boundaries firm and stay one step ahead of the law.  It was rumored that they had someone on the inside, but no one had ever been able to prove it.

When Joe walked into the posh Parkland Street offices of Van Aiken Real Estate at just after three o’clock in the afternoon, at least half a dozen eager young men, with lists of prime homes for sale sitting on their desks, looked up expectantly.

“I’d like to speak to Mr. Van Aiken,” Joe told the receptionist.

“Which one?” the buxom brunette asked with a plastic smile.

“It doesn’t matter,” the private investigator replied.

She didn’t seem to know quite how to respond to that.  “Just a minute, please,” she said and disappeared from sight, only to reappear a moment later.  “I’m sorry, but may I have your name?”

Joe gave his name, and she vanished a second time.  A moment later, a beefy man with a shock of gray hair and a neatly trimmed beard, wearing an expensive, if ill-fitting, suit came into view.

“Sergeant Gideon, to what do I owe the honor?” he asked pleasantly.

“I’m on the other side now, Neil,” the ex-cop replied with a smile.

“So I hear, so I hear, and quite successfully, too, I’m told,” Neil Van Aiken said.  “So, what brings you to my humble establishment, Joe?  Interested in some real estate?”

“Perhaps.”

“Buying or selling?”

“Well, why don’t we go talk about it,” Joe suggested.

Van Aiken took the hint.  He led Joe past the eager staffers and into his private office and closed the door behind them.  The room was big and airy and looked more like a living room than an office, filled as it was with a selection of comfortable sofas and armchairs and side tables.

“What can I help you with, Joe?” the businessman asked, lowering himself into one of the chairs and gesturing Joe to another.

“Dale Scott,” the private investigator replied.

“The police detective who got himself killed last winter?”

“That’s the one.”

“What about him?”

“I’m investigating a link between the detective and the drugs, and I figure, if I want to know about the drug part, I should start at the top.”

Van Aiken laughed.  “I heard you were working for the Indian.”

“Actually, I’m working for his attorney,” Joe corrected him.  “And I’m trying to find a reason for Scott being where he was on the night he was killed.  If he was into drugs, and I can confirm it, it’ll go a long way toward establishing mitigating circumstances.  And just so we’re clear, I’m not looking to cause any trouble.  Anything we say here -- stays here.”

“And what if I say I don’t know what you’re talking about?” Van Aiken ventured.

“I don’t have time, Neil,” Joe said smoothly.  “Trial starts in a few weeks.  I know you had someone on the inside.  I think it was Scott.  All I’m looking for is confirmation.”

“And if I give it to you, then what?”

“I’m not on the job anymore.  You tell me what I want to know, I get up and walk out of here, and it’s like we never had this conversation.”

“And if I don’t?”

Joe shrugged.  “Then I get up and walk out of here, and it’s like we never had this conversation.”

Van Aiken chuckled.  “All right, Joe, I’ll tell you,” he said.  “Because I think you’ll keep your word, and because it doesn’t really matter if you don’t.  Yeah, Scott was our inside man.”

“For how long?”

“For four, maybe five years,” Van Aiken allowed.

“Why?”

“Simple.  He got hooked on coke.  And just like any other junkie, he had to feed his habit.”

“How did it work?”

“It was no big deal.  He got himself and his partner assigned to the drug detail.”  The drug dealer laughed.  “It was kind of funny, actually -- watching the fox guarding the henhouse.  All we had to do was supply him.  Then, if there was a raid or something scheduled to go down, we got prior notice, and the raid came up empty.  And if one of our people got careless, and it would have blown his cover to do nothing, well then, he’d figure out a way to make it go away as quietly and painlessly as possible.”

“And his partner?”

Van Aiken shook his head.  “Scott always put on a great act.  I don’t think the partner had a clue.”

“So who was meeting up with Scott the night he died?”

Van Aiken shook his head again.  “Sorry to disappoint you,” he said.  “Sure, we kept him happy in exchange for his cooperation, but after a while, he got too expensive for us -- in more ways than one.”

“What do you mean?” Joe asked.

“About two years ago, he stopped being a social user, and went hard-core.  It made him even meaner than he had been before, and worse, it made him reckless.  We finally had to cut him loose.”

“When was that?”

“Maybe three or four months before he was killed.”

“Weren’t you worried?”

“Hardly,” Van Aiken said.  “We had as much on him as he had on us.”

“Do you know where he would have gone?”

The drug dealer shrugged.  “I can give you a couple of names, but that’s all it would be -- just a couple of names.  I couldn’t tell you which one.  You want to know, you ask your police buddies.  You ask ’em -- during those few months, which dealer was suddenly at home, watching TV with the wife and kiddies, when the raids went down.”

He scribbled some names on a piece of paper and handed it to Joe.

“I appreciate it.”

“I wish you luck,” Van Aiken said.  “I really do.  I hope this isn’t just a lot of busy work for you.  And I hope that things work out for the Indian.  Scott was a pig, and speaking personally, I have no big problem with him being dead.”

“Thanks,” the private investigator said, starting to wonder if maybe Jason Lightfoot hadn’t